Where Go?

My daughter is a big fan of hiding her face. When she was younger she loved it when we played peek-a-boo and she would spend hours behind our curtains, pulling them aside with a flourish and cackling with delight.

Of late peek-a-boo has become a new game, a darker game. The games name is "Where Go?" and it seems to have no rules. No ending or beginning. You are always playing "Where Go?" and you don't always know what the object of the game is. 

At first, soon after she started playing with her Mickey and Minnie figurines, she came to me and said "Plu where go?" I didn't get it at first but my wife clarified, "She wants to know where Pluto is."

After a few moments of searching I found Pluto stuck into the corner of a bag we had packed for the next day. Not even twenty minutes later Pluto had found his way into the cracks of the couch, under the entertainment center, behind a book...and each time a distraught Toddler would come collect her father with pleas of, "Where Go?"

"Where Go?" is a fun game as far as watching her development is concerned. It's amazing to see how fast she learns and how creative she is. But it's also scary. I watched her hide Pluto under the Christmas Tree shirt and say nothing. We had breakfast, lunch, watched Frozen and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Not until that evening did she say, "Pluto where go?" This game has no rules. It is anarchy. 

The other day I was making her lunch and couldn't find her milk cup so I asked, "Baby, bring your milk! Want some milk?" To which she yelled back, "Where Go?"

Now there is nothing that I despise more then her milk cup. She leaves this thing overturned on the couch, rug, wood floor, dogs back, you name it. And every single time there's just enough milk to make a smelly mess. So you can imagine how disconcerting it was for her to have played "Where Go?" with a possibly still-full milk cup. Hours went buy, hours of distress and fear. A darkness swept over the room as my toddler continued to taunt me with those two hateful words. "Where Go, dada?" Where go?

Well, it went under the entertainment center, too far back for me to reach when I'd felt under it, and it caught on the bottom when I moved the whole damn thing. Instead, when I had finally given up hope, and collapsed onto the couch in shame, I saw a pink reflection on the wooden floor and army crawled my way to victory.

"Where Go?" hasn't slowed down. It's grown more complicated. We are constantly playing multiple games of "Where Go?" at once with a variety of toys. I don't know the current score of our ongoing struggle but I imagine she has a winning record. Especially considering that she'll hide a toy, lose it for real, find it a few days later and be excited to see it. The "self-pass" of "Where Go?" and honestly a cheap way to win, if you ask me.

I'm going to be sad when "Where Go?" becomes "Hide and Go Seek." Just like I'm going to be sad when book stops being "gook" and milk stops being "nook." There's an honesty to her development and a deep joy that I gain from watching it. It's a bittersweet moment whenever she loses some part of her babyhood and grows up. Its happening about as fast as I expected, which is to say, far too fast. I feel like one day soon I'll be looking at this grown woman, ready to take the World by storm and I'll be whispering "Where Go?" wistfully with her mother. 

Then again maybe our next child will be a boy. They never grow up.

Forgetful Coffee Break

Like many UCF graduates, I own a UCF mug. As a preface to this small post that mug has an all-black interior. 

I had just gotten home from the grocery store and hard jamming to Ke$ha and had begun unpacking my loot when I decided I would brew myself a cup of coffee, for an after chore reward. And I know what you're asking, "But Dave, didn't you have a Starbucks while you were out doing said chores?" Well, yes. But I digress.

I absentmindedly set the coffee station to brew a single cup and continued placing bananas in their spot and cheese in it's spot and so on. 

As my work came to its fitful close I pulled out some creamer from the fridge. I've decided not to buy anymore creamer and I'm working on killing the last delicious bottle of the stuff. I've been weening myself off of this sugary treat for awhile so I only place a small amount in the mug. 

The mug turned completely white. I stared in disbelief. When creamer goes bad does it overpower the coffee that strongly? I had seen that the coffee was near the top of the mug! 

I looked at the date on the creamer. Expires in April. 

I stirred the coffee. 

I stood there stirring the coffee and looking at the date and just being generally confused for a moment before deciding to scrub the whole thing and just have a glass of water.

So I go to pull out the filter from the coffee machine and...

I had never put any grounds in.

Oh...me. 

Some Trials of a Stay At Home Father

First off, I want to give a shout out to all the Stay-at-home-Moms. I know Bill Burr wants to say it's easy. He's not wrong about parenthood. That's just biology. We are hardwired to love our kids and do our best. But being at home? Twenty-four seven? With a baby? A toddler? Easy?

1.) Insanity 

This is the first struggle of a stay at home. Eventually your kid won't need to eat every thirty minutes to an hour. Eventually they won't need to nap every two hours. Eventually they will want to go outside and play and be able to do so with minimal supervision. Sadly for you, stay-at-home-parent, that day is at least four years away. During the first four, maybe three years, you will spend the vast amount of your time at home. Alone. Staring at your phone and doing mindless chores. Laundry takes a long time, sure, but most of it is loading and unloading. There's downtime you have to fill.

When your child is first born, you can watch what you want, when you want and talk to who you want to talk to. Your child will ignore all of these things or sleep and you will get sucked into this lie that this is going to be easy. That you have this. You will say things like, "no problem." And then you will brush dirt off your shoulders.

Then Mickey Mouse Clubhouse becomes a must watch. Mickey Roadster Racers follows.

There are only so many seasons of these shows.

You can finish these seasons in less than a week. Repeats become a factor quickly.

But your child never tires of them.

They never. Ever. Tire.

This is where the armchair parents tell you to turn the TV off. But they are liars or masochists. At some point you have to do something and that stupid show becomes the only solution to the problem of juggling a baby, and the baby's lunch and cleaning up the snack she threw on the floor. Or in my case, wiping down the floor that the dogs have drenched with slobber after eating the aforementioned snack.

Once this grim reality sets in, you begin to lose sense of things. Just small things at first. But then someone asks you how your Monday was and you break down and cry because you honestly believed it was Wednesday and the truth is just too difficult to accept.

But you carry on because you love your child. She or he is everything to you and they are going to be healthy, happy, productive members of society that won't ruin other people's day on Facebook.

Now that you are deprived of both sleep and adult interaction and have accepted the reality of your life...your child discovers the word "no."


2.) Toddlers don't make really good friends.

