A swing and a ...

It is baseball season. Which means my brother is probably recording for his First Pitch Strike podcast. And if he’s not working on the podcast, he’s probably watching baseball. I know for a fact he was in Denver yesterday to watch the Mariners annihilate the Rockies in their home stadium.

Baseball runs in my family. My dad was a pitcher in high school. Growing up, the Mariners were broadcasted somewhere in our home, either on TV or the radio - sometimes both. The voice of Dave Niehaus is the sound of my childhood. Even though I didn’t play baseball, there was nothing more special than a trip to the Kingdome to watch the boys of summer play, fireworks ignited every time one of the M’s hit a home run. During my nephew’s high school days in Cheyenne, he was a star pitcher and he’s now returned to join his old team’s coaching staff. So far, two of my five kids have entered the world of America’s past time. Last summer, my eleven year old’s softball team took first place in their league.

Peewee baseball/softball is a bizarre creature. I’d call it organized chaos but there is very little organization present. I’ve observed this curiosity twice now and it wouldn’t surprise me if our youngest follows her older siblings’ footsteps.

First there’s t-ball: everybody swings and everybody runs. Sometimes they run even when they don’t get a hit. This phase is pure comedy. There are kids who don’t know what to do when they hit the ball so they stand at home plate until one of the adults drags them to first base. Other kids run the wrong direction after the hit. Inevitably, the helmets are far too big for some players, permanently obscuring their vision. Once on base, nearly every kid will keep on running until they reach home.

Years later they have it figured out. Uniforms fit and teams are sponsored by local businesses. There are strike outs and line drives. Fielders dive for balls and runners slide into bases. Kids stop swinging at every pitch, they make fewer errors, and teams become more competitive. Wins and losses suddenly matter.

Between these two stages there is another form of the game, one where the rules don’t matter and the goal is giving players experience. This is the transition time, the first year without a batting T. Coaches pitch for their own team and batters are up until they get a hit. Strike one? Cool. Keep going. Strike 13? It’ll happen eventually. Keep trying. Batters at this age are given infinite strikes. The moment their bat makes contact, everyone cheers - even if it’s a foul ball.

In the creation of a novel, there are phases. First is the raw work: plotting and planning, researching, drafting, editing, rewriting, beta readers, and more editing. Eventually you figure it out. There’s a contract signed with a publisher - perhaps with one of the big five or a small regional press or you decide to self publish. Then one day, an author walks into their favorite book store and finds their novel under new releases, debut authors, or local writers. There are no real wrong paths here. Publishing a book is a gargantuan task.

But somewhere between those two stages is something different and a million times more chaotic. Publishers don’t accept submissions from authors but they will accept them from agents. If an author hopes to get traditionally published, they need to find an agent who will sell the book to a publishing house. To secure an agent, authors submit queries to various agents. It is time consuming because every agent wants something different. If you’re not prepared for rejection, it can also be a little soul crushing.

Writers on social media jokingly call this period the query trenches as if we’re dug in for battle and we must be careful not to lift our head above ground at the wrong time.

But for me, it feels a little like peewee baseball - that first year after the batting T is removed. I get infinite pitches. I send agents information about me and my book. That’s the pitch. I’m swinging every time. I’m aiming for the fences. If your query isn’t a good fit for an agent, or they’re just not interested, they send you a rejection letter - usually a form email. That’s a strike. However, don’t despair - just like little leagues, there are no strikeouts. I get another pitch. I get another chance to swing. If it’s another strike, I’m still up to bat.

The writing community is a lot like those little league teams. As soon as an author gets a hit - an agent request for a full or partial copy of their book, or makes an offer of representation, everyone cheers. We don’t care if that author is a friend or a stranger or a competitor. A success for them means we have a chance when it’s our turn to bat. That’s what we do in the trenches. We root for other writers while we swing at pitch after pitch after pitch. From the first rejection to the fiftieth, the only way we can strike out is if we quit playing. As long as our heart is in the game, there’s always another agent.

I’m not a big baseball person. Not like my dad, brother, and nephew. I’ll attend an occasional Spokane Indians game and make it to as many of my kids’ little league games as possible. The only time I’ll watch baseball on TV is if the Mariners are playing. Being an M’s fan is a labor of love. It is truly a practice of long suffering. Perhaps being a fan of the best team to never win the World Series prepared me for the query trenches. At the end of every season, Mariners fans confidently declare “next year will be our year.” In a similar fashion, after every rejection, I tell myself “here’s to the next one.” I step back into the batter’s box ready to take another swing.

The New Breed

Kids these days. When I hear that phrase in normal conversation, it’s usually uttered with a scowl and a hint of disdain. It’s always a complaint about the younger generation. They’re weird, disrespectful, and don’t follow any of the rules. The irony is often overlooked - the people voicing their ire against the youth are regurgitating the same complaints older folks had about them when they were teens.

Kids these days. When I say it, it’s spoken with awe and hope. They are weird, and it’s wonderful. They’re brilliant, smarter than their elders want to acknowledge. They’re devious by necessity. And they don’t do anything the way it’s always been done.

There is something different about how they rebel than generations before them. My parents’ peers rebelled with bell bottoms and long hair. My generation rebelled with ripped jeans and feedback fueled guitars. At the end of our wild days, from the elder millennials upward through the baby boomers, we found our way into the workforce just like the generations before us. We hashed out our need to be different then learned to be the same.

Kids these days don’t have the liberty to do what we did. They rebel because they don’t have any other choice. From education to business, into every corner of entertainment from sports to art, to the way government functions, kids these days are taking a different approach than the way we’ve always done it because our paths are not available to them.

Kids these days watched the concept of a career and job security evaporate for their parents and grandparents. They’ve observed the decorum of the general public devolve in recent years. They know the economy the rest of us enjoyed doesn’t exist anymore so they’re doing things differently. If they must work with the public, they’re doing it on their own terms.

courtesy of Dazed & Confused Magazine

20 year old musicians have never lived in a world without American Idol. Teenagers don’t know what life was like before YouTube. The idea of break out viral stars has been a part of their collective consciousness since birth. The days of mailing demo tapes to record labels is ancient history to them, and kids these days are using social media to release music whenever they want.

Literary publishing is adapting to meet younger trends. Kids these days never typed out a manuscript on a typewriter, never waited at a Kinkos while their book was printed, and never used snail mail to query agents. It was never required of them. Technology has made it easier for young writers to self publish, connect with agents, find editors, and sign deals with publishers through Twitter and TikTok.
Kids these days are accomplishing mind boggling feats in athletics, destroying nearly every record that ever existed. Technology and science has made sports safer, kids more adaptable, and injuries easier to heal.

Politics are wild for kids these days. It’s been 23 years since the Columbine shooting. New voters registering to vote for the first time in their lives have grown up with active shooter drills. There’s never been a time in their lives when mass shootings were not a thing. They’ve spent their whole lives in a post-9/11 world. The only thing they’ve experienced from our government is nepotism, deep partisan divisions, culture wars, and the ever growing wealth gap. If they seem politically radical, it’s because we created an environment that fosters racialism.

