Ramblings, Vol. 1

Five articles for the price of one today. Hey, never let it be said we aren’t bringing the value.

* * * * *

The Democratic Party and its grass-roots organizations have been slow out of the gate in responding to this Mark Foley/Congressional page scandal. I suppose the prevailing opinion has been to stay out of the fray and let former Rep. Foley, and those who knew about his proclivities and did nothing, get what’s coming to them. But the Republican spin machine is relentless and effective, and people forget. If anything is going to be gained by this, they need to step things up. The mid-term elections, and the potential political off-ramp for all of these hypocrites, is a short 4 weeks away.

I envision a cartoon campaign, circulated via the internet, will get the ball rolling. The first frame will have an elephant, dressed sharply in a three-piece suit and tie, behind a podium with the Republican Party emblem on it, holding forth about sins of consumption and pleasures of the flesh, and harsh punishments internet predators.

The next frame will be the same elephant, sitting in front of a computer, pants around his ankles, half-empty bottle of scotch on the desk, one hand on the mouse, one hand between his legs, breathing heavily and asking the little boy on screen to take his trousers down. “Grand Old Perverts” could be the caption.

Wish I could draw.

* * * * *

So on Monday North Korea says it will forego its nuclear weapons program if the US holds bi-lateral talks with itself and China. US Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice says thanks, but no thanks.

Then on Tuesday, North Korea announces it has conducted a successful underground test of a nuclear weapon. Seismic monitors in the area indicate that yes, in fact, some underground event has taken place. Both the US and China decry the test as an unwarranted escalation, and discussions begin at the UN about a resolution condemning the act.

Then on Wednesday scientists start to piece the story together more accurately. Word from China comes out that the North Koreans notified them in advance that the test would be for a four kiloton device. However the readings from seismic monitors in the area indicate less than a one-half kiloton yield from the device, indicating what’s called a “fizzle”, or improper compression ratio at detonation, resulting in less than optimal yield.

Bottom line, it’s just as likely that the North Koreans dug a huge hole in the ground, rounded up a few hundred thousand of its starving citizens, and paid them a loaf of bread each to go down in the hole and jump up and down and bang pots and pans for half an hour.

My opinion on this latest pathetic episode in Kim Jong-Il’s soap opera? This megalomaniac is like a petulant child trying to get its parent’s attention. Eventually one of two things will happen: either they will screw up in the opposite direction and create a runaway chain reaction that wipes them off the map completely; or they’ll continue to fail and embarrass themselves, and finally give up (but declare to the world that they had never intended to build a nuclear bomb in the first place).

At some point Kim Jong-Il will do something stupid enough to off himself, or get waxed by the Chinese when they grow tired of his hollow blustering. In the mean time, let’s just ignore the little bastard.

* * * * *

So today it was a small private plane crashing into the umpteenth floor of a high-rise apartment building in New York City. Most likely an accident, few people killed, no similar incidents in other cities, and no apparent ties to terrorism.

In other words, we got lucky.

Do you know that I could build my own plane in my garage? That it can carry up to two passengers, or the equivalent weight of a pilot and a barrel full of the fertilizer that was used in the Oklahoma City bombing, or enough C4 to blow an 18-wheeler 100 feet in the air? That it can take off and land in a field with 100 yards of smooth ground? That it doesn’t have to carry a transponder, or be licensed with the government, and I don’t have to hold a pilot’s license to fly it? Do you know that there are already thousands of these planes all over North America, flitting hither and yon, free from any airspace restrictions imposed by the FAA? And that these planes are too small to show up even on military radar, and probably wouldn’t be able to be painted by the targeting computers in the cockpits of the Navy and Air Force fighter squadrons now patrolling the metro areas of the country?

Bet you didn’t know that.

* * * * *

Big happenings on the topic of a woman’s right to an abortion lately. First, the US Supreme Court quietly refused to hear a case involving one of the landmark decisions of the 1970’s, which will allow that ruling (opening up the conditions under which a woman may obtain an abortion) to stand. This may be seen as a victory for the pro-choice movement, but really this is no surprise. The grounds for the appeal were that the woman’s lawyer pressured her into pursuing the case, and the Court won’t hear appeals of that nature no matter what the topic. So this outcome could have been predicted by a first-year law student.

But the Court is preparing to hear arguments in the coming weeks on cases involving laws that ban so-called “partial-birth” abortions, but do not provide exceptions for the health of the mother. This will be the first genuine test of the George W. Bush-appointed Chief Justice, leading the newly-conservative Court headlong into the abortion debate. The outcome, if precedent-setting, may be the beginning of the most turbulent time in American history since the 1960’s. If you live near D.C., make sure your home-owners insurance payments are up to date.