Before Emma was born my best friend was an adult. It was a coveted position of honor. People used to talk about me and say things like, "Dave, yeah he's an adult person who does things."

Now that those "friends" have abandoned me to die at the paws of a miniature she-wolf who is also my best friend. My new best friend is a toddler. A toddler who is out to destroy everything I love. Up to and including herself. She keeps climbing on our really tall kitchen chairs and then standing up and that is just destroying my skin with the worry.

We only watch what she wants to watch.

We only eat when she wants to eat.

We only do what she wants to do.

We are "ow-sigh" and "wal-keen" basically all the time. You'd think I'd be losing weight but she tends to stay in a really small area or take two hours to walk the length of a street and I eventually just give up and pull out my beach chairs. I don't care if you judge me, neighbors. I'm trying to live my best life.


3.) Did I mention your friends will abandon you? 

They will. They will go to their "jobs" and they will not answer your calls and texts no matter how on the brink of absolutely losing it you are. You will call your mother and you will be able to hear the "I told you so" in her voice.

4.) The mall is great!

The first five times you go that week. Before Wednesday. Eventually the poor Barnes and Noble staff will get tired of you. And your cute baby.

Oh and if you buy two Starbucks drinks a day for two months your bank account starts to reconsider it's relationship with you as well.

One more friend gone.

5.) Eventually you turn to social media.

This is a mistake. Facebook is a breeding ground for hatred and insanity. It does nothing but push you further down the Rabbit Hole. Sure, you can find funny videos and every now and then you see a cute baby but even then...you know the truth of that picture. You know what it took that poor mother to get her infant dressed in clean clothes and stationary on that blanket long enough to take her "6 month" progression photo. You know the movie magic and it is all a web of lies.

6.) Even ESPN is political now.

Is it naptime? Want to relax and watch some dudes talk about sports? Nope. Not gonna' happen. We have protests and Presidents and stuff affecting our country. If you didn't get enough on Facebook or Twitter, come here! Now, I'm not going to levy an opinion on the various going-ons. I hate it when people tell athletes to "stick to sports" but then turn around and post their own beliefs in a never ending cycle of nonsense. Our country has a lot of changing to do and athletes and sports analysts have the unique ability to get their opinions out to a group of people who normally don't watch the news.

But I really just want some highlights of the Bucs (or Jags this year) and to hear more "MJ vs LeBron" debates.

Also the Patriots are the worst and they get a lot of air time. If you don't like the Cowboys or the Patriots, then ESPN might not be your best source of football news.

7.) I don't care about a distressing number of typical 'stay-at-home' things and that's hard on my wife. Poor lady.

My life as the stay-at-home is admittedly charmed in some areas. My wife still does a lot of the chores. I'm not allowed near her clothes. My policy on folding clothes has always been one of "well it fit in there, I'll iron it later." But then later arrives and I need the shirt so I actually just throw a few ice cubes in the dryer and hope everything works itself out in the five minutes before I head out.

I'm not one for vacuuming or mopping until things are out of hand. It's not that I'm okay with living in a mess. It's just that I don't notice until someone shows it to me.

I do cook dinner every night but even then I have to fight the urge to order pizza almost every evening.

If there's a 50% off coupon literally anywhere I am losing that battle. Every time.

8.) Your wife doesn't understand your woes.

Your wife wants to be home with the child. She does not get it when you give her strange looks when she says things like, "how was our little angel today?"

I'm not sure how this works with husbands, but I'm willing to bet it's pretty close.

And complaining to someone that works all day that you didn't get to catch up on your four missed episodes of NCIS: LA because the baby wouldn't nap just doesn't seem to fly.

9.) That dog (probably) don't hunt. 

I realize that most of my complaints sound so inane...to someone who doesn't go through it. But once you've lived this life you know.

I've come a long way with this whole "adulthood" thing and I'm super excited (and a little sad) that my child is now getting interested in numbers and colors and puzzles and things I can actually do with her. But I'm also 100% sure that I'm messing everything up and that I'm a total and complete disaster.

I'm sure there are some of you ladies (and gents) who will read this and have all kinds of strategies and solutions to living a healthier happier life with your babies at home.

Feel free to share your secrets.

I promise I'll write about them and steal all of your fame and fortune you rightfully earned with this precious knowledge.

Disney Shows Present Some Odd Philosophical Problems

I'm trying to decide what I should let my kid watch on television. She's young enough to where really I could watch what I want and just hope she picks up some words, but old enough to where she's begun to count and I didn't teach her that outside of threatening her to come here right this instant or else.

Since she has become well practiced at ignoring me and any form of leadership I try to present, it's safe to say she's getting her "1, 2 and 3" from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, not Daddy's meaningless threats. That has to be a good thing, right?

Right?

Why it's probably Not:

Let's talk about Pluto, Mickey's lovable yellow canine companion. But before we talk about Pluto and his antics, let's point out the obvious:

Mickey and Minnie are mice.

Donald and Daisy are ducks.

Goofy is a dog.

Who is dating a cow, Clarabelle.

Pete is a cat.

They all talk. They all wear clothes. They all have homes and they seem to  have various interests and jobs they perform or pursue. They are basically humans, just as animals. In art this is called, anthropomorphism. To Disney this is called profit.

This is super cool and all except that they all own pets. You know? Other animals.

Pluto is basically some kind of weird slave companion to Mickey.

I'm willing to let this go because I didn't notice it until I began to watch a show for children as an adult. Honestly, modern day facebook probably has me too 'woke' to such things to be healthy anyway.

But then...

Mickey Mouse Roadster Racer's come along.

Now let's immediately toss out the wacky world of cartoons. You can ignore the fact that Pluto can drive but can't talk (when needed) or that car accidents rearrange cars into comical, yet functional, versions of the same car. No one dies in these races, which might set a bad precedent for your child when they come of age and get behind the wheel, but it's a safe bet that the driver's test won't have loop-de-loops and shower-powered vehicles. I think your kid will survive.

But let's get down to brass tacks. Money. No one ever uses money. In fact, the "Happy Helpers" is a clearly defined business where two unprepared, inexperienced young women go do random jobs they  are wholly unsuited for...and somehow always succeed!

And then never get paid!

