I typically try not to touch on controversial topics.  One thing I've learned during my career in sales is to stay away from religion and politics. You're bound to upset someone, and cost yourself business.  However, this is my blog and I'll blog what I want to.


Yes, this is America. Yes, Americans have rights.  For example, a black man has the right to run for president. And win.  He also has the right to not screw up the possibility of other black people being elected to office by being controversial.  Controversy is for Hollywood, not the Oval Office.  


Religious freedom is a Constitutional right in this country. So is peaceable assembly.  But this issue raises two questions in my head.

1. With the knowledge of the significance of the Ground Zero and surrounding blocks, why would any Muslim want to establish a place of worship there?
2. Why did Obama say anything at all?

Expressing any sort of support for a group that shoulders the blame for one of the most-heinous acts in American history nearly assures that there will not be a second term of the Obama Administration.  Appearing insensitive to the American people on such a hot-button issue was a bad move, even if it is upholding the Constitution. 


Sometimes political correctness and diplomacy are the easy way out.  I believe that there was a diplomatic and politically correct way to address the issue since he felt the need to make a statement.  I agree that Muslims have a right to worship, but is it safe to worship there? On that block? On that street?


The struggling economy isn't his fault.  The fledgling housing market, the unemployment rate, the war (are they still looking for bin Laden?), not his fault. It will take a lot to get these issues corrected. He knew that before he took office. He had a plan, a goal, a vision to take steps to get America back where it once was. He knew there would difficulties convincing the public as well as other politicians of his policies. Misguided statements on controversial issues like this just add momentum to his plummeting approval rating, and I can guarantee that this topic will resurface at election time.

The King of His Castle? Apparently Not In The Throne Room.

I normally don't require much time in the bathroom. A few minutes to shower and a few more minutes to shave and I'm done.  The size of our home's lonesome bathroom doesn't suit more than one person very comfortably. And my wife... well, let's just say it's a good thing I don't need "the good light" in the bathroom very often. 

Every two weeks I need some time in the mirror to cut my hair.  I taught myself how to face backward in the bathroom mirror while holding a hand mirror and not slice off an ear.  My hair cuts are just about the only place I'm frugal. I refuse to pay $15 when I can (evidently) do it myself.

Most of the time, there is enough time right before she wakes up to cut my hair and shower before she needs to commandeer the facilities. This particular day, I allowed her to shower first.  I figured that I could get the kid's breakfast and lunch made during the time she took to shower and put her face on. I had assumed she was done, and as I glanced at the clock, I concluded that I could still give myself a trim and get out of the house on time.

Shortly after the clippers start buzzing, my lovely little daughter prances in with a high-pitched "G'mornin' Daddy," and perches herself on the toilet. I didn't think much of it, it's 7:30am who doesn't need to go first thing in the morning?

As I was shearing my head, my nose began to detect a tang in the air.  It took a minute or so for my brain to diagnose what was happening...

"Air you poopin," I questioned in a shocked and despaired tone.  "Yes," she replied with undeniable cuteness.  I couldn't help but feel a bit disrespected.  Do I barge in during her bath tub time? Does she get strong-armed while she's brushing her teeth?  I can't have 10 minutes? I peeked over at her. She smiled, and of course I smiled back. "Oh well," I thought. I used to change the kid's diapers, and soon things wouldn't so familiar. Before long she'll be a tweenager sassing me out the door.

Just as Faith is finishing up, Julie strolls in, excuses herself past me and starts rummaging in one of the drawers of the vanity.  I wasn't paying much attention to the commotion because I was making sure that my 'do was even.  Soon, we're shoulder-to-shoulder, jockeying for mirror space.

Our bathroom mirror is actually a cabinet with three vertical glass doors.  I started out using the middle one, but magically found myself crammed against the wall using the one on the right as my beautiful wife's flying elbows created a perimeter and staking claim to 66% of the available mirror space.

I mentioned to her that I was nearly done, and the mirror would be hers, but she insisted that she was nearly done as well.  My statement of initial occupation of the facilities fell on deaf ears.

It was at this moment that I realized the pecking order in my house.  I knew that I was outnumbered. Living with a wife and daughter would often cause my manly instincts to be compromised on occasion. But during a hair cut?!  I was essentially ignored on this particular day.  Well, maybe not ignored, but I was literally pushed aside.  Let's see how quickly I spring into action next time a bug needs squashed or a jar needs opened.

USA Track & Field To Replace Livestrong?

I'm a former track guy.  I ran track during all four years of high school. I barely missed qualifying for the state meet during my sophomore year in the triple jump, but qualified in my last two years and was named all-state during my senior year.  I used to watch meets on television, and I always tuned in during the Olympics.

I was reading a recent copy of the Sports Business Journal and I noticed an article highlighting some soon-to-be released limited-edition shoes geared toward increasing revenue for USA Track & Field (USATF).  According to the article, the shoe will commemorate 30 years since USATF's initial organization.

There will be approximately 800 (500 men's and 300 women's) pair available online for $95, and USATF wants to sell them all.

The director of operations says they want to release one or two per year over the next couple of years n order to increase revenue.  Merchandise revenue has already expanded from about $30000 in 2002 to over $1 million in 2009, which is expected to double this year.  It is estimated that revenue should swell to $10 million by 2016.

I'm also a sneaker fiend.  Though I don't get to satisfy my thirst like I used to, I can at least admire the style and technology of a great pair of kicks.  These shoes seem to employ some pretty bright colors, which I'm not such a huge fan of, but the simple and classic styling
is pretty hot.

I'm sure these will be big sellers. This initiative could do wonders for American track and field athletes.  Bringing track and field into the mainstream and blending it with pop culture is sure to take some of the pressure off Lance Armstrong.  If he is discovered to have been cheating, Nike and the Livestrong campaign will undoubtedly part ways.

