you be simon, and I'll be says

thinking about Bear

2007-08-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

My cousin's dog died, and that's sad. Made me think about my dog, who's been gone two years now.

But.

I'm glad I wrote the following when Bear was just 7 years old. Love you, buddy.

Today is The Bear's seventh birthday.

He was born a poor, black child, perhaps somewhere in Alexandria. He was torn from his mother's teat, and was back in the Alexandria pound by the time he was 12 months old. He was returned twice by owners. His rap sheet read: Chews on Shoes, and Jumps Up on People. The Bear seemed too good to live in this world.

Jayme and I adopted The Bear in January 1992, one week before the Redskins went to The Super Bowl. It would be The Skins last visit to The Top.

The Bear soon became a legend in Northern Virginia. He ran like Secretariat, and no leash could hold him. He'd chew through them, and wear the stem as a leash necktie. Mocking you.

Soon every mailman, bicyclist and Rollerblader brave enough -- foolish enough -- to enter his sight earned his wrath. His best weapon became The Dreaded Nip on The Heel.

He also earned a reputation as a Dog Who Loved Car Rides. Woe unto the unsuspecting dog sitter who tried to grab his collar and pull him out of the car. A nip on the wrist for you, Brave Soul.

And we all remember The Bear's sordid behavior at The Pig Roast, where he ate his fill of burnt flesh, and hid the rest for a week.

All hounds in Northern Virginia praise The Bear for his Infamous Dog Parties. Seven, eight dogs at a time cavorting and playing in his backyard while The Old Man cut the grass. Or ripping through State and National Parks.

The Bear has seen it all: The Wilds of Harpers Ferry, The Flower Gardens of Fells Point, The Concrete Jungles of Manhattan, The Tall Trees of the Shenandoah Mountains, and of course, New York's Bear Mountain.

Still, The Bear wanted more. In February 1996, he adopted a pet, Kemo. The irresistible scamp made for a fun-loving, dim-witted sidekick, and could easily be used as a tool to meet chicks, and be discarded. Three times, The Bear has rescued Kemo from State and National parks when the undersized scalawag lost his way while chasing his own tail.

The Bear celebrated his birthday w/ romps in the acres of Doug Cashmere's nursery in Southern Maryland, and whiled away the night talking philosophy w/ Duncan, Doug's 2-year-old, fever-ridden son. Duncan didn't get it, but basked in the glow that is The Bear.

Today, The Bear went for a romp alongside the Potomac w/ his best babe, Winnie, and that pesky tag-along, Kemo. The Bear ran once again like Secretariat, gliding along the White Sands of The Potomac. The Bear has been working out, and has lost four pounds this year; don't think Winnie didn't notice.

As soon as we got back, The Bear asked that Kemo be kept outside (no problem!) so he and Winnie could spend some "quality time." It was way over an hour later (way over!) when The Bear came downstairs for Belly Rubs, while Winnie licked his ears. True, they had torn Dave's bed to shreds, but it was just one of the many birthday presents The Bear enjoyed.

Happy Birthday to The Bear.

Two, three count with nobody on

2007-08-07T21:16:00.001-07:00

Again, I'd stayed up too late, screwing around with the new DVR and trying to give him another chance. A bit before midnight, Barry Bonds came up against the Nationals for the third time tonight.

The night before, I watched Barry's first AB (fouling out to Zimmerman, who ran after it like it was Game 7) and recorded the rest. Missed nothing.

I switched over for Barry's first AB tonight. A single in the right-side gap. Missed his double. Checked the game one more time as I was heading to bed, and there he was on deck.

Right then, I wished I had one of the girls up to watch with me. I'd be a redneck dad pulling my 5-year-old out of bed near midnight, but, there she was coughing in the dining room. I called her, she sat on my lap, and we watched Barry take the count to 3-2. She was cheering. I was cheering. And he smacked that ball five rows into the RF bleachers.

She oohed and ahhed at the fireworks. I pointed out his wife and she wanted to know Barry's daughters' names. I told her Willie Mays might've been the best there ever was, and there he is. Hank Aaron showed up on the big screen – he used to have the record, but now Barry does.