Old folks these days. Some of y’all look at kids these days the same way Anakin looked at the younglings in the Jedi Temple after he turned to the dark side. Y’all fear what you don’t understand and want to destroy anything you can’t control.

courtesy of Lucasfilm

You think kids these days are weird because they are. We made them this way. Kids these days are a new breed of human, diverging from the way things have always been done because we gave them no other choice. For better or worse, the future belongs to them. Once we’re gone, this world is theirs.

There is one thing clear to me about these younglings: they are going to change the world. They’re doing it with or without us. The rest of us need to be more like Obi Wan, less like Darth Vader. If we’re not ready to help kids these days, it’s time for us to get out of their way.

courtesy of Lucasfilm

The Open Mic

If I have a fatal flaw as a DJ, it is how I sing along with 90% of the music I play. I am the kind of dude who would lose most ‘try not to sing’ challenges on the very first song. However, I do not have a stellar singing voice. It might not even be semi-decent. Simon Cowell would critique my voice with the most eviscerating vocabulary imaginable were I to audition for whatever show he is currently judging. I am a crappy singer yet I love singing.

My lyrical knowledge is deep and wide. I do not know everything, but I know a lot. From the Brat Pack to Wu Tang, Johnny Cash to Cash Money, Rednex to actual rednecks, new wave to nu metal, disco to digital, indie folk to arena country, Men in Black to Back in Black, Livin' on a Prayer to Livin' la Vida Loca. Pop rock, pop punk, and electro pop. Classic rock, modern rock, and hard rock. All three waves of ska.

I can “celebrate good times” and “party in the USA.” They say “play that funky music white boy” and I say “it’s getting hot in herre.” Ask to go “fishin’ in the dark,” my answer will be “I want it that way.” You could tell me to stop, but you will have to explain if it is “in the name of love” or because it is “hammertime.” Either way it will not matter because “the wave can’t stop” and I “don’t stop believin’.”

It is more than singing though. I join wedding parties on the dance floor for the Cha Cha Slide or Cupid Shuffle. I wobble and do the YMCA. I wave my arms “from the windows to the walls” and slowly drop to the floor when “shawty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low.” I also shuffle a little two step dance move through most gigs from behind the safety of my table where no one can see my awkwardness. My dancing ability is just as abysmal as my talent for singing. I am the stereotypical white dude – zero sense of rhythm. Still, I love to groove. Music is therapeutic and I find myself helpless to resist the beats and vocals which accompany such therapy.

You do not have to be good at an activity to participate. Most people who tell me they enjoy golfing are terrible golfers. They will never be PGA material, they hook and slice nearly every drive, and spend more time in sand traps and the rough than on the fairway. Between throwing clubs and cussing at water hazards, these people will insist the game of golf is the most relaxing thing they do all week. I get these people. They need a handicap for golf; I need one to sing and dance. I suck at my musical pastime yet still consider it the most relaxing thing I do, even if I am exhausted by the end of the night.

However, unlike those supposedly happy golfers, you won’t find me cursing my mixer or throwing microphones. Instead I leave the mic on and turn down the volume when it is not needed. The microphone sits in a boom stand, stretching from the side so I can talk into it while clicking buttons and twisting knobs. It is not in constant use, only there when I need to make announcements or introduce dedications. I assume people would rather “dance to the music” than hear me “talk too much.”

This last weekend, my habits caught up with me. I played through the ceremony and cocktail hour without an error. Dinner was great and guests were complimenting my selection of music. Then it happened. About an hour and a half into the gig, I turned and looked at my microphone. In that moment, I realized the volume was still on. I spent all that time singing and dancing next to an open mic.

Oops.

Sedona

Two years and a half ago, we got Sedona intending her to become Chloe’s new barrel racing horse. Our daughter needed a step up horse, a steed who could help Chloe reach her full potential as a rider and a competitor.

Chloe rode Sedona bareback the first day we had her. It’s one of the happiest moments I have ever witnessed. The two made a quick bond and practiced together any chance Chloe could find. Sedona was a little overweight so we placed her on a strict diet and had her exercising in the round pen daily. We took her out for walks and runs on trails and roads. Sedona worked her muscles walking up and down a hill we affectionately refer to as “the butt kicker hill.”

photo courtesy of Susan Shouse Photography

Sedona competed with Chloe through most of the 2019 rodeo season and we watched as both the girl and her horse made improvements in their skill. After the Covid pandemic ended everyone’s rodeo season for 2020, Chloe continued to ride and work with Sedona. She had her eyes on the future. She knew that one canceled season was not the end of anyone’s rodeo career. If she was going to compete again, Sedona would need to stay in shape.

Chloe hustled. Sometimes she begged to do it and other times we bribed her. With the 2021 season approaching, we hired a trainer to work with Chloe and it looked like Sedona was going to be the perfect partner.

Then April 22 happened.

Like many other days preceding it, Chloe and Sedona were in the round pen working. My daughter stood in the middle directing the speed and direction for her horse to run. Some occurrences come out of nowhere, freak accidents you are unable to explain even as you watch it happen. One moment, Sedona was running like a race horse, the next she was spooked and tried to jump the gate. Sedona is not a jumping horse and she was too short to clear the gate. Instead of landing on the other side, Sedona’s front right leg slipped into the smallest space possible: directly between the wood post, the end of the metal gate, and the chain looped to keep the gate closed. Sedona’s sudden predicament scared her even more and she started thrashing around, aggravating any potential injury caused by her dreams of flight.

Chloe, Christian, and I made quick efforts to free Sedona while JJ ran in the house to get Annie. The next few hours were spent trying to calm the horse and clean her wounds. Phone calls were made to the emergency overnight veterinarian who gave us practical advice and we arranged to bring her in the next morning. We feared she would need to be put down. Chloe feared losing the bond she spent two years building with Sedona. We worried about the potential costs about the veterinary care Sedona would need.

In the end, all our fears were relieved. Miraculously, Sedona did not break any bones. Her official diagnosis was a complete degloving. This is a severe injury where she did more than tear away her fur – she also ripped off the outer layers of her skin and connective tissue. She managed to deglove a solid ring around the lower part of her leg, requiring multiple stitches and isolation while she healed.

This picture is her wound several weeks after the initial injury. The first photos we sent to the veterinarian are too gory to share.

Results were better than we imagined possible. However, Sedona still had a long road ahead of her. The next few days were chaotic and filled with sleep deprivation for both horse and humans. She would need regular bandage changes for several weeks, requiring sedation for her to allow us to wrap fresh bandages around her leg. The vet prescribed antibiotics and pain medications, both of which Sedona hated consuming. Finally, she would need to miss out on the 2021 rodeo season.

Instead of forfeiting the season Chloe chose to train Renegade; the result of her decision is a beautiful and victorious story deserving a blog post of its own. Sedona slowly recovered, eventually rejoined the heard, stopped exercising, and ate a bunch of hay. She regained a bunch of weight but she would live, nay … thrive.

Sedona’s injury did more than complicate Chloe’s rodeo season, it threw a wrench into our wedding plans. Annie and I had arranged two horses to go with us to the wedding: Sedona and Roxy. After exchanging vows on the beach, we hoped to ride off into the sunset together. With Sedona’s injury, that possibility was cast into doubt. Renegade has a habit of bucking and throwing riders and we only have one other ridable horse – the mare Annie planned on using.