May Is Nearly Over. It Might Be Time To Panic.

Cardinals Baseball means different things to different people.  Some St. Louisans just want to be able to be seen at the stadium or at Hrabosky's Saloon.  These are your socialite fans. Going to a game is more of a social outing with red, white and navy blue coordinated outfits.  They don't care how Carp's pitching, how Yadi is hitting, or what the record is as long as there's a game to dress up for...

Some of us slightly rabid fans that simply want the Cardinals to win because Cardinals Baseball is an endearing part of your childhood, and you admire the history and prestige of the franchise, the abundance of great ball players that have graced this city, the skill it takes to play the game, and the bragging rights over every other so-called "baseball town" in America.  The way the game is played now is much different from the days of Ozzie Smith, Vince Coleman and Willie McGee (who deserves to have his #51 retired, by the way), and you've come to accept it.

Today's game is more about power, and less about speed and base-running prowess.  This shift is the reason that Matt Holliday was re-signed (and overpaid) for seven years and $120 million.  Let's look at this year's numbers for Holliday:

	G	AB	R	H	TB	2B	3B	HR	RBI	BB		SO	SB		AVG
	45	172	25	48	76	13	0	5	18	14		30	3		.279

These numbers aren't totally rotten... if you don't make $17 million a year... with the St. Louis Cardinals.  I realize that these guys are human, with human tendencies and lives outside of baseball.  However, contracts of that size, from this franchise come with tremendous expectations.  One home run every nine games is not the production that this lineup requires for success.  But it's not all his fault.

We've all gotten used to Albert Pujols being Albert Pujols. His numbers don't stink either, but over the past 10 games, Phat Albert has 0 home runs and 0 RBIs in 34 at-bats.  He has been the picture of consistency over the past nine or 10 seasons, so he's allowed to slump a bit.  My concern is that there's an injury that he's hiding while playing through pain and discomfort.

We're about to reach June.  Most of the time, I don't panic about where our team is at this time of the season... most of the time.  This season is different.  Given the aforementioned Holliday contract, and the fact that we've got a starting pitcher going on the DL and the fact that Pujols's contract will be an issue at the season's end, and the fact that the team is under-performing concerns me.  In fact, if the Cardinals don't win the series this weekend against the Cubs, I'll be in full-blown panic.

My fear is that this team will fall far-short of its own goals and the expectations of its fans, and have to endure a bidding war for a possibly-injured, possibly-declining Pujols while over-paying for a possibly-declining Holliday.  


And lost in all of this mess is the fact that Mark McGuire has re-joined the organization in a coaching capacity. I'm not sure how good of a hitting coach he is, but he seems to be a good scapegoat at this point.


Regardless of who's at fault, or what needs to be fixed, or tweaked, or whatever, they'd better start winning.  Now.

A Spirituality Check

I have experienced an incredible run of divine blessings recently, and I feel like my spiritual relationship with the Almighty is growing exponentially each day.  In light of the blessings I've received, I have made (and am still making) a conscious effort to release ill will and residual grudges against those that have wronged me in the past. 

I called a friend to apologize for my role in a recent disagreement that left us not speaking for months. He didn't answer, so I left a message.  I'm not professing any new found holiness, just that I'm trying to walk the talk.  I hope that my sincere apology helps to heal a fractured friendship.  I felt good to make such an effort.  I decided to move down to the number two item on my list...

The Bible says that we should pray for our enemies, so I decided to take some time to speak to God about my worst sworn enemy.  Just as I'm sure there were people that prayed for Jack the Ripper, I would pray for the IRS.  Instead of simply asking to have my year-long issue resolved, I would ask for a fair and just decision from those responsible for evaluating every nook and cranny of my 2006 earnings.  I definitely wouldn't pray any harm upon them.

As I readied my words, I thought of the unambiguousness of The Good Book and how good it felt to be at such spiritual peace.  But I thought more... God's Word is unambiguous, but the IRS is quite ambiguous.  Hmmm... A government agency that's existence alone is unconstitutional.  So if I pray for an agency, its employees and the directives of said agency, would I then be praying against the Constitution? 

What a can of worms... By praying for the IRS and the binding amendments of the Constitution, wouldn't I be somehow praying for the demise of the IRS?  After all, I would also pray to be the last American to feel bullied and pillaged by Doug Shulman and the other thieves IRS staff.

(IRS Commissioner, Doug Shulman likes likes poetry, long walks and legal racketeering)

I felt conflicted.  I suppose I have more growing to do.  I clearly haven't healed of my negative feelings regarding the aftermath of being audited.  I am definitely in need of a lot more grace as well as some (more) patience.

X's and O's, Or Jons and Joes?

You all know that I'm a sports fan(atic).  Now that I am an intern at a sports talk station, it feels like my habit is being encouraged!  It's like giving an alcoholic a job at a brewery - I get to be around it, but I don't get to interact with it.

For the few hours I'm there, I get to listen to the personalities give their take on various issues.  I don't get to help write any of the material. I don't help edit.  I just listen.  Even when one of them is dead wrong, I just have to sit and take it.  The beauty of my blog is that I get to voice my opinion.  Unfortunately, I don't have the audience that the station gets.

After a week of listening to Kevin Slaten bash Tony LaRussa, I've got to question the validity of his finger-pointing.  I don't believe that coaches at the professional level do that much coaching.  At the pro level, I think it's less about schemes and game plans and more about leadership and focus. 

Seriously think about that for a minute...  In pro baseball, they don't even call them coaches. They are called "managers."  Why?  Because that's what professional coaches do - they manage the egos of their millionaire athletes, they manage the media, they manage the pressure of expectations on players and organizations. Joe Torre is and has been one of the best at this, but even he has had Derek Jeter, Roger Clemens, Mariano Rivera and the New York Yankee payroll.