I'm not sure I want to set a precedent for that. Value yourself, girl! You do the work, you collect the bill.

Lastly, Puppy Dog Pals. This is a world where dogs take themselves to the dog park, go to Egypt in the morning because their owner said something that hinted at the Pyramids, go to France to find some bread, etc. So I think we can go on a limb.

But then there's A.R.F. Now this is an robotic dog who can clean the house in a variety of ways, so long as the dogs make the mess, he can fix actual holes in the wall. He runs on some kind of black hole technology, this thing can clean up literally any mess, with no downtime, and never has to dispose of the waste afterwords.

Where A.R.F. becomes a problem is in language. Bob, the owner of the pug puppies, invented, built and programmed A.R.F. Bob does not know how to speak "dog." He speaks English. The show makes this clear when we see the dogs talking to him in "dog" which we, the audience, hear in English, but when it cuts back to Bob he just hears them barking. Meanwhile, A.R.F. can talk to the dogs just fine.

So how did Bob program "dog." It would be pretty easy for an English speaking programmer to program Spanish or French, there are already programs in those languages, not to mention massive dictionaries, etc. But the same can't be said for "dog."

A.R.F. can learn.

This is how you get Skynet people. Wait, does Disney own the Terminator series now?

None of Us Really Know how to Save the Ornaments

Today I found myself disciplining my child over hoarding Christmas ornaments.

While I was cooking us lunch she decided that she wanted Minnie, C-3PO and a few other decorations to join her collection of toys. I, being the observant father that I am, didn't find out until I was picking up her purses and putting them back on their hangers, hours after lunch. I noticed Minnie, sitting in a pile of blocks, no longer with her hook, no longer on her branch.

As I found the other 10 or so ornaments she had hidden away, my daughter came into view. I pulled her up close to me and I pointed at her stash and said, "Baby, these are for decoration only. No touching."

To which she responded with her characteristic, "No touch, no touch."

So I put all the hooks back on the ornaments and turned back around to the tree to put them back on their branch pedestals just to see her casually removing my UCF candy cane with a mischievous grin.

Now I have a conundrum facing me. Do I applaud her choice of ornament or spank her for obvious insubordination? I mean some of these things are glass and we've already lost half a dozen to my clumsiness...I decided to go halfway and placed the black and gold plastic candy cane back on the tree and told her again, "No touch. Not for Emma."

I sat down on the couch and turned on a Christmas episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse I've already seen twenty times this week but she has infinite patience for. And wouldn't you know it, she's at the tree, grabbing down Winnie the Pooh and Friends.

So I take the ornament away from her, place it back on the tree and spank her hand lightly. "Emma, no touch."

Now, I don't know if you have children. I don't know what kind of children you do, will or would want to have. But my child is going to compete for an Oscar.

She opened up that mouth as far as it could go, squinted those baby blues and let out a soundless yell before beginning to choke out a wave of tears that would break your heart if you weren't laughing at the silliness of  the situation. She's obviously not hurt, she's just so sensitive to me raising my voice or being displeased that she can't contain the tears...

But she also really wants to play with the Christmas Tree and my opinion on the subject doesn't matter.

So here I am, holding my sobbing, calculatingly manipulative little girl, thinking--not for the first time, not for the last time--about what kind of parent I want to be.

We all ask ourselves these questions of personal philosophy and morality (about parenting and life in general) and I think we all fall somewhere on the line of "disciplined, but cool." Like, I'm going to spank her when a spanking is needed, but she's going to love me for it in the end. Or maybe, I'm going to be so intimidating at my worst, and so understanding, lovable and funny at my best, that I'll never need to physically discipline her. She'll just be awesome because I'm awesome. She'll be a perfect angel because I'm willing it to be so. But we never really know what works and what doesn't. We just take our best guess and swing for the fences. I'm pretty sure I've struck out with the ornaments and I'm resigned to losing a few more over the course of this Holiday Season. (Which, if I have my way, would last sometime until mid-March.)

I think I have to come to terms with the fact that my kid is going to be who she wants to be and my job is to keep her as close to whole and happy as possible.

If I can keep my ornament collection intact that's just a really sweet bonus.

A Letter to my Father

Dear Dad,

As it is often pointed out to you, to my great dismay, you are not my biological father. There was a time when my mom had to go it alone, and she did a kick ass job. But you stepped up and stepped in and I'm grateful every day for that. Because of you I know how to do things. Like all kinds of things. I don't, but that's not your fault. It's not like you taught me things and then said, "Son, it would be best if you never used any of these skills and just continued to play video games." Or as you put it, "killing terrorists." 

Let's get into examples. You taught me about the importance of expectations. You knew it would be difficult coming into a child's life and just being Dad. I'm sure you had yourself psyched up for the task. In your case it ended up being pretty easy because I had never known exactly what a Father was or what your job was, I was just excited about the process. It gave you room to screw around and have fun while mom was trying to kick ass and take names with my new-found siblings. But the idea behind the message is still there. Expectations are important. Go into something like you mean it. It may turn out to be easy, it may turn out to be hard, the people you work with or for might be the best, the worst or some odd in-between kind of deal like most Presidents. But if you go in with a goal in mind, a plan set and a positive attitude. Good things have a chance to happen.

You taught me about the importance of discipline. Specifically in regards to chocolate covered candies. As you know all too well, your wife is a woman of iron discipline and mental fortitude. She is a woman who can buy a massive bag of M&M's and put them in a glass jar (you know, the kind you can see through? So the M&M's are just sitting there, looking at you, whispering to you, calling your name lovingly...) and eat one. That's right one. My mother can eat one freaking M&M at a time like she's saving them for the upcoming famine. She eats them one at a time like she didn't buy six more bags because they were on sale for 5% off. You taught me that this was not a real thing, that my mother was obviously some kind of devout priest of some yet-to-be-unveiled Voodoo sect and that I could not live up to her insane standards. You taught me that M&M's, when bought in mass, are to be consumed with the use of a bowl and cupped hands. You taught me that buying M&M's is a really bad idea, and I probably shouldn't do it. Because you, like me, have financial discipline. It is very easy for me to go into a grocery store, walk past the candy isle, and buy nothing. It is impossible for me to have candy, that I know is mine, and not eat all of it immediately. We share in this. We know the struggle. 