Where does Barry live, she asked – in the ballpark? Not after this year, I said. Barry said thank you to everyone, the Nationals, his family and his daddy. I was glad Mean Bud wasn't there, looking like he just shit in his own cornflakes. I was glad Barry acted like a gracious baseball hero.

Is he a jerk? Yes he is. Is he a doper? Blame Bud Selig for not proving it. Tonight, Barry Bonds hit a solo home run on a full count to break a 4-4 tie. Tonight, he was a reason to celebrate baseball, and I got to share it with my baby. Thanks, Barry.

Two, three count with nobody on
He hit a high fly into the stand
Rounding third he was headed for home
It was a brown skinned handsome man
That won the game; it was a brown eyed handsome man.

political code

2007-08-05T14:57:00.001-07:00

<<-- /bush -->>

Daddy does something right

2007-07-18T20:26:00.000-07:00

A few weekends ago, friends from Delaware came down. It was a good chance to roll into DC and see all that stuff I love. On Saturday morning, after hemming and hawing, half the group wanted to go and half stayed. Both sides were sure they were getting the sweet end of the deal.

I pulled out w/ the father and two boys, ages 11 and 9 (I guess), when my 5-year-old daughter came running out. I want to go w/ you, she said. Are you sure? Pleeeeeeease. So then it was five of us.

We hit the National Cathedral, molded gargoyles in clay and drew some, trekked the sanctuaries like a tourist in Paris, rolled up to the spires 8 stories high. My baby rolled her clay along one of the medieval window frames to get that Darth Vader helmet look on her gargoyle. It was sweet.

So we bolted, racing the afternoon shadows across the top of the District to Capitol Hill. In Adams Morgan, everyone needed a potty break and sandwiches. They had Sliced Apples in a Bag, and I knew my wife would be happy. A good snack. Hooray Daddy.

On The Hill, we got into the Library of Congress and saw the glory of the lobby, w/ the great authors names painted into a three-story high atrium. I swear John Grisham was scrawled in pen on the wall. I lifted my baby up to see the Great Reading Room. We bought a souvenir. On the way to the car, we all ran up the steps of the Supreme Court.

Back in Virginia, we stopped in and did a lap of the Iwo Jima Memorial. Terrific barbecue at home. Most excellent DC day.

Tucking in my daughter that night, I asked her what was her favorite part of the day. Was it the enormous round, stained glass window at the cathedral. No, daddy, she said, my favorite part of today was eating apples with you. She hugged and kissed me and went to sleep. Just. Like. That.

Even a blind nut finds a squirrel every once in a while. My favorite part was watching her make Darth Vader gargoyle.

Wave it wide and high

2007-07-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

Gerry told me this story any father can relate to. He's got a buddy who lives in Great Falls. Naturally, that says the buddy has some coin, probably a sweet paying job and a family in a large house. Paying for that house takes some time, and the family will need some time, too. And the thing about Great Falls is, they've purged the strip malls and McDonald's.

If a Great Falls daddy wants to get some alone time, some see-the-other-daddies time, it's a long ride through farm country. What's a daddy to do?

Gerry's buddy has a flag pole on his yard, down by the curb. Not real big. No bigger than the other other flagpoles on the other daddies' lawns, up and down the street. When a Great Falls daddy sees he'll have some time later that night – kids are down, mommy's off to book club or a toy party *ndash; he raises his flag. Up and down the street, other daddies peek out their curtains and stick heads out their doors?

Flag flying? Party at 323238! Honey, I'll be home in an hour-and-a-half.

And you can call this song, the United States Blues.

You gotta serve somebody

2007-06-16T11:09:00.000-07:00

I intend to graduate from George Mason University with a Master's degree in Instructional Technology. You wouldn't know it by my efforts so far.

I've stalled in just my second class. My efforts are confined by two oppressive masters: time and energy. How do you find them?

I planned to make 5:30 - 7:30 a.m. my graduate school hours, because the family demands my time after work. The alarm clock rarely withstands my fist. My next option is after 9 p.m., when I find I have only 40% concentration. I don't have enough to go around.

While knuckling my forehead, it finally came to me: You gotta serve somebody. According to Bob Dylan,

They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed.