Vince Lombardi, who might be the greatest motivator in the history of pro football, had Paul Hornung and Bart Starr develop into offensive juggernauts and put all three of them in the Hall of Fame. Before Lombardi came to Green Bay, the Packers were a collection of lazy losers. By the time he left, any man on roster would've run through a brick wall if Lombardi said so. 


In the NBA, Phil Jackson has had Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, Dennis Rodman, Kobe Bryant and Shaquille Oneal on his championship rosters.  Phil also had assistant coach Tex Winter and his version of triangle offense, so maybe he's the one-in-ten instance that refutes my argument.  The NBA-adaptation of the triangle offense helped take Michael Jordan from a perennial playoff threat to a six-time World Champion.  The funny thing is that Jackson (head coach) gets the credit for Winter's (assistant coach) system.

(The triangle offense has produced 10 NBA Championships)

However, by and large professional sports is about finding the right personality to manage the athletes on and off the court.  For the most part, pro athletes need to be saved from complacency. I'm not saying that professional players don't need to be coached at all; they just don't need to be coached as much.  They would not be professional athletes if they weren't already exceptional at their sport.  Every great coach has had great players to coach. There isn't a single "great" coach that hasn't had an All-Star, All-American or Hall of Famer on a championship roster.

You'll notice that the few coaches that are considered great haven't reached their elevated status by employing inconsistent talent or repeat felons.  When players don't perform to expectations, the coaches get fired. Like it's anyone else's fault that the players miss free throws, strike out, commit penalties or any other in-game gaffs. The coaches get too much credit and too much blame for what happens during competition.

Foregone Conclusion

Why?  Why?  Why?  Mike Anderson, Mizzou's head basketball coach recently announced that he would not be accepting a job offer from the University of Oregon to be their head coach.  This past weekend, Coach Anderson met with officials from UO, but made a statement today that he would remain in Columbia.  C'mon, MA! How could you even consider taking over a program you beat by 37 points on December 5th?!

Aside from the money, it is hard to determine why it would be worth the time.  Currently, Coach Anderson makes around $1.5 million per year, but could earn over $2 mil based on the incentives in his contract (he'll make about $1.7 mil based on this past season).  Oregon reportedly offered about $800,000 more as a base salary.  I realize that a figure like that is nothing to sneeze at, but Oregon?  Really?!  Oregon basketball is about as hopeless as the Chicago Cubs.

Over the past two seasons, Anderson's teams have won 54 games with four wins in the Big Dance. That is impressive.  The current recruiting class is ranked as high as 11th by many scouting experts.  Clearly, Mike Anderson knows what he's doing.  He and his coaching style have made a good program even better, so I certainly don't fault any other program for approaching our coach.  But MA is building something here.  Entertaining an offer from a lesser program sends the wrong message.  It gives me the impression that when Alabama (Anderson is from the state of Alabama. In fact, Mizzou hired him away from University of Alabama-Birmingham) fires its coach next year, MA will be gone.  I wonder if next year's crop of recruits think the same thing...

The Mizzou Men's Basketball program is a program that is coming off two straight years in the tournament, and an Elite Eight run a season ago, and overachieving in 09-10 resulted in close loss in the second round of the Big Dance.

This program appears to approaching a level that many programs strive for, and I realize that a raise is a raise, and $800k is a huge raise by any measure.   But who likes to start a difficult project over from scratch before the initial task is even completed?  That's what he would've been doing if he'd taken the job at Oregon - starting over.  He would've been hitting the reset button and taking a step backward.  Although Mizzou loses the Battle of Rich Alumni, Oregon's basketball program is nowhere near the prestige that Missouri holds.

(Even Phil Knight's Nike money doesn't compete.)

Ultimately, I think he would've just been getting paid to lose.  $2.5 million to recruit against (and lose to) Arizona, Cal, UCLA and Washington. It's hard to recruit good players to play basketball at Oregon.

The Pac-10 is a lesser conference than the Big 12.  The Pac-10 had only two teams make it to the NCAA Tournament last month.  The Big 12 had seven.  That means that the Big 12 had six times as many teams earn a chance to compete for a National Championship.  Mizzou is a better team in a better conference.

Oregon basketball averages 7800 fans, while Mizzou brings about 13800 to each home game.  A bigger fan base means that more games will be televised. More exposure means more revenue and better recruits.

                                                                           OR







There just is no comparison.

Duck! Duck! Goose!

Let me start by apologizing for my unsanctioned absence from the blogosphere.  Though I've been unemployed for exactly one month, I've been unusually busy. On to today's entry...

A day or so ago, Faith and I decided that it would be fun to visit our favorite spot to feed fish.  There's a man-made pond in Glen Carbon that is home to some of the largest Koi I've ever seen.  We make a handful of trips each year to this spot.  We like to relax and feel the breeze and watch the fish wrangle food from each other. This week has some rather uncharacteristic scheduling conflicts, so my little princess and I decided that today after school would give us a great opportunity to hang out and do some fish-feeding.  So this morning as I prepared her breakfast and packed her lunch, I also gathered a sack of unwanted bread-type items from the cabinet: old dinner rolls, the last few Cheez-Its, the end pieces of a couple of loaves of bread, etc.

We both were excited about what we had planned since it had been seven or so months since we'd last been to the pond.  I was happy that the middle of my day had passed so quickly, and that it was time to pick her up from school.

As the school bell rang, Faith ran out of the doors, and grabbed my hand to head to the car.  She double-checked with me that I had brought the bag of soon-to-be-fish-food because she wanted to go straight there. I answered yes, and she began gabbing about some of the things that had happened during her day.  We hopped in the car, let the windows down, and continued to talk as we rode.  Little did we know that our innocent plans were about to be derailed by a team of rogue birds.