You taught me doityourselfitiveness. That's a new word. See, I'm practicing the art as we go. I made up a word for something, all by myself. Could I have used a word like "self-sufficient" "handy" or "tool-capable?" Sure. But it wouldn't have fully encapsulated the idea that I'm trying to get at. When my Jeep broke down in a swirl of heat and steam and I had to push the thing three miles through a rainstorm with a tiny friend with no leg strength and another friend with no desire to help (he steered) you taught me that water pumps were freaking expensive, unless you bought it and installed it yourself. I'm sure you realized your mistake eight hours into pulling out random parts of a half-ton (or more) engine trying to get to a water pump that the book said was here, but clearly wasn't, so we better remove this and see if it's there. But we did it. Did you get a lot of sleep before work? Probably not. But dammit I knew how to replace a water pump. A skill that no longer exists in the computerized world of automobiles, but don't feel bad about it, Dad. The idea of doing something on my own unless it was cheaper to pay someone else to do it, or easier or faster, stuck. Now I look at something and say, "Well, I could do this on my own for $50, or I could pay this guy to do it for $300..." before I pay the guy three hundred bucks and feel really guilty about it. You gave me that guilt, Dad. Thanks for that. 

But, in reality, because of the many instances like the Water Pump Debacle of 2005, I am not a person that stresses out--to anyone but my wife, constantly, over and over again while she listens patiently but seethes on the inside. Over the years I spent with you (and my mother, of course) I learned that I really am a capable man, that things look worse and feel worse when they first happen, and that after sleeping it off you don't really know what you were worried about in the first place. I can handle this. A lot of that I got from you, and years of making me do it myself, but being there when I needed a hand, guidance, or, you know....money and a place to stay for to do things for myself. Millenial Wisdom: To do for ones-self, one must first have a place to do for ones-self. To have a place for ones-self, one must be able to do for ones-self. 

You taught me a lot about family, and not just that family photos are lame. You taught me that family matters, and that you have to put up with family photos no matter how lame they are because they make the people you love happy and that's worth it. But you also taught me that you should complain about the family photos pretty much constantly and make sure that everyone knows you hate photos so that they too know that you're only doing this because you love them. Very much. Now move in front of me, Erin, I want them to see as little of me as possible. Take the picture, dammit! No, I will not move to the side. Well, if I have to move, David has to move. Heh, suck it, David. Cheese. 

And with that you taught me about the Buddy System and how it never works. Whether it's a father betraying his 'buddy' by forcing him, his son, to also be visible in a family photo, or a best friend ignoring your pleas to go to the gym, or a husband not wanting to go to the grocery store with his wife...if you wait for your 'buddy,' you'll do a lot of waiting, and not a lot of doing. This lesson wasn't your call to arms to go friendless and partner-less throughout my life. No, it was a simple way of letting me know that I had two options. I could make plans, and do them, on my own, in a timely manner. Or I could talk about my plans constantly, wait for a partner to pop up, and just never do anything. It's a hard lesson, but a true and valid one. Most people have some level of codependency that they have to get over to be successful in life, it's just more crippling for some than others. You recognized my desire to be social and friend-reliant early, and tried to ingrain in me this idea of, "It's OK to do something on your own." Now I'm relatively anti-social but still extremely codependent. I'm just now realizing that I got the message but missed the core concept of your lesson. Shit. 

But here it is: Dad, you taught me that a father goes to his son's baseball games even though he doesn't really like baseball. You go to his shot-putting events even though shot-putting is probably the most boring event a person could watch. Ever seen a movie that had shot-putting it it that wasn't actually about a group of Greeks getting stabbed to death with spears? You taught me that a Dad is THERE. Not just physically, but in the moment on an emotional and mental level. There was never a time you weren't available to listen. To talk, when I let you. I'm kind of big on oration. I essentially want my conversation partners to nod and tell me they agree with everything I say and laugh at appropriate moments.

You taught me that the best kind of love is the kind that is shown through a smile, a laugh, maybe a fart joke or a mutual understanding that Mom is trying to undermine what's left of patriarchal society through her daughter. You taught me to watch out for thrown elbows, especially in the kitchen. Often near chicken wings and pizza.

You taught me about the Laws of the Jungle. No leftover is safe. Did you know that I still haven't had my food stolen out of a work refrigerator? Because it never goes there. Ever. That's right. I bought a pretty baller lunch box to make sure the Laws of the Jungle would only ever apply to others. 

You taught me about sports, about sports Greats and sports Legends, you taught me that I was the worst kind of human for not knowing who Jim Thorpe was.

You taught me how to grill, and how to deal with complaints. I will forever remember the Burnt King Burgers and 20 Questions.

You taught me that fatherhood is in the moments that you're with family. Fatherhood isn't always about being right, smart, funny, happy or sad. It's about being there and loving the people you're with. It's about your children knowing they can look to you with something that has hurt them or made them happy and know you'll be there, that you've been there, and that you are ready to listen.

You watched me play every sport I ever played. You've read everything I've ever written and listened to me complain about every job and most of the bosses I've ever had. You've watched me open gifts. You drove me to school, jobs, the doctors office, half the Universities in Florida. You drove me to my wedding. You told me that it would be a blur. I thought then that you just meant my wedding but I'm seeing more and more that you mean life.

I'm going to be a father. Yesterday, I was throwing a baseball in the street. I was pulling a water pump out of a jeep I don't even own anymore. I was starting high school, playing football, graduating high school and going into college. Yesterday, I was meeting Amanda. Falling in love with Amanda and marrying Amanda and now I'm going to be a father. And while I am a little nervous, a little preoccupied with the, "how" of it all. I am not scared.

Because all I have to do is love my kid, and be there as long as I can.  You taught me that. That most important thing. You taught me about being a dad, by being...Dad.

That's a pretty big deal. 

For my personal safety I'd like to write an addendum to this note: My mom is a really kick ass woman. Dad, you married a great one. She has taught me more and loved me harder than anyone. My mom is basically the best person on the planet, and I know that my wife will be that kind of mother to my child, and I'm extremely grateful for that. But, Mom, when you read this (which you will because you're the best mom ever) know that I wrote this towards Dad because I'm going to be a Dad but that I really mean that the two of you taught me how to be a family. Through thick and thin. You two have waded through the miles of bullshit together. Made lemonade out of lemons and grenades out of horseshoes and churned out some pretty OK children. If I don't say so myself. 