And additionally, the referendum on the South Dakota law outlawing abortions entirely in that state will be on the ballot in November. The outcome here should be a landslide, as the forces mobilizing on the ground in that state have all but guaranteed the law will be overturned. But if it isn’t, look for additional states to follow suit, and all hell to break loose shortly thereafter.

This is a watershed month in the Pro-Choice movement: they had better hope that they have the sway they think they do.

* * * * *

And finally, another school shooting to report, this time a middle school malcontent wanna-be with a MAC-90 machine gun (knock-off of an AK-47… Gulp!) who made easy work of some ceiling tiles and fluorescent lighting before being talked down by some quick-thinking police with their Smith and Wesson automatics trained at his forehead.

This kid had a backpack filled with ammo, plans for assembling a bomb, and a detailed map of the school. Nobody was hurt, everybody got the day off, and Rambo Jr. is facing a difficult time in front of a judge, plus he has to stay after school to pound out the erasers for about a dozen years.

Where’d he get the gun, folks? Wal Mart? The local gun shop? Did he find it under a rock? www.pumpthemfulloflead.com? No, he got it from (where else?) Dad! Apparently there is some dire need in Missouri these days for citizens to own firearms capable of taking out a gymnasium full of innocent bystanders.

That, folks, is your NRA dues at work. Little Jimmy shooting up the seventh grade hallway with armor-piercing rounds and scaring the training bras off of every girl in Joplin, MO, because his dad has the right to own a military-grade machine gun, but is too STOO-PID to keep it away from Junior.

The background check for gun purchases should be renewed annually, and there should be an IQ test. Anybody dumber than my socks should be turned down.

Father To Son

Few sports franchises are like the Toronto Maple Leafs when it comes to tickets. Season’s tickets go from behind the glass straight up to the rafters, and are handed down father to son. This has been the case for more decades than anyone can remember: no tickets sold at the box office, you have to know somebody to go to a game.

I wasn’t really aware of this fact when my dad came home to announce that he had procured the company seats for a game against the Philadelphia Flyers, on a school night no less, and we were going. So on the appointed night we got into our coat and ties, fitting attire for the day and the seats, headed to The Organ Grinder for dinner (don’t bother looking, not there anymore), and off to the arena.

Maple Leaf Gardens was one of the palaces. Narrow aisles, uncomfortable seats, poor visibility from some parts of the upper deck, but there was no other place like it on earth. One of the most tragic casualties of the modern sports era, a cathedral to sporting history put out to pasture, sacrificed to the Gods of greed and expedience.

It was to be a night full of heroes. Darryl Sittler, Lanny McDonald, Borje Salming, Ian Turnbull, Mike Palmateer. The guys we would pretend to be as we played street hockey in front of the house every weekend. When the games were on television I would be glued to the set until my bed time after the first period, at which point I would eagerly and swiftly brush my teeth and race into bed, much to my mother’s surprise. She didn’t know I was hiding my transistor radio under my pillow, and listening to the rest of the game anyway. Most often I would fall asleep before the game ended, and I would wake up to a radio with a dead battery.

We arrived and headed for our seats, first row box in the “Golds”, with our eyes just at the level of the top of the glass, visitor’s end, top of the circles, on the opposite side from the benches. For Leafs fans, this is pretty much the equivalent of front-row center at the Rolling Stones. For me it was as if I was being given a tour of Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Wide-eyed and bubbling over with excitement, I edged my way over to our seats, half watching where I was going, half watching Bobby Clarke blasting slap shots at Bernie Parent from the top of the slot. One of the pucks ricocheted off Parent’s blocker and flew in a lofty arc, landing three feet to my left, right in front of my seat. I snatched it up and clutched it the rest of the night. The kid next to me kept offering me money for it all night long. Serious money too, but I wasn’t having any.

Back then the Leafs were contenders, and the Flyers were the “Broad Street Bullies”, so this match-up was one of the games of the year. I don’t even remember who won, but it doesn’t matter. I had a prince’s throne in the court of kings.

That was almost 30 years ago. I still have that puck on the ledge in my office to this day.

* * * * *

“Dad, phone for you.”

My kids could give two hoots and a holler about hockey. They know how the game is played, and they watch me play in my Men’s League games every once in a while, but none of the three is a fan, and I’m fine with that. My oldest boy has never been interested in sports of any stripe, and my youngest is a Chicago White Sox fan. I was always on the lookout for opportunities to take him to a ball game, but tickets are so expensive, and the ones you get are usually in the nosebleeds. So I was looking for other opportunities.