I noticed as we got close to the pond that there were more ducks and geese milling around than usual. They were strutting around, nibbling at the grass, and waiting...

As I parked, I noticed a few of them noticing me.  Something felt weird. I hurried around the car to open Faith's door, and we moseyed down the ramp toward the dock.  As we strolled, so did a few ducks... accompanied by a few geese. As Faith and I walked hand-in-hand, we noticed a few geese up ahead.  They stood there like tough-guy gate-keepers.  I felt like I was in a dark alley somewhere. Conflict was brewing...

(I was NOT feeling lucky today.) 

About 15 feathered bullies closed in on us, eyeing my bag of goodies, and my heart began to race.  Faith looked up at me with an intimidated and concerned look. She hugged my waist tightly. I made eye contact with a rebel mallard. It felt like High Noon at the OK Corral, but I wouldn't be calling any bluffs.

As we slowly and cautiously turned to head back to the car, I yelled "Run!  Get to the car!" Faith took off to the car and reached safety as I bolted to the other side and got in too.

They followed us to the car!  Honking and quacking, they had us surrounded. There had to be more than 20 geese and ducks honking, quacking and flapping their wings in anticipation. It was like a twisted horror movie.  Here we are, in the middle of the afternoon, trapped in my car at a pond by a posse of poultry.  And beside ourselves with fear.  Never have I been so afraid of a toothless animal as I was with that pack of grissled geese overly aggressive ducks.

In a last gasp of desperation, Faith suggested a diversion.  She advised me to toss some crumbs across the street in order to clear a path to the pond.  These birds were hip to our game.  As I tossed bits of old dinner roll, one at a time, the ducks and geese took turns retrieving the morsels.  This gaggle of roughians weren't letting us out of that car.

I concluded that I wasn't in the mood to get punked by a team of roughbeaks.

Spelling, Bees and Birds

We try to limit Faith's daily television intake. Partly because there's a lot of trash on television and partly because my wife believes television will rot her brain and partly because Faith has an insane amount of bring-home activities at her school.  This kid has a reading assignment every day.  I think I was only reading at home once a week when I was in first grade.

For those that know the dynamics of our marriage, you know that I'm more laid-back than the more-beautiful half of our lovely union.  So long as she has her school work done, I'll let Faith watch as much TV as she wants. After all, I can't park myself in front of an episode of SportsCenter but deny my daughter her Disney Channel. That's like grabbing a cookie out of the cupboard and enjoying it right in her face while she is forced to finish her veggies.

I was one of those kids that did nothing but watch TV and play video games when it was too cold to play outside. I went to public school, as opposed to my privileged offspring, and had no educational obligations outside of school in first grade so I indulged myself on hours upon hours of uninterrupted inactivity after school. I admit to being a pretty lazy kid, so I have sort of bought into my wife's program.  Plus, I was a fat, fat kid.  Thanks to hours of couch potatoing and ridiculous amounts of Kool Aid (there will be no visual proof of my obesity, you'll just have to take my word for it).

Last Monday after her bath, Faith and I decided to surf the channels for some good ol' animated entertainment. Upon realizing that cartoons are quite scarce at 8 pm, I happened to flip past a movie I'd heard about.  Akeelah and the Bee. I never had much interest in this movie. Despite the buzz when it came out on dvd, Faith was too young to understand much of it and I had no interest in a movie about the National Spelling Bee. However, something about the scene made me want to stop and watch, but I was met with opposition from a diminutive voice seated next to me. 

When I asked her why she didn't want to watch, Faith was unable to provide an answer, simply offering 'Because.' Well, I don't accept that from children. I'm a taxpayer, and half the reason this kid even exists. If this kid wants to disagree with me, it better be for more than just because. So I respond, "'Because' isn't a reason."  We played that game for a couple of rounds before I finally laid down the Trump Card, and let her know that if she couldn't give me a real reason that this movie wouldn't be adequate entertainment, we'd watch it until she could.

I realized that I seemed like a remote-bully. I didn't taunt her so much as I wasn't willing to consider any other viewing options until she could verbalize an adequate reason to not watch.  Trust me, my intentions were good. I promise. Plus, there was nothing else on.

As the scene unfolded, I determined that this was a movie that Faith needed to see.  I needed her to see another little girl having a tough time with something.  She needed to see a real, flesh and blood human girl fight through adversity.  Not a computer-generated Barbie with her talking bird, or pencil-drawn perfection from Disney.  There was a real, human lesson to be learned here, and I'd be doggone if she didn't learn it.

Part of the beauty of this movie is that the star and major co-stars are black.  We don't get a lot of that in my house.  It's important to me that Faith isn't too sheltered from diversity.  I'll admit that I initially thought that she didn't want to watch because the little girl on the screen didn't have blonde hair.

I resolved to have my first discussion about race...  with my seven year-old...  I felt a boiling confidence that I would pass a milestone by having a deep, heart-to-heart with my little princess.  I was confident that we would bond further through this impartment of knowledge from lion to cub.  I eagerly sent her off to brush her teeth as I readied my words and planned the course of the upcoming talk.

As a man, I can talk sports with the best of them.  I can negotiate a car deal all day long. I can talk music, shoes, religion, barbecue recipies - articulating the differences in skin color to my kid's innocent little mind was like explaining to Julie why I didn't take the trash out yesterday before I left for work... my words made sense to me, but I still saw that what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about look on her face.

I tried to be strategic.  I began by asking a few exploratory questions that lead us down the path to the societal construct of race. I tried to soften the entry by mentioning the fact that none of her dolls have dark skin and none of her favorite movies have many dark-skinned characters. When I asked Faith if she didn't want to watch the movie because of the girl's brown skin, she answered no. She sort of got defensive about it. She said, "Daddy, Grandma has brown skin. And so does Nick (my nephew). And Uncle (cousin) Jon....." After she rattled of a few more names of friends and family, I felt silly. My child was basically reminding me that many of the people she loves and interacts with looked just like the people on television. She let me know that yes, she sees the differences in people and their physical features but doesn't care.