Thank you, both, so very much.

The Debate: Should you let your kid play Contact Football

There's an interesting debate making its way around the country--mainly in and through Sports Media circles. It poses a simple question (that doesn't have a simple answer): Should you let your child play football? (Specifically, the contact variety.) I've struggled with this question for awhile. Some of you may know that as of the writing of this here blog, I do not have a child, but I do have five years of high school football coaching experience. I know a little bit about this.

Football is not a sport for the weak, and I mean this in the least mean-spirited way possible. Football is a lot like marriage, it chews up people who don't really want to be there and spits them out, and quick. So to some degree, worrying about whether your kid should play football or not is a problem that sorts itself out. Moving forward with this piece, let's assume that every child of every parent has the potential to go on and successfully play high school football. (If you're worried about your child in college football or professional football, you should stop worrying. Get them through high school first.)

Let's talk about the reasons why a kid shouldn't play contact football first. List form style!

The Downsides of letting your child play football (not necessarily in order of importance):

1.) Injuries.
This is, after all, the primary worry of every parent. "I'm worried my kid will get a concussion." As a coach, let me tell you what I'm not worried about. Concussions. You see, concussions are one of the easiest injuries to heal, they just happen to hold the title of "hardest to recognize injury, like ever." The problem with concussions is that, at the highest levels of the sport, players and coaches still don't consider them a big deal. They take a hard hit and can't see straight for ten minutes and have a splitting headache and instead of taking a week off (which is how you heal a concussion), they beg to strap up and get back on the field, and they do this over and over again throughout their career (which is why we have the long term issues we have in regards to concussions.) At the lower levels of play this is not the case. On the high school football field kids are tested by trainers who aren't paid six figure salaries and will block the child from going back onto the field if they feel the kid has a concussion. As parents, your responsibility is to check and make sure after each practice and each game that your son (of maybe daughter, depending on badasstitude) doesn't have a concussion. I recommend every single parent of a football playing child get certified for concussions just like every coach has to be, you can do so here.

I am very aware of the long term threats of concussions, but let me tell you this. I was a four year varsity starter and did a bit of time on the college field, and continued to play multiple sports up until my most recent round of knee injuries. All told, that's over 20 years in competitive sports, with at least five of them in contact football. I never suffered a concussion. I had a coach who taught me how to hit, and placed emphasis on protecting my head.

I am all too aware of other things that football does cause. I have lingering knee injuries, lingering should injuries, over eating issues that stem from my habit forming years in high school. Now, are these things curable? Sure. I could have knee surgery, I ice my shoulder weekly and I could always hire a nutritionist and really get disciplined on eating better, healthier and more portion controlled meals. But the habits I formed came directly from what I experienced in football. Being a huge ol' fat dude was super useful on the football field, and is a super big pain in the ol' caboose as an adult.

Lastly, the biggest threats to your child's enjoyment of their life through football are injuries to joints. Such as ACL and MCL tears, etc. But to pretend that this isn't happening frequently in basketball, soccer and baseball is ludicrous. These days people are able to do things that the human body simply wasn't designed to do. Injuries happen when boundaries are pushed, and athletes live to push those boundaries.

2.) Football is an extremely violent sport.
It rewards anger, meanness and violence. Now, this completely belittles all of the good things it brings about in children such as teamwork, companionship, discipline, etc. But we'll get to those in a bit.

I don't buy into all this crap about football bringing about violence in people who aren't naturally violent and such. The very public issues that the NFL has recently had with domestic abuse have aired this issue for all to see, without really putting it in any context for the average person. I haven't been in a fight since I was in 10th grade. I've had no need for any form of violence other than the occasional loud argument. Most of my fellow teammates live quiet, happy lives. As with most things, the few make the majority look bad.

3.) Youth football does not prepare your child for higher level play.
This is where I come into the argument in full swing. Is youth football worth the risk? I wasn't able to play football until high school due to my size. (I was simply too big for Pop Warner and CYFL didn't exist yet.)

So here's the reality of youth football. The coach's kid gets the position he wants. Probably quarterback or running back. Maybe linebacker too. The slower kids, the ones who haven't bloomed yet, they play line. The speedsters play everywhere and do everything.

You see...youth football ignores one major thing that high school football doesn't: puberty. 

Chances are your 14 year old kid isn't going to look anything like he did at 11. It doesn't do much good to teach a kid about playing offensive line, for him to go and hit a growth spurt and all of a sudden be playing wide receiver because he's a 6 foot 5 beast with a 4.2 (second) forty yard dash and the ability to catch anything thrown at him. Wide Receiver and offensive Guard are such vastly different positions that they're barely the same sport. And yet, this happens all the time. As a freshman coach I was constantly bombarded with this line: "Coach, in Pop Warner/CYFL I played running back." Now you can insert any old position into the underlined portion but the problem with that oft-repeated line was this: that kid who played running back back in Pop Warner? Now he had a gut and hadn't showed up to summer work outs and hasn't had a meal that wasn't McDonald's in a month. That kid is going to be a lineman. Which may have led to some interesting conversations with Mom, but I always kept to my general rule, which was: if I can outrun you, you're a lineman. 

The point: your kid is going to change, a lot, right in front of your eyes. Youth football teaches them to play the position they are suited for in their youth. Which most likely will not be the same position they are suited for on a high school football team. So if you're really all that worried about youth football, hold them out, let them decide if they want to play football when they're in high school and are at least going through puberty. You get teamwork from youth basketball and baseball. (To be fair, one of my worst injuries ever came from playing little league baseball.)

The Upsides of letting your kid play football (definitely not in order of importance):

1.) Injuries.
Weird right? But injuries toughen a kid up. I broke or jammed every finger on both hands in my playing career. And you know what? When I get hurt now...I don't freak out. I understand pain and I understand my limits. I can calmly assess the situation and figure out what needs to be done. I'm not the toughest guy on the block, but I can hold my own. When I came into high school football I was a puffball-fruitloop. I cried in history class because I got a B once. No lie. I mean, I didn't deserve the B, she was mad at me for talking. That's not right.