Back in May I had caught wind that the owners of the company I work for had season’s tickets for the White Sox that were pretty choice. So I had put the word in with the Sales Manager that if some ever became available and he couldn’t get rid of them to give me a buzz. At the time he told me that they were in such high demand that even he couldn’t use them most times, but he would keep me in mind.

Well, guess what. The call was the Sales Manager. The tickets were available. Last home game of the year, Sox versus Seattle, Fan Appreciation Day, four seats, four rows behind the visitor’s dugout.

My son and I drove to pick up the tickets from this guy on Saturday afternoon, and he gave us some tips. First, videotape the game. Second, there will be a woman sitting three rows in front of you on the aisle. Check out the rings on her finger. Finally, bring a baseball glove and watch out for foul balls.

We had four seats, but only my youngest and I were interested in going, so we had an opportunity to spread the joy. The most obvious choice was my son’s new best friend, a boy who had moved in next door a couple of months ago, whose circumstances were less than pleasant. Due to his mother’s (*ahem*) chemical experimentation, he was living with his aunt and cousin, and had never known his father. We talked to his aunt, and it turned out this would be his first major league baseball game ever. So it was that the three of us piled into the car for the drive downtown on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

The seats were unbelievable. I knew they were close, but I didn’t have a proper frame of reference. When you see a ball park on television you envision this vast expanse in which even the closest fans are at a distance. But I could easily have thrown a baseball from our seats to either home plate or first base, and if you’ve seen me throw you’d know just how close that is. I took a picture of the boys in front of the dugout with home plate in the background, the sun shining on their smiling faces. And sure enough, first batter of the game, a foul ball missed us by only about 20 feet.

Play. Ball.

My philosophy is, if you’re going to do something like this, do it all the way. So I brought a wad of cash with me, and we went nuts. Peanuts, popcorn, hot dogs, pizza, nachos, cotton candy, souvenirs, posters, programs, and enough soda to send them into a diabetic coma. By the time the ninth inning rolled around, I asked if they wanted anything else, and they turned me down. I couldn’t believe it — I had found the bottom of the bottomless pit!

The lady in the front row on the aisle showed up a little ways into the game. Apparently she was one of the owners, since she had a World Series ring about as big as a golf ball on her hand. We didn’t impose on her for a closer look, but it was awe-inspiring just to be that close to it, and it was all my son could do to stop drooling.

We couldn’t have asked for a better game either. All of the big names were playing: Paul Konerko, Joe Crede, Jim Thome, A.J. Pierzynski, even Freddy Garcia on the mound. We saw a double-play and a balk, but the fireworks literally got underway in the 3rd inning when Brian Anderson bashed a homer into left-center, one of five Sox home runs on the day, including two from Konerko, a pair back-to-back in the fifth, and a Grand Slam. The Sox ended up pounding the Mariners 12 - 7 and keeping their playoff hopes alive. Parking was a breeze, the weather cooperated, the fans around us were well-behaved and pleasant, nothing got lost, and nobody got sick or hurt. I can never remember having an outing that went as smoothly as that one did. And the boys had a ball.

We did record the game on our DVR, and while watching the third inning I figured out why. When Mr. Anderson was coming in to touch home plate after his home run in the third inning, there we were as clear as day: my son, his friend, and myself, clapping and cheering with the rest of the crowd. The pictures turned out great, and we got double prints so my son’s friend could have a set of his own to remember the day. I know my son will never forget it, and neither will I.

* * * * *

We take advantage of these opportunities when they present themselves for just that reason. We create a special day, something our kids will never forget, something that they can pass on to their child. We set an example of how to do the good things, show them how to be good parents, to find something special they can do for their kids and give them a day filled with anticipation, excitement and fun. A day all about them. A day without chores or homework, a day to lose themselves in the moment. A day to watch their heroes do battle up close and personal. A day to cheer and clap, a day to yell and wave their arms, a day to dance and sing, a day to laugh and smile, a day filled with sights and sounds and smells they will never forget. Like the smooth rocks or treasured marbles we clutched to as children, these moments will be held in their memories for all time.

By giving these gifts to our children we imprint upon them the happiness they can bring to others. It is the memory of the joy they felt on these days that will make them want to give that joy to their child. I’m not sure how much my dad remembers of that night at Maple Leaf Gardens, but I am sure that this day with my son at US Cellular Field would never have happened if he had not done what he did for me all those years ago. I feel honored to have placed my link in the chain. Maybe someday my son will come into some sweet seats for his son’s favorite team, and the chain will grow. These are the bonds that tie us together through the generations, handed down father to son, father to son.