I was beaten.  I anticipated being able to empart some knowledge.  I wanted to be able to explain away any conceived notions that she may have had.  Despite my initial disappointment at a potentially missed opportunity to establish open lines of communication between father and daughter, I found myself somewhat relieved that she hasn't learned how to stereotype yet, and that her innocence is still intact.

It's kind of endearing that she calls black people 'brown'  because the actual skin color is brown.  She doesn't know that daddy is supposed to jump higher and run faster than her friends' dads because I'm darker than they are, she just thinks I'm awesome.  Evidently, I'm awesome at everything except sit-down, heart-to-heart talks.  I stumbled and stammered through a conversation about a spelling bee.  What am I going to do when the conversation is about the birds and the bees?

Hot Dog Thanksgiving

I'm not much of a "TV guy." If I'm in front of the tube, you can bet that I'm either watching a game, highlights of a game, or playing a game. I will occasionally enjoy some History Channel or an episode of Seinfeld, but certainly not the Food Channel.

Earlier this week, the beautiful Mrs. Mayfield and I had our lives changed forever.  We were laying in bed watching television.  Julie had tuned to a show called "Man Vs. Food."  I had heard about it, but I don't think I've ever seen it. The show was touring the East Coast.  There were some delicious pizzas of course, burgers and hot dogs.  Hot dogs.  I'm typically not a hot dog guy.  I like steaks and burgers mostly.  I find these two types of cow to be the most grillable.

I grill a lot. I mean a lot.  Last summer, I grilled every Sunday dinner except for three (I only missed those three days because of being out of town.) Despite the subject of smothered burgers and toasted buns, I wasn't paying much attention. I was mostly fantasizing about the pretty lady lying next to me, and planning my pick up line. Then I heard him mention bacon.  Bacon is God's gift to us humans.  Everything is better with bacon. Iwould eat bacon on dog food.  I would eat a bacon and hair sandwich. Suddenly, my focus shifted from my wife's short shorts to the sizzling swine on the screen. My eyes bulged and my mouth dropped open. The chef was adding bacon to a hot dog topped with barbecued pulled pork, cheddar cheese and an extra dab of barbecue sauce for good measure.  It was love at first sight, and the Lord answered my prayers.

(Yes, it's as good as it looks!)

Today, we were blessed the warmest day of the year 2010.  My wife saw it coming, and planned for me to fire up the grill.  She planned a hot dog bar complete with chopped onions, shredded cheese, cheddar cheese, sprouts, slaw, relish, salsa, guacamole, chili, sour cream, and of course ketchup and mustard.  She had researched some hot dog recipes online, and made sure that we had every ingredient for any conconction a person's heart could desire on a bun. Did I mention that I grilled the bacon?  The sound of bacon sizzling on the grill made me feel like I was hearing for the first time.  It was lovely.

(Faith's Macaroni Dog)

But not nearly as beautiful as the sight of two dogs smothered in pulled pork, grilled bacon and cheddar cheese. There was party in my mouth that could hardly be contained. I was truly enjoying the enjoyment. I found myself eating long after the feeling of fullness.  It was reminiscent of a Thanksgiving feast.  The need to sample some of everything left me euphorically stuffed.

(Onions+avocado+sprouts+salsa= The California)

As Duke gets ready to host North Carolina, I find that the previous four hot dogs are making room for more guests at the party.

Not A Tiger. Just A Man.

I just can't take anymore of the Tiger-bashing. I'm bored with all of this scrutinizing and inaccurate psychoanalysis.  The fact that Tiger Woods turned his back on his faith and had a previously-unfathomable amount of extra-marital affairs has been over emphasized.  The fact that his personal choices have damaged his earning power has also been overstated.  The recent topic of 'sex addiction' has pushed me to a point that all of these so-called professional journalists have to be put in their place.

Tiger doesn't have a sex addiction.  Personally, I don't believe there is such a thing.  An addiction would indicate that he is incapable of refusing sex.  Though a couple of Tiger's mistresses were less-than-appealing in my opinion, and there is an astounding amount of them, it seems as though he was somewhat selective.  I would argue that this presentation of evidence refutes addiction claim. How?  Not a one of them is black or Asian or Hispanic. He hand-selected these women.  Crackheads won't turn down a rock that isn't the 'right' color. They don't shy away from a dealer because the dude looks shady.  That's an addiction.

(A PB & rock sandwich. Is it 5 o'clock?)

What Tiger has is a complex. It's a complex borne of life-long success which has resulted in an addiction to the word 'yes.' This addiction to the affirmative is an affliction that many successful people encounter and struggle with. I'm not limiting this to world-class, nationally recognized people.  Anyone that has been a big fish in their pond could fall victim.  And the size of the pond doesn't matter. Big fish like to get their nibbles. For a long time, even I couldn't stand being told 'no.'  I was a spoiled kid, and a standout athlete.  I got used to getting what I wanted, when I wanted from someone.  A pair of shoes from my grandma. Wrestling tickets from my uncle. You think Tiger Woods got more or less first-class treatment than me?  Exactly. That's where this situation comes from.  He said it himself. 'I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn't apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself.' 

Consider all of the politicians, movie stars and other athletes that have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar: Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, Jesse Jackson, JFK, Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O'neal, Wesley Snipes, Hugh Grant, Charlie Sheen, even Tiger's dad! I could go on and on.  These men weren't necessarily unhappy with their wives. Nor were they ill with a sex sickness.  Ego was the problem.  These are highly competitive people with an aversion to being told no for anything, which probably began somewhere around grade school.  Money, power and fame clouded their judgement... but they all recovered.  Some got divorced. Some were able to stay married.  But their recoveries all began with an apology.