2.) Football is an extremely violent sport.
Hmmm. Again with this. The reality is that life isn't always that pretty, and having your child be able to hold their own with the roughest and toughest kids that high school can throw at them is not a bad thing.

3.) Teamwork.
Every job asks about it. Everyone who has played misses it. That feeling of team goes a long way. I still remember the vast majority of players I played with from every single season I played. Those people are important to you, they make a difference. Football is a great chance for your child to be a part of something bigger than himself. That opportunity is not afforded to everyone. It is earned, and it is worth it. Eleven guys with one purpose, one focus. Get the touchdown, deny the touchdown. It's beautiful, almost poetic.

4.) Discipline
Earlier I talked about how I had a lack of discipline with eating, due to, in part, football. This is largely true. But I also became extremely disciplined in working out, doing my homework (for some kids the only reason they even bother with class is because without it, they can't play their chosen sport) and showing up on time. With my coaches, if you missed the beginning of practice, you missed the beginning of the game, even if you were the Team Captain.

5.) It's fun.
It's so fun. I'm not the kind of person who sits around reliving the Glory Days, but if you put me in a room with even one of my high school football teammates and BOOM. We'll be...well, reliving the Glory Days. And our team wasn't even that good! Football is just that fun. There is nothing like it. You work so hard, day in and day out and you get rewarded by getting to go play against people you don't know and put everything on the line with your friends beside you. I'll say it again: eleven guys with one purpose, all working towards a common goal. It's an amazing feeling, one that I can truly say I miss.

So, should you hold your kid from football? Maybe. In the end, you're the parent and the decision falls to you. I can tell you this, if your kid wants to play, like really wants to play, and you stop him from doing so, you're doing your kid a disservice on a few different levels. But holding a child back from youth football is not going to hurt their high school football potential.

The best thing you can do is make an informed decision, talk to your kid about it, and if they decide to play, go get certified on how to recognize a concussion. Here's the link again: https://nfhslearn.com/courses.

Searching for a House, the Online Edition

Alright fellow House Hunters and blog-readers, we talked a little bit about my 5 Must Haves earlier this week and I promised a conversation about the MLS. The MLS (or Multiple Listing System) is a tool that Realtor's use to list their client's homes, and search for homes for their buyers. If you're not a Realtor you would use various websites and services such as Trulia, Zillow and Realtor.com. The danger of all of the sites is that they don't update regularly. They update about as often as your grandmother updates her facebook account. Or maybe as often as mine. You could have a very socially active grandmother, who am I to judge?

Zillow has, on multiple occasions, shown me a house for sale that I loved, only for me to find out that the listing was sold or withdrawn entire months before I even saw the home! I try to keep up with the various apps and services so that I can better understand what my potential clients are seeing, but sometimes I get sad.

Now, down to MLS. The wife and I decided to actually start taking one night a week to look at local listings. We have our "must haves" and we know where we would, optimally, like to live. We have a general idea what we want the bones of our home to be and that we don't want to have a crawlspace because snakes live down there. So when I went to input our search parameters I was relatively sure my search would be limited, with not a lot of options out there, right? Wrong. Even thought the current Real Estate landscape is definitely in the favor of the Seller, there are a lot of properties out there, they're just not all...perfect. Or you know...good.

I had to narrow and narrow my search, almost nitpicking the homes I didn't like. "Well, this one is facing north so, mildew might grow on it and there's a chance I could see Jesus' face growing in there and I don't want all the added attention... and this one is neon-purple in places it shouldn't be and who paints anymore?" I know, I know exactly what you're thinking, is there any place where neon-purple shouldn't be?

Didn't get enough club at the club? Well we brought the club to your room. Now you can club, even when you get home from the club.

You're welcome.

The reality is that the wife and I have been taught, through years of hard education, plopped down in front of DIY TV, specifically: Property Brothers and Rehab Addict...to look past the paint and current decoration or even layout. But at some point, you (the buyer) have to remember that, looking past the paint, the carpet, the kitchen, etc...it can get expensive surprisingly fast. If you find a home that's listed for 30K under what you're okay with spending then, yes, look past everything! If you have room to remodel and redesign then you should! Make your new home truly yours (well, if you have the time, desire and know how to actually do the work.)

But, let's say your price-ceiling is 200K and you find a home that you feel needs a lot of immediate work, listed for, let's say, 190K...unless you manage to get your lower offer accepted, you may end up living in a house you don't love...and a general fact of life is: if you don't do it (whatever it is) when you first think about it, then you probably won't. There's a good chance that if you buy a home with "plans to remodel in the future" that you'll just end up living in a house you don't like talking to your friends about how this kitchen is so getting redone next year.

So we've begun to narrow down our search even further. We're okay with purchasing a home that needs small amounts of work that I can actually do on my own, or is affordable to have done (say carpeting one or two rooms.) We're okay with problems that are mainly decor based, although after seeing pictures of about four homes with male, graphically, intensely-nude statues in the front yard and one home with what I'm pretty sure was a mounted jackalope on the wall, I understand why my clients sometimes have issues looking past what they see immediately.

Elmer Fudd's unicorn.

Since we aren't actively ready to buy quite yet, we also eliminated any houses that had just the one picture--of the front of the house. To me that says two things:

1) There is a good chance that this house isn't real, it's like Clint Eastwood real--a prop house that may or may not have been the background for a shootout or two. You know, the kind of place where you can walk in the front door, right into the backyard.

2) Or, entirely more likely: this is a horribly lazy Realtor (or the property is Bank Owned, or both.)

Many of the photos we saw on our first day of searching were like this:

Admittedly this would be fine for a hardware store, or a tile show, but this leaves out important information like...where is it? What does the rest of the bathroom (I hope it's a bathroom) look like?

Sweet! A curtain! Even if the Seller did decide to leave this precious gem behind for me to treasure forever, and possibly ever...I hope the Realtor knows that I can, in fact, buy a new shower curtain.

Buy the end of our first night of actually looking for a home I'd found as many ways to not be lazy as a Realtor or crazy as a home decorator as I had actual houses I was interested in. (And we found quite a few homes we were interested in.)

If you have any funny house hunting experiences or things you've seen that can't be unseen, hit me up in the comments below, or on facebook! 