I've identified the people I serve, and wonder if I have too many:

My wife and my baby girls.
I leave it to them to decide who is 1a and 1b. They all have so, so many questions, and one of my jobs is to answer them all.

My employers.
Nearly 10 years ago, I started my own web development business, seeking freedom from corporate guidelines. Now I embrace them for the opportunity to work with people around the world, and create global interactive properties. These are career opportunities. The company demands my time, too.

The good people at George Mason University.
They demand nothing from me, only set high goals and expectations. No one calls you in graduate school when you don't come to class. No one calls at all; we're all adults. I figured this program might take no time at all, and that's what I allotted. What a mistake.

My North Arlington home and the mortgage.
One year ago to this day, I climbed out of my basement for the third time. We'd flooded. In less than an hour, our basement filled with 10 feet of water in what the county called a 200-year flood. They also called it, not their problem. My wife and I have spent the past 12 months working with the federal government, insurance agents and contractors to re-build – and pay for – our home. We get tired sometimes.

Education.
It all depends how you look at it:
- Reading blogs until midnight might seem frivolous, or maybe it's the way to finally perfect your AJAX code.
- Heading to the SXSW festival for four days with no sleep could be a boondoggle, or a terrific way to stay on the bleeding edge of the industry and come away with two years of ideas.
- A Saturday morning meeting of the DC Information Architect club might seem like a waste, or a tremendous networking opportunity and inspiration from distance peers.
- Taking another business class at work might seem like losing time you don't have, or finally the way to understand – and demand – excellent requirements documentation.
Everybody else.
Those frequent trips to the pediatrician for "diaper rash;" those frequent "emergency" conference calls with Europe and Asia at 11 p.m., 6 a.m., whenever; those time-sucking tasks that steal the last two hours of the week you set aside for yourself.

I have read two interesting accounts of time management.

An Enron executive seized an opportunity early in her career. The company paid for her to get her MBA at Harvard. A single mother, she took her twins sons with her. The only time she allowed herself each day was a 45-minute run. Otherwise, she was studying or mothering.

Two volleyball players at C.W. Post were interviewed in The New York Times. When asked what they learned in college, they said, 'How to study when tired.' The only time they had to study, when they had continuous hours, was on the bus trips home from college matches.

I think about these people often. If I can't learn something from them, I can't earn this Master's degree.

You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame
You may be living in another country under another name
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

Yes indeed.

when I say nittany, you say lion. do it. do it now.

2007-05-31T14:22:00.000-07:00

I was reading my friend Tom's blog today. He's on his way to becoming a Paulist priest, and he's describing how he's finding his way around the altar during different Masses w/ different priests. It reminded me of a story.

I promised when I started writing this that I wouldn't tell old stories about myself, where I look like the hero. You know, a Tino story. One where my wife would say, you're a million years old. Oh, how about those Rolling Stones.

But it's a pretty good story.

During my freshman year at Penn State, I was a lector at Mass. Back when I was still a good Catholic. I like lectoring because I got to talk in front of a lot of people. If I talk slower, they had to listen longer. And I got to look at them looking at me. Pretty good ego trip, and I didn't have to become a priest.

I realized my first conflict when my second Mass came on the same day of the second game of the season. We played TCU at noon, and I think church was at 4:45 p.m. Plenty of time. So the tailgate started around 8 a.m., and Melissa and I discovered grain punch. Good stuff. When the game started, we waited quietly to see who scored first. Guys in white shirts. Stadium goes crazy. That must be Penn State. We're in white. We go crazy. Three hours of grain punch had liquified our brains.

By the time the game ended (59-0, gotta stay to the end), we left to change at the dorms and get on over to church. Got a show to do, and we're barely on time. I grab my one tie, stop by Melissa's room ... and she's passed out cold on her floor. Can't leave a good Catholic girl behind. Over the shoulder and off to church.

Well, maybe I was 10 minutes late. Didn't matter to me. Dropped Melissa in a seat and strolled up on the altar. Priest: unhappy. Me: loaded. Came time for the Litany, where I stand up, say things and the crowd repeats after me, and I smile, full of power. I head to the lectern and check out the priest. Priest: still unhappy. Me: still loaded.