(Ladies' man.)

While I commend him for his apology's content, not missing a chance to acknowledge everyone affected by this (with the exception of any of the hussies that blew the whistle on him in the first place). The lack of true emotion leaves me with an odd feeling.  I realize that Tiger isn't as charismatic as many of the mega-endorsers happen to be, I'm sure he's human enough to be sorry and really mean it. I liked the fact that his press conference was limited to a lone statement by him, and not followed by questions. This ordeal doesn't need anymore circus-like media frenzy. Really, he doesn't owe any answers anyway.  Personal mistakes don't require public apology. However, if you ever find yourself on television apologizing for something you got caught doing three months ago, I suggest making your production believable. He came accross as robotic. I interpreted his apology as an apology for getting caught.

Tiger's gonna have to play a lot of golf over the next 30 years because
 Elin's taking his kids and a lot of his money with her. 

Situations like this frustrate me about our society. We're so quick to dismiss someone's shortcomings or flaws as illness.  I'm not saying that his persecution is unjust because I believe that it is, but I'm not onboard with trivializing his choices by classifying them as a glitch or minor imperfection or as something that can be cured. Tiger made bad choices because he wanted to make them.  In the back of his mind, he thought that he had enough money and fame to cure the evils he was subjecting himself to.  Life is about choices. The choices a person makes will shape their life, and there's no reset button.  If Tiger's truly sorry, then this personal hell he's created isn't going anywhere.

Not only does he have to re-invent himself, he has to prove himself all over again. He's going to have a line to walk for a while. When Tiger comes back to golf, he has to win.  If he wants his endorsements back, if he wants the media to relax, if he wants to off-set that child support and alimony, he has to win. A lot.

I'd Rather Be A Cat Uncle Than A Cat Daddy

17 months of marriage have taught me a lot of things. I've learned survival tips.  I've learned hair tips (more than just split-ends).  Maintaining a household is hard work.  Something always needs to be budgeted: time, money, energy. Many of these things I expected to learn over time. Before I took the oath, made the promise, and said goodbye to Single Craig, I had a pretty good idea that I was about to be whipped into shape.  I had no idea that I was gonna get tag-teamed by my wife, daughter and the pets. Yes, the pets. What makes it worse it that I hate pets.  Actually, I don't hate pets. I just don't like mine.

I am not an animal-hater.  Generally, I like animals.  That's not true. I don't really like animals, I just don't mind them. Although, I have to say that our animals are pretty well-behaved. My dog doesn't bark like crazy and disturb the neighbors.  The cat has had his front claws removed, so he's not tearing up stuff. I know my dog can't help being a dog, but I find myself loathing his canine instincts and behaviors (he licks everything). Or perhaps it's the combination of a dumb dog and a fat cat.

I didn't have too big of a problem with my wife's cat before we got married. After all, we didn't live together, so I was only around the cat for a few hours while at her apartment.  I wasn't a part of the vet bills, or litter box cleanings, or the incessant meowing at 3am.  I was only around during the fun part.  I never noticed the cat's hair coating half of every exposed surface in the house.  I didn't think much of the cat jumping up on counter tops, book shelves or tv stands.  I was the uncle that didn't see the problem with letting the kids eat an entire box of Nerds for lunch only to send the unlucky parents home with sugared-up brats.

Now I notice cat hair on my clothes and in my sandwich. I notice that he's tracked kitty litter to places where I don't want to think about what may have caused the litter to stick to his feet.  This is the same cat that managed to smear poop on me in my sleep once, so I have a pretty good idea why the litter has made it up the basement steps. He also nearly threw up on my face one sleepy night.  Needless to say, Max (the cat) and I haven't had a very trusting relationship.

(The cat was probably trying to steal her breath.)

My animal-related ignorance got me into deeper trouble when I opted to buy my daughter a puppy.  Yikes! What was I thinking? I brought it on myself.  I set myself up.  I gave my wife the impression that I wanted to be a pet owner. Hindsight tells me that I should've known better.  Of the 29 years of my life prior to marriage, I'd owned a pet for about three months. Less than 1% of my life had been spent caring for (and tolerating) an animal.  Though I did have a pretty cool fish tank for a few years, my experience with non-people is almost nil.

My wife on the other hand has always had pets.  To her, this is normal.  $400 for their flea medicine (our pets don't have fleas. I wonder how much it would cost me if they did), $250 to get the cat diagnosed with an allergy to grass? Comes with the territory.  Not for me.  It's just that the responsibility and expenses far outweigh the rewards of pet ownership for me. I see these expenses as few pairs of shoes I had to forgo.  Or that pair of designer jeans I couldn't have.  Plus, we still have to feed them.

And clean up after them.  I think this idiot dog gets a kick out of watching me gagging as I scoop his extractions in the back yard. I know Milo loves the fact that I've spent back-breaking hour after back-breaking hour replacing the abundance of plants from our home's previous owner with nice, green grass that he gets to dig up.  Now, instead of the Kentucky Blue I originally planted, we have crabgrass and other weed-like turf.  What a spiteful creature.  Having these pets is like having to do the dishes after a delicious dinner that I didn't get to eat.

(Did I mention that he gets beaten up by the cat?)

It doesn't help that my wife and daughter are ridiculously in love with animals. Not just our animals, but every furry, four-legged something-or-other on earth.  The prime example took place on my honeymoon. My wife  is so animal crazy that she was petting stray dogs in Mexico.  Stray dogs!  In Mexico! These were filthiest, mangiest things I'd ever seen and she was undeterred.  This, from a woman that complains about the germiness of kids at Chuck E. Cheese, was fondling filthy, foreign, orphan animals. Wow.