We kept Sedona healthy and fed. We let her walk the pasture at her own leisurely pace. Gradually, she built up her strength. Her wounds were scabbing over. It was clear I would need to begin working with her soon, shed some of the belly weight she added while in recovery, and build a bond with her so she trusts me when there are ocean waves crashing next to us.

Sedona’s most common recent interactions with me were through the ritual of medicating, sedating, and changing bandages. None of those activities were experiences she enjoyed; she actively attempted to avoid it as much as she could. She wanted nothing to do with me but she didn’t keep that attitude. First she let me approach her while she was munching on hay. Next she allowed me to scratch her neck and ears. Then she started lining up with the other horses when she saw me walking from the house to the barn to feed them. She would follow me as I dragged a bale into the pasture and stood patiently while I broke open the twine. As soon as I threw a flake of alfalfa, she’d turn away from me to go eat. Finally, on a Monday night a few weeks ago, I took a bale out to the horses while all the horses were grazing in the back half of the pasture. I looked up and saw this running at me.

Instead of waiting for me to toss some food in her general direction, she walked up to me and invaded my personal space. I spread out several flakes; the other horses found their own personal pile and started to dine. Not Sedona. She stayed with me. I picked up her feet to check her hooves, rubbed her back to see if she had any sore spots, and patted her neck to let her know she’s a good girl. As I was running my fingers through her mane, she rested her jaw on my shoulder and turned her neck to place her head behind mine – the closest imitation of a hug a horse can give.

I knew then it was time. It was time for me to start working with Sedona in the round pen. I knew it was time for her to have a rider. I knew it was time for me to (figuratively and literally) get back on the horse.

Last Saturday, we did a thing. While the family completed morning barn chores, I got Sedona into the round pen and strapped a saddle to her back. We walked around in circles in the round pen for a while, both of us reacquainting the experience of riding (me) or being ridden (Sedona). Feeling brave, I followed Chloe out to the back half of our property. It’s the first time in a couple years we’ve rode horses together. We did some practicing in our arena and I had Sedona walking through a pole bending pattern. I even got her into a trot.

Three weeks from now, Sedona will be introduced to a new environment: road trips and beaches. A couple weeks ago, I was feeling nervous about how she would handle my weight or how I would manage to control her in the sand. Now I feel much more confident and prepared. I think Sedona and I are going to enjoy our time together.

Like a Plane in the sunset

Waiting on you has been like a pilot flying a plane into the sunset being the last human to see the beautiful sight before the world is cast into darkness. 

Waiting on you has been like a little kid at bedtime hoping to stay awake a little longer - just five more minutes daddy please. 

Waiting on you has been like ordering a meal at a popular restaurant, anticipation filled with aromas from the kitchen so strong you can taste the food before it even arrives. 

Waiting on you is like a baseball game and the home team has the bases loaded when the star player steps up to bat, as the first pitch is thrown you know it’s going to be a grand slam. 

Waiting on you has been like a comedian telling a a funny story and she takes a deep breath after delivering the punchline before the crowd erupts with laughter. 

Waiting on you has been like a hike in the woods on a spring day while the roar of a waterfall grows increasingly louder long before it’s visible through the trees. 

Waiting on you has been like a radio station playing your favorite song as you reach your destination so you let the engine idle until the song is over because you need to sing along with every note. 

Waiting on you has been like savoring every moment every rainy day, of every mile driven on a road trip, of every sloppy wet kiss given by a dog, of barbecue smoke, family movie nights, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, foggy mornings, and a comfortable bed at the end of a long day. 

No longer waiting on you has been a fulfillment of joy, anticipation and preparation subsided, to have you here and hold you in our arms knowing some day you will protest bedtime, tell jokes, climb mountains, and giggle after puppy kisses. 

 Until then, I’ll forever be a pilot flying my plane into your sunset.

The Theory of American Everything Part 1: A Scientific Lesson

Life is guided by a set of rules, laws, processes, norms, and various theories. Entropy, general relativity, Newton’s laws of motion, gravity, magnetism, photosynthesis, apoptosis, string theory, uncertainty principle, quantum mechanics. These rules of science explain how our universe works: from the tiniest molecules inside our bodies to supernovas in the furthest reaches of space. Yet these laws and theories are far from complete. Even the greatest minds of history, from Plato to Galileo to Curie, they were imperfect people working with limited understanding. As we study and learn more about the workings of chemistry and physics, scientists have disproved, revised, and expanded old concepts. Even Einstein’s memorable equation of E = mc squared has its limits. It’s generally true but it’s not exactly correct either; modern science looks at Einstein’s mass-energy equivalence in a “yes, but” manner. 

Scientists examine and experiment with all of these laws to test their veracity. The majority accepts them as a basis for their understanding. They trust in the validity of these scientific norms yet believe it’s not enough. There’s gotta be something more. Something that explains everything. Some of these scientists collaborated on an idea: a hypothesis of one overarching law explaining all known laws of science into one unified formula. They call it the theory of everything. 

In the theory of everything, scientists are hopeful to connect the disconnected rules of everything from thermodynamics to quantum biology to astrophysics. They’re looking for answers to unsolved scientific problems, define the singularity at the beginning of time, explain the exceptions to known scientific standards, and fix the flaws in existing theories. If proven, the theory of everything could provide a framework that ties electromagnetism and nuclear forces to particle physics and the entirety of the space time continuum. Depending on how much credence you give to the theory of everything, it could be the next big scientific breakthrough proving the possibility of elements once confined to the imagination of science fiction: dark matter, time travel, teleportation, and interstellar exploration. 

Scientists look into both microscopes and telescopes to answer the same question: why we are the way we are. When I study history, theology, politics, and pop culture, I find myself asking the same question. Why are we the way we are? 

What makes America America? How can we be so functionally dysfunctional? How can anything be so awesome and awful at the same time? How do capitalists and anarchists coexist? Is it possible for our socialists and our libertarians to get along for the sake of our general welfare? Why do we possess the cognitive dissonance believing it’s patriotic to call Obama an illegitimate president but treason to say the same thing of Trump? Why is this nation of invention and innovation also a land of religious cults and serial killers? How do we have the greatest military force of any nation on earth and still think it’s too weak? Why is the quality of our health care going down while the cost is going up? Do we need to make America great again? Or just make America great? How did we get so divided and polarized? Where is the balance between American exceptionalism and American idiot? 

If scientists can strive to find a unified theory of everything in our universe, we should be able to find a singular theory to explain everything about America. We need something that explains both California vibes and southern charm, amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesty, Starbucks and Chick-Fil-A, bowling alleys and sandlots, comic books and gospel tracts, Fried Green Tomatoes and Boyz n the hood, Dueling Banjos and Smells Like Teen Spirit. What is the theory of American everything? 

I think I’ve figured it out – the reason America is the way it is and why we are the way we are. It's all about they way we began.

A Halftime Show that Won’t Disappoint

It seems some people were not impressed with Maroon 5’s performance last Sunday. Buzzfeed compared Adam Levine’s shirt to household upholstery, and several ladies swooned when he took off the same shirt. The majority of songs they played were from their 17 year old debut album, Travis Scott’s guest appearance was heavily censored, and Big Boi represented his home town with a fur coat and a Cadillac. Annie thought Levine looked like Ernie from the trailer park. I thought he looked like the bastard offspring of Eminem and Justin Bieber.