I open the book, see the words and am struck by revelation. How could I have not seen this before? It doesn't say Litany. It says Nittany. Like I'd been screaming at the game after every touchdown ( there were eight that day). When I say Nittany, you say Lion. Nittany. Lion. Nittany. Lion. NITTTTTTAANNNYYYYYYY. Lion.

I stared at the words, then stared at the priest. He saw. He knew. He stared even harder. Maybe HE was a Paulist, and had seen this before. The words rattled around in my pea brain. Nittany. Litany. Nittany. Litany.

I did it the right way. Said whatever you say, and they said Pray for Us. OK. Whatever. Lost my shot at infamy. After Mass, I helped the priest carry things backstage. You were late today, he said. Well, hello, I was at the football game. He said, I left after the third quarter to get here on time. You have to, I said, you're the priest. (I wanted to say you weren't w/ Melissa, but figured I should leave that alone).

Awkward silence. How could I make this priest feel better? Hey, I said, at least we finished ahead of the other Mass!

So my lecter days were over. I went back out to the audience. The seats were all empty, except for a snoring Melissa. Since then, I've found attention in other ways.

glory days

2007-05-23T06:07:00.001-07:00

I was just thinking this morning. you know when the kids get you really mad, like ballistic mad? and you get some creative cursing going, and you don't even know what you're saying?

This morning, I had a good one, when I was saying (in my mind), I swear, I swear to fucking Christ... you know, that one's probably not going to go over w/ the big guy. sort of mixing up a plea and insulting him at the same time.

Reminds me of coming home from church and bickering w/ my sister in the back seat. Mom's always pissed at us, yelling JesusMaryandJoseph, there you kids are w/ the fucking bodyofchrist still in your mouths and you're fighting. then she'd reach back while driving and smack the both of us.

I miss those days. when do I get to reach back and smack somebody? why do the rules seem to shift on my shift?

Hey Bill. How're you doing?

2007-04-17T20:51:00.000-07:00

My buddy Bill popped up in my memory today. It's a combination of things, I think: the sinful shootings down at Virginia Tech, start of baseball season, gathering my kids to watch Jackie Robinson's widow speak, Kevin's heart valve surgery next week, watching Opening Night of the Daytona Cubs.

Bill loved baseball, just like me. The Bowie BaySox had to play a season at the old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore for a year, and we went up to watch. We argued: He wanted every game to be 16-14, going 14 innings. I always liked the 2-0 pitcher's duel. Nah, you're all wrong, he'd say. I want to be here all day. I got things to do, I'd say. He liked minor league baseball best (he's in the Red Wings Hall of Fame, you know), and I think I like it best now, too.

Bill died about a while ago. Sure, it was a painful funeral, but it was the day he died of the heart attack that haunts me when I dwell on it. I got the call, and called Marlene. She was Bill's second wife, and I was their best man. How can I help, I asked.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to get too close to that agony. I was afraid of the Grief Abyss. I wanted distance. I wanted a pass.

How can you help, she asked. Bring me back my husband. Bring Bill home. And she screamed and screamed for as loud and as long as she could.

I drove fast down 95 and called a psychologist I knew. This is going to get bad, I told her, and I've got my own grief memories. I don't want to trigger them. Keep her calm, she said, and keep her comfortable. If she gets into a dark space, change the environment. See if she'll go for a walk, even just to get the mail.

The day and the evening went as expected. Made some funeral arrangements. Took turns fielding the phone calls. She wrote the obit. I made more coffee.

Later the neighborhood wives came around, and Marlene's grief was overwhelming everyone. We were all sinking into a dark space. Hey, I said, who wants to go for a walk. I know I do. Too cold, said everyone. It was late December. Just to the mailbox, I said. One of the women took Marlene down the street to the condo mailbox, and the rest of us tried to clean the house in 4-5 minutes.

She looked through the holiday mail. It was something to do. Then she opened a Christmas card Bill had mailed to his wife at his own house. And it arrived the day he died. In it, the told her he loved her, loved her, loved her.

And Marlene wailed, her face melted like a clown. I said nothing, hugged her, left and drove to a very nearby bar.

I feel very guilty for not keeping up with Marlene. Her emotions and my memories are so very overpowering. Bill's tribute page still stands: http://www.harborsights.com/bill.