Now I'm stuck. Two animals that I don't like very much, stand to be members of my household for the next 14 or so years.  That's a long time to be miserable.  I've let my wife know that these are the last two pets I'll ever own.  If one of them scurries out into traffic tomorrow, I would like to dream that I'd be one step closer to pet-freedom.  I bet I'd like them more if they were your pets, not mine.

One Week To Go....

Today feels like December 18th.  December 18th is exactly seven days before Christmas. One week.  By this time, we're all so filled with the Christmas Spirit that our exuberance and giddiness begins to fade and morphs into fatigue and the crankiness of two-year-old before naptime.  I'm not talking about the last week before Christmas when you were a kid. I'm talking about the last week before Christmas as a parent. 

See this is the other side of the coin.  As a parent, it is our responsibility to bury the tree with presents but not mortgage even the slightest element of the lifestyle that we've all gotten used to.  Despite the fact that Jesus' birthday is right around the corner, we have to keep going to work, taking out the trash, paying bills and paying the same amount of attention to normal duties as always.

As a parent, your joy on Christmas day is the living cliche. You have to be happier to give than receive. You have to hope that your best effort produces big smiles, a few 'wow moments' and several 'thank you, daddies.'

Well in this case, it's a week before a big day for Daddy.  The anticipation is mounting.  Despite my anxiety, I have to keep up appearances.  I still have to work hard and pay attention to details at my job, I still have to keep up with reading and writing assignments for my classes, but my head isn't in it.  I'm still driving my mother-in-law's '99 Jimmy. I have to remind myself that I still have a life to live, and people counting on me.

I have to prepare for this event as diligently as I would anything else in my life, except it gets less attention than anything else. I still work eight or nine hours per day and I still have the semester's first round of exams coming up, yet this event could hold more rewards than both.

Maybe it's not like Christmas. Maybe it's my 'Super Bowl.' There is no next year. This is a one-shot deal. My Super Bowl happens the day after the NFL's version.  It has taken serious preparation to get to this point. I have given some big hits along the way, and I've certainly taken my lumps too. It's like the biggest game of my life, except I'm not happy to be here. I need to win. People are watching me. People are rooting for me. My wife is in the stands, and she's cheering the loudest. I'm going to compete with every ounce of my being. There's no consolation. It's not still a great season if I lose.

Men Don't Need Feelings, Just Opinions

So I've found out that many of the cliches regarding marriage are true. I love and respect my wife more and more each day. I have learned that a good marriage does take hardwork, but there's one in particular that also holds true. I don't remember who said it but I think it goes, 'Love is blind, but marriage is the eye-opener.'

My eyes have been opened to a few things.  One thing in particular has finally hit me like a bolt of lightening. My wife has been telling me about my subpar communication skills for a time, but I always kind of wrote off those comments as disgruntled reactions to whichever disagreement we were enduring at the time. I have come to realize that she was right. I'm a pretty rotten communicator.  By 'rotten' I mean male. By female standards, I am a below average communicator.  By wife standards, I'm downright lousy most of the time. I do take solace with the fact that mostly all men would fall into this category with me.  However, my wife isn't married to most men and she is not most women.  You can either get on her bandwagon, or get run over. Being a guy, an average guy who likes football and bloody steaks, is no excuse.

I thought I was fine before I got married.  I thought my interpersonal communication skills were above average, and more than adequate for any situation, setting or topic.  When I did have to communicate, I could mask it with sarcasm and charisma. I could flash a smile and that would be that.  I've had to learn many things about how to talk and convey a message during my time working at a car dealership.  I had grown to what I thought was a strong communicator, a wordsmith of sorts.  Well unfortunately, my wife isn't a buyer. I've almost had to re-learn the English language. I didn't have to share so many of my personal thoughts with such regularity. None of my relationships had so much riding on verbal communication.

One of the most important things I've learned about communication during my 16-month marriage journey actually goes against what many people advised me previously... Julie does NOT want me to share my feelings. Guys, sharing our feelings is the equivalent to singing in the shower. Our women want us to feel comfortable enough to do so, but they don't really want to hear those awful sounds.

When I do share my feelings, my good intentions commonly share the same result as a failed science experiment, I end up having to do more explaining than sharing. Instead of taking my words as I use them, my wife (like most women) tends to think that there is more to what I'm saying than what I'm actually saying like I'm speaking metaphorically or using some sort of code.

(Paraphrasing the need for pizza.)

My sharing then concludes with one of us being the victim and the other desperately fleeing the scene of the crime. But I suppose the confusion comes from the complexities of the female brain and the simplicity of the male's.

An opinion is an interpretation, basically one's take on a given topic. Opinions can be broken-down, discussed and debated. This is what women like: banter, discussion. Opinions are relative. Feelings, while it is possible to interpret a person's feelings, feelings cannot be debated. Feelings are absolute.

While I've realized that certain occurences, topics or issues absolutely require a true outpouring of my feelings, what my wife really wants is for me to share some sort of opinion. I've deduced that my opinion is actually what she's after, not my feelings. She wants to feel included in my life. She needs to know that we actually have a relationship, that we can communicate about things. She needs to know that I trust her with my thoughts. But it's not like handing over a spare house key as a symbol of trust to your best friend. It's a daily reaffirmation of love, value and trust.

I've had to figure out that verbal stimulation is a need for her. She has to talk, even on days when the last thing I want to do is to talk about anything. All of those thoughts cannot remain bottled inside her head. Some days I think simply inhaling and exhaling produces words to emit from my wife and daughter, who is has become quite the little chatterbox.  My simple brain can't process the verbal cues as quickly as they send them. It causes overload and shutdown.