Regardless of whether you were bored or entertained, one thing is clear: the NFL doesn’t know what they’re doing. Year after year, they recruit big name artists to play the Halftime Show and more often than not, those acts end up lackluster. Social media annually floods with complaints over the suckage Super Bowl viewers just endured for 15 minutes. Other than the exception of Bruno Mars, there hasn’t been a universally praised halftime concert since Prince in 2007.

The wonderful citizens of the internet have a solution to this problem. They have a superstar in mind who could satisfy audiences of any age and fans of any genre. Someone who has been performing with the same band for over 30 years, a four time Grammy winning performer, and a very weird man. So weird it’s even in his name: Weird Al Yankovic.

It’s not just a couple a of randos on Reddit who want this to happen. There are some big names championing this cause including Patton Oswalt.

Dear @NFL: Please have @alyankovic do next year’s Halftime Show. How do we make this happen? I bet @Madonna will come out and do “Like A Surgeon.” Signed, (Gary Oldman from The Professional voice) EEEEVERYOOOONE

— Patton Oswalt (@pattonoswalt) February 4, 2019

I can get behind this idea. Imagine the possibilities. While Patton suggested a guest appearance from Madonna, I have some other ideas. If it was up to me, here’s what you would see at the 2020 Pepsi Halftime Show.

The performance starts with only the band on stage. They play the opening riff of their Queen Parody. Yankovic’s voice sings from off stage: “Another one rides the bus. Another one the bus.” The lights go out and a lone spotlight shines down to the entrance where Al rolls in on a Segway for a rap medley. White & Nerdy is up first followed by All About the Pentiums. The first guest star jumps on stage during this second song: Dave Grohl playing the guitar. Grohl was the guitarist on All About the Benjamins - the Diddy song Pentiums parodies. The medley ends with Coolio and LV joining Al for Amish Paradise.

Next, the band plays their spoof of a song from a previous Halftime performer: Perform This Way – a parody of Lady Gaga’s Born this Way. Even better, Weird Al wears sparkly shoulder pads as a tribute to Gaga’s Super Bowl fashion. Perform this Way leads into a second song from the same album, Party in the CIA which parodies Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus. Naturally, Miley would Join Al for the spoof of her song.

As Miley exits the stage, another famous face enters: Steven Tyler. The two guys sing Livin’ in the Fridge, a parody of a song originally written by Tyler – Aerosmith’s Livin’ on the Edge. As Tyler sings the final chorus, Al disappears for a costume change. Crowds cheer as the Aerosmith front man bows.

Lights dim again and Al emerges carrying a light saber and wearing a brown robe. The next song is a sing-along for the whole stadium – The Saga Begins. “A long long time ago, in a galaxy far away …” Joined by fans dressed in Star Wars cosplay, they lead the crowd singing “My my, this here Anakin guy. May be Vader someday later - now he's just a small fry. And he left his home and kissed his mommy goodbye. Sayin' "Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi.” Episode 9 should still be in theaters so this would be a great cross promotional opportunity for Disney.

Finally, or Al’s last few minutes on the stage in Miami, he strips off the Jedi robe to reveal his signature Hawaiian shirt, a stagehand delivers his accordion. Al is known for his polka collections which mash up bits of popular songs into one track - all accompanied by accordion riffs and polka beats. For the NFL, Al unleashes a new collection unheard before: The Super Bowl Polka – polka renditions of tunes performed in previous Halftime Shows: hits from Coldplay, Katy Perry, Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, and Beyoncé. As the song ends, surprise – he’s not done yet and neither is the polka. Lin-Manuel Miranda arrives for the grand finale: The Hamilton Polka. Fireworks. Lights out. Commercial break.

It’ll never happen but a boy can dream. Right?

Two Towers

On the drive to work this morning, I noticed a cell tower standing in the field north of Cabellas. Actually, I saw two of them in the same empty lot - close enough that you could fly a paper airplane from one to the other. I've passed this plot of land more times than I could count and never recognized the two towers standing there to transmit my LTE signals. I've seen them, but I've never noticed them.

They're there. And they've been there for a long time. Yet I've driven by time and time again completely oblivious to their presence. They have a purpose, fully functional. I can make and receive phone calls because they exist. I'm usually streaming a podcast while I drive that stretch of road, which means my smartphone is accessing the internet carried by one of those cell towers.

I got my first cell phone in 2002. It was a part of a T-Mobile promotion for DirecTV employees. I filled out the application on my lunch break, selected the device and calling plan - voice only, no texts. The only game I could play on it was Snake. In the years since then, as mobile providers expand their coverage and fight with each other to build the most reliable network, the population of cell towers have exploded. They now dot the landscape of every city, town, and village across America. They've become so common they're often overlooked.

Let's be honest though. It's probably best that we ignore the sight of the towers providing our cell reception. They're ugly constructions, not architecturally appealing in any way, shape, or form. They're hideous enough, some people attempt to disguise them as trees like the one near the Daybreak Coffee stand at Prairie and Ramsey in Hayden. However, the nature costume is clearly artificial looking; it's even more garish than the standard cell tower.

Whether incognito or undisguised, cell towers are an eyesore, one we have become so accustomed to seeing they blend into the scenery. On most days, we can pretend they don't exist.

As I turned onto Seltice to cross the Spokane River and continue my morning commute, I observed that which I've repeatedly disregarded. Two cell towers. For the first time since signing my contract with T-Mobile sixteen years ago, I pondered the existence of these towers I've long taken for granted.

It made me think about time travel. What if we jumped in our DeLorean and went backwards thirty years? In 1988, my dad is probably playing a pinball machine in Godfather's Pizza while the jukebox plays Richard Marx's Hold On to the Nights. Cinephiles were in line for tickets to see Young Guns after enjoying Die Hard and Cocktail earlier in the summer. Anyone using satellite service for their television had a twelve-foot diameter dish in their yard. Mark Langston had a great year as a pitcher despite the Mariners finishing last place in their division. A few individuals used cellular phones on a 1G network with bricks that took ten hours to charge and only provided a half hour of talk time. Cell service was a luxury at a cost greater than what most Americans could afford, and cell towers did not dot the countryside.

Could you imagine going back in time and trying to explain a cell tower to a resident of history? Or even attempting to describe one to a younger version of you? Or what if a traveler from the past came to our time and saw these ugly base transceiver stations lurking behind office buildings, attached to billboards, or freestanding in the middle of fields? What would they think? How would we justify their presence? Would they return to their era and convince everyone we need to rethink this cell phone thing?

I am thankful I'm able to carry around one small device in my pocket that replaces a multitude of gadgets my younger self would have never been able to manage. I am grateful my phone is also my camera, video camera, calculator, compass, altimeter, GPS, voice recorder, Walkman, planner, and so much more. I appreciate being able to read the news, listen to the radio, research for my book, watch a movie, take classes, keep in touch with old friends, and go shopping all from the convenience of my iPhone. It's amazing that I can do those things from almost anywhere. However, not all the wonders of our technological advances are beneficial or aesthetically pleasing. Sure, I'm used to seeing mobile phone masts scattered in every community. I've practically become numb to them. However, I sometimes miss seeing unobstructed views of mountains, forests, pastures, and rolling hills. Sometimes, I am disgusted by the towers and monuments of digital progress.