The House Hunt is On

My wife and I decided awhile ago that our townhouse was no longer for us. Well, she bought into what I had been saying since the record breaking day where I knocked the same wall decoration off the same wall ten times via the exercise of moving from the hallway into the office/guest room. After about two months of this rinse-repeat process I had a really sore shoulder and our wall decoration became noticeably thinner.

Now, I'm not insinuating that we want to buy a home because I knock things off walls. This is simply an example of the problem. We have no work-space, where the Hell are we going to put our future little ones and I am most certainly not a dog-walker. One more night of me standing out in the rain/cold/heat/wind/humidity/mosquitoes staring angrily at my dogs as they smell one piece of grass so relentlessly, so deeply I think they might be trying to actually ingest it through their nostrils and I might break down into an outdoor rant about how much I hate walking my picky freakin' dogs. I want a yard so badly that when I look at my back porch I imagine adding chores like lawn mowing, gardening and building a fence with a smile. Something my parents would tell you I was not so quick to smile about in my youth.

So the time has come and we are on the house hunt. Conveniently I'm a Realtor, meaning I don't have to hire anyone, find anyone, vet anyone, or any other thing you do when person hunting for a house hunter.

The first step in house hunting as a couple, as those of you with some experience in this may know, is deciding what both of you actually like. In some relationships that would have been more difficult. Luckily for my wife she loves Jonathan from the Property Brothers and his sense of style and I was a clean slate with no opinions on anything involving what the inside of a house should look like. (Basically, we like mostly the same things.) So we put our 5 Must Haves together and discussed them.

Ours rounded out to something like this:

1) Must have yard.

2) Must have storage space.

3) Minimum of 3 bedrooms.

4) Must be in a reasonable price range. The modern economy has everyone in a bind, and typically I wouldn't recommend worrying too much about price, but rather worrying about your monthly bill. However, keeping track of interest rates and discount points is never a bad thing.

5) Must have good bones. I'm not afraid of work. I also happen to have a father-in-law who is very gung-ho about his daughter and would love to help us put the home we want together. The point here being, a lot of the times we have to look past the paint, the kitchen, and the general decorative arrangement and scheme of the house and see what we like about it. Room placement, room size, location (location, location) etc.


We can always adjust our "Must Haves" as the situation changes, but it's not a bad thing to put together. In fact, we've been trying to apply the idea to other things in our lives, such as Must Haves for our diet, exercise and general rules of our relationship. For example: she must be perfect in all things and I must be catered to relentlessly. Or did I get that backwards?

If you have any great "Must Haves" you think I should care about more, leave a comment, or even if you want to share your ideas. (Or good homes you know for sale in the area!)

Next we talk about the MLS (Multiple Listing Service) and why it's weird to browse with your spouse. (Mind you, if you're not a Realtor you'd probably be using Trulia, Zillow or Realtor.com, but the general idea is the same.)

10 Year Reunion and the Fever

Tonight is my Ten Year High School Reunion. I'm making it sound proper to show you the depths of confusion to which this statement brings me. I mean...what the Hell happened? A few years ago my biggest concern was getting to Best Buy on time (And I rarely did. Alafaya traffic was a fickle mistress.) or even what movie to go see that weekend. Now my wife decides such things. No need for decisions here!

But then I started in teaching and I started in coaching and I went to bed one night and woke up here. Ten years out of high school and not sure where the time went. I don't know what to say to my old friends about where life has taken me. Just as I'm sure they'll have trouble telling me...because I'll be talking more and it's difficult to get a word in edgewise.

A few short years ago, I was an over qualified salesman working at a Best Buy. Then I was an under-qualified teacher working with kids with disabilities. Now I'm a perfectly qualified Real Estate Agent...I'm a husband. I'm a homeowner. I mean I blinked...like maybe one time.

As an aside--many, many years ago, I was sitting in the backseat of my father's car. Him, my brother and I were going to the grocery store. My mother was pregnant with Erin and we had to pick up something for her. Not sure what, I was nine years old at the time. It's been awhile. My father was tired and it was late, he was keeping the air conditioner at a little past iceberg, but before zero degrees Kelvin--he said it was to keep him awake. I was strewn across the backseat futilely trying to use my shirt as a blanket, stretching it out past my legs and loudly complaining to my father about how cold I was. To say that I regretted my decision to accompany them was an understatement. I was positive I was going to die with a cute icicle mustache and ironic frost goatee. As I lay in that back seat, slowly dying,  a thought suddenly blindsided me...one day I too would have a wife. I would have a wife and I would need to go to the bank late at night to cash a check for my job (Nine year old me did not foresee direct deposit, or the internet...) or I would need to go to the grocery store to get her something she wanted or my children needed...and because I was nine years old and far too young to handle the complexities of that concept, I sat paralyzed and freezing the entire way home. What a scary idea! It was gut-wrenching! Me! A dad! A husband! I was nine! I wasn't even in the Majors at my Little League yet...I mean we were still in Coach-Pitch! This was too much.

Fifteen years later and it was still too much. Sure, I had learned how to manage what little money I had. I had learned how to go to the grocery store and ignore the healthy stuff and get Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and feel proud of myself as I cleaned the kitchen. I dated, I had fun, but that same stomach churning fear was still there. Responsibility was coming straight for me, brights on and honking and I was wide eyed and stuck in the middle of the road.

Then I met Amanda and I just...wasn't. They tell me that's how it happens. It's like a switch in our heads--the male mind, one day you want to stay up late drinking with your friends and the next day you want to stay up late drinking with your friends and go home to your beautiful wife. It's a subtle shift.

Now my wife has a lot of more...adult friends. Somehow, through the entire course of my life I've managed to keep the same ten or so friends. I added two new friends right out of high school and one right out of college and I've sort of...plateaued. Now, I've made a lot of really great acquaintances, people who I consider "friends" but they all know the adult me. The guy who showed up for work everyday, the guy who posts on facebook about his wife and going to trivia on Wednesdays. The teacher, the coach or the salesman. But my best friends--they know me as the guy who plays World of Warcraft and talks about writing novels (a new novel idea each week, of course...) They know me as the guy who used to get them into movies and whose mom was a bit too scary to make fun of--she's always listening. And--not to belittle those friends, my closest friends...but only one of them is married, and while yes, he does have five children, it's easy to ignore him as an outlier, the exception to the Childless-Friend-of-Dave Rule.