Holding the kids the other morning, having them watch Jackie Robinson's widow, I kept telling them this is very important. Is he different than us because he has black skin? They watch me, having no idea what's the right answer. No, I said. We're all the same. In baseball, we're all the same.

The kids don't understand why I think baseball is important. I enjoy a minor league game better than the majors. And I like pitcher's duels best, especially when they go into extra innings.

Note: Marlene wrote an incredible eulogy.

there's something about Mary

2007-04-14T11:58:00.001-07:00

Back in Baltimore, you never knew who was at the front door but y0u had a pretty good idea what they wanted – something that belonged to you. Cab money, money for steaks, your lawnmower, have a long talk w/ your dog.

We finally moved to what I consider the promised land – Arlington, VA – and it wasn't too long before there was a knock at the door. Hello? There were two extremely old ladies on my doorstep. They had a notebook (w/ my name in it), oohed and aahed over my 3-year-old daughter and would I accept Christ into my life?

huh?

Okay, OK, I said, what church are you from? I brought my baby out on the doorstep and closed the front door behind me. The Catholic church way up on Glebe Road?

huh?

The Catholics are going to door-to-door? Really? They were coming to convert, or bring people back, to the Catholic church. Holy cow, I said. Well, they were very nice and very old. I didn't want to be rude and I didn't want to lead them on so I said, No. I'm not interested. We can't talk until The Church changes two of its main rules: Allow my baby daughters to conduct Mass (including consecrating the Eucharist) and love my (gay) brothers. The ladies asked if they could come back (could they really make changes that fast? I pegged it at 250 years) and gave my baby a medal of the Virgin Mary.

About a month later, another pair of old ladies came by. They were following up on the first call. Had The Church changed those rules like I asked? Nope, but the parish priest wanted to meet me. uh, no, I said. You know the rules. I really appreciate the effort, but you know: No. They left behind a brochure of the top 10 reasons people return to the church. No. 1: They yearn for the Eucharist.

A few weeks later, the mailman brought me a letter from the priest. C'mon Back, it read. Straight to the trash.

Later on, I was enjoying one of Washington, D.C.'s oldest traditions – staying late at work. My wife was playing w/ our girls and the neighborhood kids in the cul-de-sac. A car pulled up in front of our house and a man and woman got out. They had notebooks. My name was in them. Yes, they were ancient.

Can I help you, asked The Wife. We're looking for the man who lives here, pointing at my house. Who are you, said The Wife. We're from The Church and we're trying to get your husband back in the fold, and, which of those kids are his?

Out, said The Wife, go. Move. Now. I'm calling the cops. Calling the cops on the Catholic Church!

The Wife called the parish and asked, who the hell are these people who keep coming to our house? Turns out, they're the Legion of Mary (read all about 'em in Wiki): "The essential aim of the Legion of Mary is the sanctification of its members through prayer, the sacraments and devotion to Mary and the Trinity, and of the whole world through the apostolate of the Legion."

Seems they got some zealots in there, too.

The parish says they have no control over this pack of the Legionnaires, but they'd ask real nice for them to stop coming by the house. We'll see.

Oh, and you'll also see in The Wiki under the Legion of Mary: a 1975 project for Jerry Garcia. Now if that LOM wants to come by, I'll bring out some sippin' Bourbon and the boom box for the front stoop.

A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine. But leave the 20 hounds in the car, please.

Testify, Jerry.

free at last, free at last

2007-04-13T08:32:00.000-07:00

Don Imus was fired today. Thank God.

What he did on the radio was reprehensible. Calling the Rutgers basketball team "nappy-headed hos" is being racist. It's not a racist remark, it's not invoking racism -- it is racist. It's stupid.

I've never cared for Imus, and have purposely avoided his show because I think he talks over his guests, and doesn't allow them to make their arguments. And he has interesting guests!

You've all heard re-broadcasts of his comments. He wasn't being flippant. This didn't slip out. He was being mean and nasty. It was an intentional act of racism.

What I don't like in how this played out was how he was fired days after the fact. He's being fired because of the controversy his comments raised. He's not being fired for being racist. He should've been fired 20 minutes after he said it, not days later because people who were upset are getting louder.