I read some column once that discussed the disparities of male and female communication. The author stated that on the average, men use about 7000 words in a day compared to a woman's 20000. TWENTY THOUSAND WORDS. I think my jaw would cramp and lock up.   The conversation is a metaphor for the back-and-forth, give-and-take of the relationship. It takes two.  Actually, it takes one and a third, because fortunately I don't have to keep pace. I just have to engage, be a willing participant and toss in a word for every three.

No Thanks, My Unlucky Star

As you all know, the NFL has entered its '2nd Season.' The '2nd Season' is is a reference to the fact that the playoffs have started, and that win-loss records from the previous 16 games don't mean a thing. The playoffs actually started weeks ago, but I'm just now to the point that I have forgiven myself and can speak about the crime that I've committed against my team.


In actuality, I'm a much bigger college football fan than I am of pro football. I prefer the pageantry and dedication of the college game, as opposed to the contract disputes and shuffling of players between teams. I also like that each game is more important on the college level. One loss can end a team's chances at the national championship. Though I can't stand the fact that a college team can go 6-6 and make a bowl game. I don't believe in celebrating mediocrity. Being rewarded for only winning half of your games is like graduating from kindergarten in my opinion. Rewards for doing the minimum would be like getting a bonus just for showing up to work on time. When was the last time that happened?

Anyway, back to my confession and apology. To my fellow Dallas Cowboys fans: I'm sorry. I am the reason that our team got blasted by the Minnesota Vikings last week. Trust me, my intentions were good. I was merely showing my love and support. I sincerely apologize for contribution to the debacle that was the NFC Divisional Playoff Game. What did I do? I made a public display of my devotion to The Star; I wore a Cowboys t-shirt to church. But I can explain! I wore the shirt not only to display my loyalty, but also because my wife and daughter and I were planning to go to lunch at Maggiano's in Brentwood after church. Since wouldn't likely be able to watch the the game on TV, I needed the cosmic connection of sporting the team colors. You see, this shirt has been buried at the bottom of my drawer at different times during the season. So it hasn't been worn consistently enough to develop the positive mojo of a lucky shirt. But I didn't realize that. Until yesterday.

(I thought Cowboys shirt = Cowboys win.)

During these few tumultuous days since the lopsided loss, I've determined that this shirt has actually absorbed negative joojoo. I thought back to the fall of 2008 when I wore the very shirt to game versus the St Louis Rams - also a tragic, embarrassing loss.

So I have determined that donning this shirt on Sundays during the season is a no-no. However I like the shirt too much to completely retire it. Plus, this shirt is a sort of souvenir. I got it at the Dallas airport during the layover when my wife and I were coming back from our honeymoon in Mexico. Perhaps honeymoon souvenirs were never meant to be Game Day gear. The wedding mojo over powers Game Day mojo and pummels it into submission. And as we all know, wedding mojo can produce bad Game Day joojoo.

(Actually, Cowboys shirt = Cowboys loss.)

How does one develop good mojo? Good question. You see, competitive athletes develop habits. Those habits blossom into superstitions. I don't mean superstitions like the usual weirdo stuff, I mean sacred routines. Like eating the same meal on game day, or wearing the same pair of underwear because you had a good game last week. For example, I wore the same t shirt under my pads on game days for the last three years during high school football and track season. I felt comfortable in my routine, and this particular orange t shirt was a part of that routine. I'm not strange. I promise. Mostly all (that's more than most, but a little bit less than all) athletes, both current and former, have some sort of superstition. Ask anybody that played something competitively for a relatively lengthy amount of time. Heck, even your avid weekend warrior has some slightly odd aspect present in his or her preparation.

Since this shirt has developed a routine of costing my Cowboys wins, I'll have to begin the task of determining a lucky shirt. I have until August to fill the position.

Geriatric Idol

Welcome to 2010, ladies and gentlemen!  The 'Aughts' are over, and the new millenium is approaching its teen years.  Hopefully, we won't get any of the sort of smart-alecky backtalk for which my younger sister-in-law is known during these upcoming recession-recovery years.  For the past few Januaries, the New Year has brought us much enjoyment from the phenomenon that is American Idol.

Personally, I get more distress than anything.  It takes way too long to get to the good part of the show where the real talent is on display.  I can't stand the outtakes.  These blooper reels are just a waste of air time to me.  While I like the idea of displaying the diversity of contestants and wide range of talents during their prayerful run to stardom, I can't stand the staged, choreographed mockeries. This is what prevents me from 'getting into' the show early in the season.  This garbage is like the salad before the steak, or the NBA regular season compared to the playoffs.  I'll deal with it if you make me, but I'm not enjoying it at all.

A few years ago, it was William Hung and his broken-English, tone-deaf rendition of Ricky Martin's 'She Bangs.'  Though I think this guy was really trying, it's the producers of the show that are responsible for this travesty.

(What a slap in the face to people that really tried.  This dude got famous for being terrible.)

So here we are in season number nine, and the format of the show hasn't changed at all.  The producers have tried to switch it up by adding a few guest judges, but it's the same thing: cattle-call auditions that apparently are open to anyone willing to stand in line for a week.

However, according to contest rules, the winner can only be crowned if they between the ages of 16 and 28.  Thus eliminating this dignity and pride-free man:

(I've never seen a senior citizen do the splits and I see why.)

This guy hasn't been eligible to win since 1975. I'm talking age-wise. I'm not sure his talent would improve enough with another 35 years of practice to make it to Hollywood.

Why in the world would the producers even let this guy audition if he's not even eligible?  I guess they just want to help keep YouTube relevant. I do, however, agree with the message of the "song."  I thought sagging jeans stopped being cool when gangster rap and Starter jackets went out of style.

Since Mr. Larry Platt's 3 minutes with Simon went viral, it's been viewed tens of thousands of times. I hope Idol parlays this display of lyrical ingenius into a public service campaign.  Since people are subjecting themselves to this nonsense, at least the message could be emphasized.