Days like these, I wonder what tomorrow holds. Will the archaeologists of a future society dig up the ruins of our civilization to discover ancient cell towers then describe our people as primitive for using such crude structures to communicate with each other?

Ode to Mullets

It's the Kentucky waterfall, the neckwarmer, or the Camero cut. The official hairdo of NASCAR, ice hockey, country music, butt-rock, meth addicts, and our worst memories of the 80s. If you have one, I'll assume you drive an El Camino and listen to Nickelback. It's even a movie trope. When you see a kid with a mullet in the theater, you know he's a bully. Or a redneck. Or both.

image courtesy of New Line Cinema and Warner Bros Pictures

In the early days of Bush Jr's presidency, my friend Steve and I spent a couple afternoons mullet hunting. We'd hang out at Boise Towne Square or drive through Garden City looking for people with the regrettable hairstyle so we could take a photograph of them. Somewhere on the internet, in the days before social media, there was a website full of hilarious pictures of mullet-topped citizens. It even had them sorted by classifications, coiffured subspecies. There was the frullet (part afro, part mullet), or the skullet (bald on top, long and flowy in back). The website was completely driven by user submissions and Steve's goal was for them to use a picture he submitted.

We never got a picture good enough to be sent to the web collection of epic mullets. But a juvenile with a kidlet (kid with a mullet) flipped us off, and we were chased through the mall by a body builder unironically dressed like a member of The Power Team.

image courtesy of The Power Team

There are times I wish I had a camera with me to sneak a photo of some creative mullets. At a birthday party for a friend of a friend several years ago, there was a mullet of preposterous proportions worn by the birthday boy's mother's girlfriend. It started with mall-bangs up front (like Tiffany in I Think We’re Alone Now), Farrah Fawcett feathering on top, buzzed in racing lines on the side, and the mullet sprouting down the back. But it was no ordinary mullet, it was divided in half. The left side was cut a few inches shorter than the right side and neither half was trimmed straight; the two sides were cut at odd angles - one of which was sharper than the other. Finally, out from underneath the staggered mullet, like Obi Wan in Episode 1, a thin Padawan braid pony tail hung down to her waistline. It's like her hairstylist asked her what she wanted and she replied, "Give me one of everything."

It's been a good long while since I've witnessed one in public, until this week. It was a mullet that was trying not to be a mullet but clearly was still a mullet.

Between his build and facial features, he looked like Milton from Office Space. His fashion choices were similar too, only substitute current geek-chic glasses for the oversized wire frames and add a minimalist tribal tattoo sleeve.

image courtesy of 20th Century Fox

As for the hair? It was that weird moldy blonde, similar in color and texture as Donald Trump, and slicked back the way Trump’s sons do. Then in back it went down further than you’d expect, ending in a peculiar pointy shape - as if it was once a rat tail cut off while he slept by a prankster sibling.

Mullets have often been referred to as business up front and party in the back. This hair cut was New Yorker up front and homeschooled from Athol in the back. Never have I been more confused by someone else’s haircut.

Thankfully, the mullet has faded from use. Billy Ray Cyrus abandoned it years ago and it's been shunned by most everyone in the public spotlight from politicians to race car drivers to aging metalheads. The mullet is known as a cultural embarrassment and I hope it remains stigmatized for years to come.

Questioning a Questionable Policy

Last week, Roger Goodell released a statement detailing an NFL rule change prohibiting protests during the National Anthem. This specifically targets predominantly black players who have been kneeling during the Anthem during the 2016 and 2017 seasons - athletes who are trying to use their platform to bring attention to police violence against the African American community.

Even my team protested, image courtesy of The Christian Science Monitor.

Regardless of how you feel about these protests, even if you disagree with them, you must admit the players won. They wanted to bring attention to this issue and it's become a hot-button topic. With so many pundits and politicians and football fans all over the world talking about it, players like Colin Kaepernick brought their concerns to the forefront. Their mission is incomplete, but the conversations they sparked are victories.

Until now. Per the NFL’s new rules, these protests will be penalized. Goodell released a statement explaining these changes and reading it left me with several questions. And I'm confused. Can someone please explain?

1. The statement opened with a remark that the league is committed to work with the players to strengthen communities and advance social justice. How does threatening players translate into working with them? Furthermore, how does banning protests advance social justice issues? And why are civil rights protests more punitively disciplined than troubles like rape, domestic violence, and child abuse? Yes, I realize the league has rules determining punishment for players who beat their kids, wives, and girlfriends, but the adherence to these rules have been inconsistent if applied at all. Will the application of the protest rule be as lenient as the guidelines for players arrested for violent crimes? If the NFL really wanted to advance social justice, shouldn’t they work harder to protect women and children?

2. The rule requiring players and team personnel to be on the field has been removed allowing those who don't want to stand during the anthem to be somewhere else. They can "stay in the locker room or in a similar location off the field" until the National Anthem is over. How vague. How do you define a similar location off the field? Will this turn into a boundary pushing game where protesting players work their way down the entrance tunnel to see how close they can get to the field without being on the field?

3. The official statement mentions fines for the club if any of its staff does not stand for the Anthem while on the field and "appropriate discipline" for league personnel who do the same. Again, this is incredibly vague. What are the fines? What does appropriate discipline include? Why fine the club instead of the player? Isn't that manipulative? Other reports suggested teams would be imposed a yard penalty for protesting players. When would that penalty be applied? During the first possession? At the discretion of the opposing team? What if both teams have players protesting? Do those penalties cancel each other out? Or do both teams take a hit? Does the number of yards a team loses depend on how many players protest? And is the fine a flat rate? Are clubs fined the same amount if a player protests as they would if a coach protests? Is there a bigger fine for repeat offenders? Will they publicize the appropriate discipline against league personnel who chose to protest?

4. I'm happy that Goodell addressed the false narrative that protesting players were unpatriotic. To support the claim that protesters are patriotic, he mandates a patriotic demonstration. How does that make sense? Is forced patriotism really patriotism?

5. The NFL has consistently been losing TV ratings. Fewer and fewer fans are watching games, and with this new rule in place they stand to lose even more viewers. Are they ready for the lost revenue? Are they ready for the backlash? Are they ready for the players who (reportedly) will be protesting by refusing to play? Did they really think this through? Are they prepared for the unintended consequences?

Yes, But Kinda

I am a pacifist. Well, I probably shouldn't use those words in that order. A more accurate statement would be: I try to be a pacifist.

As far as pacifism is concerned, I'm a terrible pacifist. I’m bad. I've read and reread many of Stephen King's books, stories and novels that are gloriously violent. I include both Fight Club and The Matrix in my list of all-time favorite movies and both films are smorgasbord of gunplay and fist fights. I own (and play) several violent video games from Street Fighter to Grand Theft Auto to Call of Duty. I watch football and hockey more than any other sport and they're known for player injuries and five-minute penalties for fighting.

To recap: I'm a pacifist with reading preferences skewed toward violence, who still loves bloody mayhem in movies, has no qualms committing acts of violence in fantasy (just averse to doing so in real life), and is a fan of violent athletic competitions.