Do the right thing.

fare thee well, Miguel

2007-04-08T17:18:00.000-07:00

First time I met our neighbor Miguel he was wearing a surgeon's mask to do his summer gardening. He was in his 80s and was worried about getting sick, but more afraid of letting his yard, bushes and trees get out of his control.

I thought he was an odd loner. Then I got to know him.

Because he was incredibly kind to my kids, I gave him another chance. He talked with my 3- and 4-year-old girls at the edge of his lawn, telling them about the dinosaur that lived under his house, and how he came out at midnight to make sure all the children in the neighborhood were safe.

He went home to Colombia to celebrate his mother's 100-year-old birthday, and came back with straw dolls for all the kids in the neighborhood. You didn't have to do that, I told him. I want to, he said.

During the week of my oldest's birthday, he knocked on our door just as the kids were going to bed. He had a birthday poem. From the dinosaur. It was two pages and very sincere. I walked him home, and told him, tell me what I can do for you. I need nothing, he said.

The next morning, I put his newspaper inside his front door. The girls and I have done it every morning since. Before you can get in the car to go to pre-school, someone's got to fetch the newspaper from the end of Miguel's door and put it inside his door.I make the kids do it in the snow -- Imagine how hard it would be for Miguel, I tell them -- and I do it in the rain.

Miguel reminds me of my grandparents, who make me feel like I could never do wrong. Everyone needs a person like that in their lives, but just one. More than that and you've got an entourage. I wanted my girls to know a man like that.

This year, Miguel's decided to sell his house and move near his daughter up north. I have to be realistic, he said. His wife passed away about three years ago, and he doesn't want to take chances with his health. He wants to get closer to his family.

Thanks for the vodka at Christmas, Miguel. Thanks for being so nice to my kids. I'm glad to know you.

spilling milk

2007-04-05T21:10:00.000-07:00

The adage says, spilled milk. No use crying over spilled milk. That's fine.

But what about Spilling Milk?

Ever have those days? Nothing goes right? Left an overhead light on in the car last night, looking for the mouse that fell out of your laptop bag? Next morning, car battery's dead? That's OK; you're still negotiating w/ the kids to strap themselves inside the car, and you've just rescued your car keys from inside the locked house, by breaking into the neighbor's house ... because they have an extra house key to your house. That's OK; car won't start anyway. Where are you going?

It's the spilling milk that gets me. My wife/I both work, and it's a little busy a lot. You're not watching anything closely anymore, and things just seem to happen. Like opening the refrigerator door, nearly every time, and the milk .. falls out .. from the bottom shelf of the fridge .. nearly every time. You can see it as you open the door, leaning against the door rail for a moment. Through the plastic, you see the milk flow, washing like a wave against the carton wall. First toward the back of the fridge, then towards the front of the carton. Tilting, rolling, just beyond the tipping point.

Sometimes it's a gallon, sometimes a pint. Always white, tumbling slowly, but faster than I can reach for it. Sometimes I bang my head on the fridge door while reaching for the milk, sometimes I just jam my hand in the door handle. But you know the milk carton always hits the floor. Only once did I see it pouring out, the milk hitting the floor before the carton. Special moments.

Sometimes I get lucky and it bounces. I haven't caught the carton cleanly yet. Sometimes it doesn't spill, and other times I eat my Honey Oats dry. But once that milk spills, it sets off that chain reaction: a howling cat begging to be fed, children climbing on your back while sponging the floor and the wife who doesn't take her coffee black.

I always think I'm trying my best, but I think maybe I'm only trying hard. The more I concentrate on everything, the more I miss. The original of the expense account on the copier, not closing the opening code in HTML. Where is that e-mail I sent detailing everything everyone was supposed to do? Where are my freaking keys?

The milk never spills for my wife, but you know the girls are going to spill their cereal milk on the couch and knock it over on the restaurant tabel. Life isn't going too fast, sometimes there's just too much happening. It's not big stuff; maybe it's constant maintenance that's cluttering my head.

Reading this, I realize now maybe I'm just jerking open the refrigerator door. But I bet the milk wouldn't spill out of the fridge .. leap out, for chrissakes .. if my fridge had one of those icemakers in the door.