Mitigating Misery

The time between when you hear the smoke alarm near your kids’ bedrooms go off and when you get to the point where you can see what’s going on ages you a bit.

* * * * *

We’ve had a lot going on lately. Kids are back in school, and with that comes the requisite game of Whack-A-Mole with teachers/grades/meetings/activities, as soon as you pounce on one issue, two more pop up in its place; I’ve been sick as a dog; my work has gone from demeaning and mundane to demeaning and stressful; and my wife’s free-lance pipeline has dried up, putting us in a less-than-favorable financial position.

Guitar lessons. Voice lessons. Violin lessons. Trumpet lessons. Boy Scouts. Girl Scouts. Dance classes. Sign language classes. Big Band rehearsals. Hockey games. Vegetable gardens. Disintegrating automobiles. A trip to New Mexico. A trip to Nebraska. A trip to Michigan. A trip to Minnesota. And my ex-wife deciding that she was going to move to Florida and take my son with her, which of course is just completely not happening, but after all the lawyers and judges and Restraining Orders and Rule To Show Cause-es she ends up moving 49.6 miles from my house, just under the 50-mile limit stipulated by our divorce decree, and proceeds to violate every condition she agreed to when the judge allowed her to move.

That’s been the last 120 days. How’s your summer been?

Contributing to this is the fact that our family vacation, the ten days I rely on every year to decompress from the other 355 days of unfettered havoc, was canceled this summer due to scheduling constraints. I am finding out more with each passing day that I need that time, and it affects me in a very physical, and very negative way when I don’t get it.

* * * * *

So it’s 11:04 on Monday night. I’ve gotten some decent sleep the past two nights, a rarity in the past six weeks due to the respiratory infection that has withstood the previous three runs of antibiotics but is now finally loosening its grip on my skull and lungs. I’ve been able to lie down for about a half-hour, and I’m not coughing, my chest is not seizing up, and I’m not sweating buckets. The lights are off, my wife is asleep, and I’m getting close.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…

Mother of God. Smoke do I see smoke do I smell smoke I would smell smoke or something it’s dark turn on the light where’s the switch no smoke here is that the smoke alarm or the CO-2 detector both of them are right next to Matt’s room did we leave the oven on is there a short in the box did we get hit by lightning and the fire has been festering inside the walls like what happened at the Delaney’s house back in high school their place burned down cat get out of my way NOW the light in the foyer damn it pull the cord no smoke here either some smell what is that light switch no smoke here either oh it is the smoke alarm pull the battery and shut that thing up. That’s better.

Squish.

What the…

Squish.

Oh, the basement stairwell in my office has leaked again. But all the way out here?

Squish, squish, squish.

Yeah, it leaked out into the laundry room. But the carpet in the office is hardly even wet. This doesn’t make…

“Oh, no, that’s not it,” my wife calls to me from the family room. “Oh my God…”

The electrical cord from the storm drain sump pump has wiggled loose from its socket. The pump hasn’t run. We’ve gotten a substantial amount of rain in the last hour. As a result, we have two inches of water in the storage room, two inches of water in the bathroom, and the carpet in the family room is like walking on a soaked sponge. The leakage has extended to the hallway near my son’s room, into the pantry, through the laundry room (right past the drain, mind you) and about two feet into my office.

I push the pump plug back into its socket and the thing springs to life, sucking water down into the hole in the storage room floor. I look at the battery backup unit, lifeless on the floor, and thank my lucky stars we spent the money on that sucker.

Not.

My wife makes a run for some brooms, and we begin the process of trying to mitigate the misery. Moving furniture. Getting stuff off the floor and into laundry baskets to be moved upstairs. Corralling the standing water towards the storm drain. Sucking gallons of the stuff out of the carpet with the steam cleaner. Getting the fans going. And trying not to think about the fact that it will be one o’clock in the morning before either of us can think about going to bed.

* * * * *

So now I sit in the family room, weary from another shortened night of fitful sleep, and another mountain of work in front of me. Fans are blasting at either end of the basement, furniture is piled to one corner of the room, a call has been placed to ServiceMaster, but the fun is just beginning.

On top of the cleanup, the additional heaving and hauling of furniture as the ServiceMaster guys do their best to rid us of the stench that is already setting in to the house; the ripping up of carpets; the fruitless arguments with insurance agents; and the paranoid second-guessing of the functionality of the pump the next time it starts to sprinkle outside. More severe storms are in the forecast for tonight.

As if that wasn’t enough, I have one more task in front of me. I have to figure out what the heck is wrong with the smoke alarm.