Outside of entertainment, I still might be the worst possible advocate for pacifism. At least once a week, I ponder how satisfying it would be to throat-punch someone. I would never strike a Nazi, but I wouldn't object if someone else hit a Nazi. Simple schadenfreude (deriving satisfaction from observing someone else's unintentional yet self-inflicted pain and/or misfortune) is one of my greatest indulgences. My inner mind applauds when I see arrogance humbled, impatience forced to wait, or folly find failure. Those are thought patterns a good pacifist would abhor.

The allure is difficult for me to resist. However, I realize how the cycle of violence is ultimately fruitless. And I have written on this topic before. How America has a problem with violence and an obsession with guns. How when everyone is armed, it is impossible to define who is a good guy with a gun. How an armed society is not a polite society. How we all believe the myth of redemption through violence - (or a belief in violence preventing violence).

Since the dawn of humanity, we have had it backwards, placing too much value in vicious methods. Violence begets more violence. It escalates. It isn't a solution, it is an invitation to retaliation. In a violent world, no one wins.

I know these facts, yet I still read books with violent protagonists and villains, play video games where I control violent and heavily armed characters, and watch TV shows and movies filled with acts of violence. My values are walking contradictions. I am one part Tyler Durden and one part Mahatma Gandhi. It is my own cognitive dissonance where I simultaneously avoid and consume violence. I am a spectator and a participant, a critic and a curator.

So I will call myself a part-time pacifist. A pacifist in theory only. An angry pacifist. A lousy excuse of a pacifist. I am one, even if I'm not a good at it.

The Super Bowl that Was

As we delve deeper into 2018, it is obvious we are stuck with a President Donald Trump. However, we live in a world where the team who lost the Super Bowl is owned by Trump's friend Robert Kraft, coached by Trump's friend Bill Belichick, and led by Trump's quarterback friend Tom Brady.

Confession: I used to be a minor Patriots fan. Back when they were perennial underdogs yet to win a Super Bowl, I occasionally cheered for them. Since their first championship win in 2002, my opinion of them has degraded thanks to their cheating scandals, Belichick's permanently grumpy face, Brady's smug arrogance, and their many connections to Trump.

Sunday, the dogs snuggled up for a nap while I watched the game. The Philadelphia Eagles are NFL champs and their city has been burnt down to rubble in celebratory(?) riots. Eagles-fan-for-a-day is now over and we can all go back to supporting our regular favorite teams in anticipation for next fall. Before we return to our legitimate fandoms, I have some favorite Super Bowl LII moments to share.

Of the actual sport with real athletes doing things on a field, here are my top five highlights.
5. The Patriots failed trick play. Tom Brady errors as a receiver and the ball was over-thrown. It's schadenfreude seeing Brady fail in a play that his team perfected.
4. Gronkowski's touchdown celebration. It's nice to know that I'm not the only white dude who shouldn't be allowed to dance.
3. The catch that was a touchdown that was fumbled then caught again and was ruled a touchdown. It could have been called incomplete, but the call was upheld and I might have screamed loud enough to scare both sleeping dogs.
2. The Eagles trick play. Foles succeeded in the same play Brady missed earlier in the game. The Eagles beat New England at their own game by out Patriotting the Patriots.
1. Brady's fumble. After the touchdown that almost wasn't, the Patriots needed a miracle. Instead, they got Tom Brady. The ball was stripped from his hand, cementing the Eagles’ victory.

Also worth noting: JJ Watt's award. I've got a tremendous respect for Watt and his actions following last year's hurricanes. The man placed the value of human life above his career and I can't think of anyone more deserving of the Walter Payton Man of the Year award.

For those who only watch the Super Bowl for the commercials, here are my five ish favorites.
Honorable mention: Amazon's Alexa lost her voice. Celebrities fill in as a replacement for the voice of Alexa; none made me laugh as much as Rebel Wilson setting the mood.
5. Dodge Ram's Vikings. This ad would have been ranked higher on my list if it wasn't for their other Super Bowl ad. Using Martin Luther King Jr's voice to sell trucks was so offensive it soured this truly great commercial featuring headbanging Vikings in a Dodge Ram driving to the Minneapolis while listening to Queen's We Will Rock You.
4. Wendy's slams McDonalds. McDonalds flash freezes their beef to "seal in fresh flavor." Unlike Wendy's who use never frozen beef. Wendy's reminded us the iceberg that sank the titanic was also frozen.
3. Every commercial is a Tide ad. David Harbour (AKA Chief Hopper in Stranger Things) spoofs "typical" Super Bowl ads, including those for cars, beer, jewelry, soda, shaving cream/razors, and smart home systems to demonstrate how every advertisement is a Tide ad because the clothes worn in every commercial is super clean.
2. NFL’s Dirty Dancing. Eli Manning and Odell Beckham Jr danced together like Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. The two football stars recreated the Dirty Dancing routine set to Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes duet (I've Had) The Time of My Life.
1. Doritos and Dew Duel. Doritos has a new spicy flavor of chip and Mountain Dew has a new cool refreshing flavor of soda. First, Peter Dinklage faux-rapped to Busta Rhyme’s verse from Look At Me Now to promote Doritos Blaze, facing off against Morgan Freeman who lip-sang lyrics from Missy Elliot’s Get Ur Freak On for Mountain Dew Ice.

Hollywood also debuted new movie trailers and these are the films I can't wait to see.
5. (tie) Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom & Mission: Impossible - Fallout. I can't tell which of these two are of greater worth. Both are franchise films from franchises I enjoy. I was underwhelmed by the last entry in both series. Both have colons in their title. Both have potential to be awesome, or completely horrible. I can't make up my mind, so I'll list both.
4. Skyscraper. I have no idea what this movie is about. All I know is an aging Rock wearing a prosthetic leg will be doing parkour and leaping from heights that would kill a normal mortal. Despite limited information and a guaranteed need for a willing suspension of disbelief, I'm in.
3. The Cloverfield Paradox. This was a surprise trailer for a movie to be released as soon as the game was over. I have not yet had time to watch it and the reviews from critics who did have time suggest that I shouldn't make the time. However, the first Cloverfield movie also got poor critical reviews and it's on my lists of favorite monster movies and favorite found footage movies. I will log into Netflix this week and see it against professional advice.
2. Solo. Until now, I have had the lowest of low expectations for this movie. As a prequel, I know the main characters will survive with all limbs attached so they can appear in the original movies. The stakes are low. In these situations, the sense of danger is never high enough to worry a character's safety. But the Super Bowl teaser changed my mind and now I can't wait for the month of May.
1. Avengers: Infinity War. This is the other reason May is going to be a good month.

It’s a Choice

The conversation was overheard. A young woman complaining about her life. Her personal life, her professional life. Nothing was turning out the way she had hoped.

To some extent, we can all empathize a little. There is not a single person I know whose life has followed the precise plan they laid out for themselves when they were younger. If everyone’s life turned out exactly the way we dreamed, we would have a lot more movie stars and professional athletes in this world. If my life had taken the path I planned in high school, I would now be a wealthy architect living in a mansion of my own design. Obviously, that did not happen.

I found myself listening to this individual lay out her life’s grievances to an older lady when the solution to her problems hit me. I felt as it lit up above my head like a light bulb in a cartoon.

She groaned comparing her life to others, “I talk to these people who work there and they love their job. I wish I loved my job.”

Before I had the chance to stop myself, I blurted, “Then do it.”

Hopefully, she didn’t hear me. Or if she did, maybe she did not realize I was talking to her. Either way, the answer to her desire was so painfully obvious to me, I could not resist vocalizing it. If you want to love your job, then love your job.

Love is a funny thing. We often think of it in two senses - something we feel and something we do. It’s more than that though. Love is also something we chose. If you want to love something then you must make the choice to love it.

Let’s look at it from another perspective. I do not love playing basketball. I am short, uncoordinated, and have bad aim from the free throw line. When I do play, I get sweaty and my back hurts and I would rather be playing NBA Jam on the X-Box. I do not love basketball but I wish I could dunk. Spud Webb is only an inch taller than me and he could do it. I can’t even touch the rim. Dream all I want but I will never be able to make a slam dunk without assistance. Even if I chose to do it, it will never happen. But I could love basketball if I chose to do so. I do not have to be able to play the game to love the sport, I would only have to decide to love it, then do it.

This is why the girl’s dilemma wishing she loved her job seemed to me like it had an easy solution. If you want to love your job then choose to love your job. That is a choice only you can make. If you do not choose to love your job, you are going to end up an unhappy employee - perpetually disgruntled.

But, but, but ... I can hear your objections. I provide an easy answer. In theory, it makes sense. However, we live in the real world and simple answers are not always easily enacted. Some jobs suck. Some are miserable mindless tasks. Some supervisors are cruel micromanagers. How can you possibly choose to love something like that? How can you just love something you do not like?

I cannot tell you how, all I know is that it’s possible. There are people who I love dearly and can’t stand to be in their company. I don’t like to exercise yet I love how it makes me feel. I love eating salad even though I hate the way it tastes.

And I love my job. I do not always enjoy my job but I still love it. I love it because I am good at it and my unique set of skills seems perfectly suited for it. Because there are a couple hundred people depend on me and I have a boss who trusts me. Because it pays the bills and puts food on my table. Because it allows me to support my children financially and emotionally. Because it gives me the freedom to leave work when I have a sick kid or meetings with a teacher.

Most of all, I love my job because a long time ago, that is what I chose to do.

Do you wish you loved your job? Then do it. It’s a choice.

Other than Papa John's

Once upon a time, I was a big fan of Papa John's. Then they closed all of their Inland Northwest locations. I was disappointed because I craved their garlic butter dipping sauce set inside each box of pizza. Confession: when we ordered dinner from Papa John's, I snagged the garlic butter cup before anyone else could get to it and refused to share.

They were gone though. And I moved on. There are plenty of other pizza restaurants in Coeur d'Alene. Seriously. We have more pizza joints than coffee shops. Still, the loss was reinforced during football season as Papa John's ads played during the commercial break of every Seahawks game, just rubbing garlic butter in the wound. Taunting me with the thing I cannot have.

Imagine my joy when they returned. A new store opened in Hayden. They're back. Then I had some. Unfortunately, the only item in my order that had any appeasing flavor was the garlic butter dipping sauce. The rest of it tasted like a junior high home economics experiment cooked by a bunch of football players forced to take the class against their will. So much for better ingredients.

This last week, John Schnatter, the founder and CEO of Papa John's, made a bold statement about his struggling business, feeble sales, and plummeting stock prices. He blamed the NFL. On a conference call with investors, Schnatter said, "Leadership starts at the top, and this is an example of poor leadership. The NFL has hurt Papa John's shareholders."

The NFL is not the cause of Papa John's decline. In the same period of time Papa John's profits have been sinking, Dominoes and Pizza Hut have both seen increase in sales and stock prices. When I meet friends for pizza, more often than not, we go to the Hut. So what is really hurting Papa John's?

I'll agree with Schnatter, leadership does start at the top, which is why his blame is misplaced. Whatever happened to personal responsibility? Perhaps Schnatter's leadership is to blame for Papa John's slump. Perhaps Papa John's dire financial situation is the fault of Papa's business practices. I won't be eating their food any more.

I love pizza, perhaps a bit too much. When there's a craving, well ... There are plenty of other pizza restaurants in Coeur d'Alene.

In a world where every other pizza chain is cheaper and tastes better than Papa John's, I'm not worried about a lack of pizza options. In fact, there are easily a dozen other options in my home town that I prefer above Papa John's. Here are five.

1. MOD Pizza: MOD is like the Subway of pizzerias. Only, better than Subway. Pick your size, sauce, toppings, and they throw it in a wood fire oven to cook while you get your drinks. It's quick, affordable, and delicious. This is my favorite place to get pizza in Cd'A.

2. Tomato Street: Sure, they do more than pizza, but when it comes to pizzas and calzones, Tomato Street gives you the most bang for your buck. Average prices with abundantly generous serving sizes. Leftovers will be likely. And you can color on their tablecloths.

3. Fire Artisan Pizza: This and the neighboring restaurant, Crafted, are two of the trendiest (and most hipster) spots in town, and their prices reflect it. Fire's pizzas are more expensive than Papa John's but their flavor is far superior. They make pizzas you won't find anywhere else. My favorite is the Camino - chicken, bacon, and red onions on chipotle BBQ sauce with fresh cilantro and habenero sea salt. Simply divine.

4. Northwest Pizza Company: Locally owned with prices similar to Papa John's, NW Pizza has great variety, superb ingredients, and a friendly staff. They also have an old school pizza diner feel that reminds me of eating at Godfathers or Alfy's as a kid.

5. Little Caesars: Let's be honest. This is not good pizza, this is cheap pizza. This is pizza on a budget. It's hot, fresh, and ready when you show up and you don't need to call ahead. Their flavor is similar to Papa John's but for one third the price. However, their crazy bread deserves some bragging rights. I'd take their bread sticks any day over most other pizza chains. Despite having pizza crusts that taste like cardboard, Little Caesars can't be beat when you're in a hurry or short on funds.

It doesn't end there. The list of places I'd rather get a pizza from before I spend any money on Papa John's is a long one. Papa Murphy's, Capone's Pub and Grill, Bullman's Wood Fired Pizza, Olive Garden. Heck, I'd take MacKenzie River Pizza and I haven't eaten there since my 30th birthday. Even frozen pizza from the grocery store is preferable above Papa John's.

Now I'm hungry. Who's up for pizza?

My J

You, kid, challenge me to keep up. You're my sporty child, my athlete. Baseball games and football practice are unexpected additions to my schedule that I never imagined becoming a part of my routine. It's made my life exciting. It has stretched me and forced me to grow. And I'm a bit out of breath at times.

Seeing you play (and you play hard) is a joy beyond measure. Like when you were playing shortstop and scooped up a ground ball before it rolled out of the infield, then you ran all the way to first base to tag the batter out instead of throwing it. I was so impressed that you made it there before the runner - covering twice the distance in a shorter amount of time.

You're strong. You're fast. You're coordinated. You're stylish. You're brave. And you can dance.

I was none of those things when I was your age. So I have a bit of a learning curve in learning to be your dad, the kind of father you deserve. I'm lucky you're so easy going. You are forgiving of my mistakes. You don't mind when I throw a football and it strays wildly off target; you still run to retrieve it. You are also easy to please. I know it doesn't take much. A hug, a high five, Orange Crush cake that you've been looking forward to all year since you first found it at the grocery store last Christmas. Or getting the perfect gift for your birthday - the long board your really wanted.

There are a few things I want you to know. You will always have my support. I will always be on your side, cheering for your team. I will always encourage you to try something new. And I will always be amazed by what you can and will accomplish.

My favorite days are those when your laughter fills the air, when you return to me drenched from sweat, and when your eyes light up with happiness. Today, I could achieve that by giving you a skate board and feeding you cake. Happy birthday kid, my J-Funk. My JJ.

Status Check: Tidbits

You might see a bit of a slow down in the number of my blog posts over the next couple months. For a multitude of reasons.

1. It's summer and the kids are keeping me busy. They're spending most of their time at a day camp while I'm at the office. After I pick them up, the activity continues. JJ is playing baseball again this summer. I'm spending some quality time with each of them. And I am still trying to make Saturdays our adventure day. Most nights, by the time we get home, we cook dinner and start bed time routines.

2. I'm busy trying to get school done. It is more work than I anticipated, but it is the good kind of work. One recent class required the weekly assignments to be written as blog entries which was easy for me to figure out since that's what I do. In case you missed them, you can find those posts here, here, here, here, and here.

3. I've also written a couple articles for the parenting site They Call Me Dad. My second contribution was posted today and you should go read it. The first was published in April; you should read it too.

4. Speaking of writing, I am hustling to complete the first draft of my book. There is a lot of research going on and I want to have something that I can begin to share by the end of the year. In order for that to happen, I have to work my butt off. I'm roughly 20% through the project and I am more excited about it than anything I've ever written.

My temporary work-space. Note: Wendy's is not paying me to promote them, but I wouldn't object if they did.

5. Not everything in my life is about kids and work. I have been spending a lot of time with a wonderful woman and on Sunday we will be celebrating a year together. Thankfully, she supports my ambitions and encourages me to write, which makes everything else I talked about in this post so much easier.

That should summarize the state of life at The Faithful Geek. A five-for-Friday post on a Monday. As I start my 13th year of blogging, I am so grateful for those of you who regularly read along, for those of you who geek out with me, and for the few of you who periodically disagree with what I have to say. You have made it possible for me to enjoy something that I never imagined doing: to call myself a writer.

Thank you for sticking around. When my fingertips are not busy plucking out words and sentences and paragraphs for school, guest posts, or my work in progress, you will continue to find my thoughts about what it is like to be a Christian, a dad, and a nerd in this bizarre and beautiful world. Until then, do me a favor and click on an ad or two. It will make my oldest son happy.

Between Two Coaches

When it comes to football, I am not a gifted player. Actually, I'm not much of a player at all. When I was a teenager I fit the nerd stereotype being the last one picked my church youth group played a pickup game of football.

I couldn't help it. I was usually the shortest kid in the vicinity and fit the definition of scrawny. Even when I did play, the ball was never thrown in my direction. I never tackled anyone as I couldn’t keep up with whoever had the ball. The closest I ever came to making a big play was when I jumped high enough to tip a pass in 8th grade PE; I probably would have intercepted it but I was horrible at catching things back then.

Still am.

My brother had the privilege of playing sports with our dad. My father was able to teach Aaron how to throw and catch baseballs and footballs. They competed against each other in basketball and volleyball. By the time I was at the age where most dads are out in backyards demonstrating how to throw and catch and swing a bat or shoot hoops, my dad had suffered a back injury and was no longer physically capable of giving me the same lessons in athletics that he had given my brother.

That was OK with me. I preferred spending my time in the woods, climbing mountains and chasing wildlife. I found more satisfaction in art classes and drama club than in gyms and stadiums. My world was never destined for Sports Center.

Now as a parent with a child who loves just about every sport ever invented, I find myself ill prepared. I am learning how to play while teaching him at the same time. I might not know how I'm going to keep up with him as his talents grow beyond my skill set but for now, I am surprising myself.

Twenty-five years ago, I could never catch a baseball, but now it feels almost natural. Back then, I would not have been able to throw a football without an obvious wobble, but these days my throw frequently has a near-perfect spiral. Granted, I still demonstrate the athletic stamina and prowess of the typical comic book geek, but it is enough to impress my youngest son. I am starting to feel competent enough to fill the role of a backyard coach helping him run plays at the park next door.

Despite my nerdly ways, I am a devoted Seahawks fan. I might not be able to play but I can live tweet game commentary with the best of them. Last night's game is going to plague 12th Man memories like the unfortunate decision to draft of Brian Bosworth and the soul-crushing loss to the Patriots in Super Bowl XLIX. I'm sure Arizona fans were not happy with the outcome either. In a game like that, the only true winners are pharmacies selling OTC antacids.

A day later, as real life carries on for fans of both teams, I want to reflect on statements from the two coaches: Seattle's Pete Carroll and Arizona's Bruce Arians.

The tied final score was the result of fierce defense from both teams and two failed field goal attempts in the final minutes of overtime. First, for the Cardinals, Chandler Catanzaro bungled an easy field goal attempt, kicking the ball into the upright where it bounced back onto the field.

Arians' response directed the brunt of his ire on his kicker. He was angry at the NFL for what he saw as bad officiating, but he also blamed the man who failed to score the winning points. In the press conference following the game, Arians had this to say about Catanzaro, "Make it. He's a professional. This isn't high school baby. You get paid to make it."

He did not have any kind words for Catanzaro but he did for the rest of the Cardinals. He praised the whole team, except for his kicker. "I think the defense played really well tonight. ... I thought our football team, other than the three plays in the kicking game, was outstanding. The offensive line battled all night. We put up those kinds of numbers, but not the number of points because of the kicking game."

Arizona's failed field goal attempt in overtime gave Seattle hope and those hopes were crushed a few plays later when Steven Hauschka also missed an easy kick, sending the ball way wide to the left.

In Carroll's statements, his tone was remarkably different than what Arians displayed. Much like Arians, Carroll praised the efforts of his team's defense. He also complimented the Seahawks camaraderie and Russell Wilson's continued efforts despite recent injuries.

When it came time to address the missed field goal that cost the team another win, Carroll chose to encourage Hauschka instead of criticizing him. "Steven will be OK. ... I can't remember a time we've asked him to kick a game winner when he didn't get it, so I'm counting on him doing it this week. He has been phenomenal for us. That's behind us and we've got to move ahead."

In yesterday's press conference, Carroll said Hauschka "made his kicks to give us a chance and unfortunately he didn't make the last one. He's been making kicks for years around here. Everything was in sequence. Everything went OK timing wise but we didn't hit it. But he's gonna hit a lot of winners as we go down the road here. ... I love him and he's our guy."

What a difference between the two coaches. One voiced no confidence in his kicker and the other expressed full confidence. One threw his kicker under the bus and the other extended grace. One refused to accept an error and the other accepts that everyone makes a mistake. One said “I blame you” and the other said “I love you.”

Can you imagine how it feels to be Catanzaro? To know that his coach thinks everyone except him did awesome. Compare that to how Hauschka feels knowing he will continue to have his coach’s support.

I might not play in the NFL, but if I did, I know which coach I would rather have as my coach. Given the choice between Arians and Carroll, I would choose Carroll every time. As JJ gets older and joins little league and school teams, I hope he always plays for coaches like Pete Carroll.