Not so with my wife's friends. No siree, Bob. Her friends are all married and have been since college. Her friends are all having children. All of them. Like on rotation--like it's a damn job. Like they planned it and my wife is next.

Naturally they all have baby showers, as is custom. (We have one tomorrow in Jacksonville.) And as is custom my wife goes to Babies and Stuff (she's on her way there now) or wherever it is women go when baby shower invites go out and she proceeds to purchase baby products and says things like, "We'll need that when we have children." Or "Oh, we're definitely going to have ours off the boob by a year, ha ha!" "White noise machines are integral to getting your children to be able to sleep easily the rest of their lives!" 

Of course she ignores my stricken looks and confused faces. I mean, how does she even know all this stuff? Why is she even thinking about it. In my head you just kind of live life until you're pregnant then you figure it out from there. Not my wife...no. She is prepared. Like...she could teach a class on how to prepare for preparing to be a mom. We could call it  Pre-Pregnancy Motherhood and How to be Ready for Pregnancy, Motherhood, Pregnant Friends, and the "You should be a Mother Already Pressure" of Mothers, Mothers-in-Law and Grandmother 101. We'd have to shorten the name to fit it into the course catalog.

So I've been informed that my wife most likely (definitely) has Baby Fever. By "been informed" I really mean "been informed by my wife and every woman who talks to me or my wife up to and including people who don't know me that well through facebook." I've always heard jokes about Biological Clocks and been told by men with sorrow in their eyes to keep your bright, young, pretty wife away from jaded old mothers because misery loves company and women will convince other women to join them in their suffering and ha ha what a laugh!

Then it happened! Much like my High School Reunion being tonight sneaking up on me, so too has this. Yesterday I was on a couch with a girl I barely knew watching a Knight's Tale thinking about how kick-ass it was that a chick liked this super sweet movie and mourning over the recent death of my darling Heath Ledger, and then "blink." I'm a married man sitting in front of a computer thinking about cashing checks and selling houses and going to the grocery store in a needlessly freezing car just to try and stay awake.

Dr. Seuss and his 500 Hats

Theodor Geisel. The man himself. Dr. Freakin' Seuss. 

Today I spent some time trolling around the various news websites looking for something funny to talk about. At first, I found comedic hope in a man suing Outback Steakhouse over mashed potatoes. But that article became sad and scary when I read further. The dude actually needs to be suing them for about three times what he is. Outback had let broken chunks of ceramic plates fall into the mashed potatoes--and then instead of making a new batch, just went ahead and served the rockier version.

Onward and onward I searched. Turbulent times in Kiev, American Olympian Women get some sweet new bling, Russia lookin' in on Ukraine and dreaming sweet dreams about pipelines. Nothing immediately hilarious, nothing to make light of.

But, like my Father once told me, "When the news is mainly good news, that's when I'll start to worry." With that wisdom in mind, I was undeterred in my search of the funny and lighthearted.

And then?


Hats. Hats and whimsy.

                                       Audrey & Ted Geisel courtesy of the Dr. Seuss Estate

Dr. Seuss apparently collected hats, and like my grandmother and her many collections, hid them all away on his estate in some mysterious, presumably dark, closet--only to eventually be discovered by his grieving relatives. He also collected paintings, but that's less fun. 
Editors note: My grandmother is alive, I'm just positing an educated guess on the future of my grandmothers home.  

75 years ago Dr. Seuss wrote The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, and in honor of that, his (I'm thinking awesome) hat collection is going on tour.

It's hard not to laugh when you think about Dr. Seuss actually owning a hat collection. Now that I know he actually did--it's impossible for me to think of him not having one. Dr. Seuss without a hat stash would be like Barry Bonds not having a baseball room, or Michael Phelps not having a medal case. I also imagine Seuss having a really odd garden somewhere, and drinking tea with animals and communing with nature, but not in a cultish, druidic way, but like, just talking, you know, man to tree. 

I tend to imagine Dr. Seuss as a reverse to all of the themes that they teach in English Criticism and Literary Theory courses to students who will spend the next ten years looking for jobs and eventually going back to school for something else: Man vs. Nature becomes Man with Nature. Man vs. Machine becomes Beware the Machine, but heck, Man with Machine. Man vs. Himself becomes Man finds Himself, but Himself is actually a person-like-thing dressed like Beetlejuice and the book is probably a pretty good read. 

I don't find Dr. Seuss to be a source humor in the classic way. I've never laughed at Dr. Seuss. Even our favorite comedians typically poke fun at themselves, it alleviates some of the tension when they make fun of others and things for a living. Dr. Seuss had a way of writing that helped us think, helped us learn for ourselves. Did we laugh? Of course. But one laughs with Dr. Seuss. 

Now I'm sure the man himself was not perfect. But his work was. Imagine a world without the Lorax, Horton or the Cat in the Hat. Imagine a world where leaves are only green and the Grinch never stole Christmas. It's hard to think about my childhood and not see and hear Dr. Seuss' influence. 

Editors note; Sadly, we already missed the Florida dates of the Seuss hat-show (they were in Tampa back in January.)

So, instead of that sad news, I'll leave you with this great piece from Buzzfeed.
If Dr. Seuss Titles were Named According to their Subtexts. 

Inception: American Chinese food in China

Some American expatriates living in China have decided, wisely, that they miss...you guessed it...Chinese food. So these General Tsu's Chicken-loving entrepreneurs decided to bring a bit of good ol' fashion home take-out ordering back with them to China. Even though it came from China in the first place. Then changed. Then eventually found its way back home. Like a bird who flew South for the winter, but then stayed too long, went native, and finally realized it missed it's mommy.

It's one of those things that you probably don't think about when you move to a new country. But if you're living in a country that has a food that Americans have reinvented almost entirely and yet still labeled as authentic international food--chances are you aren't going to get what you're used to.

Chinese food has been around in America for decades--over half of a century. It has become an intrinsic part of our culture, and yet really, most of the food that we label as Chinese is much closer to fried chicken and sauces that more closely resemble our barbeque flavors than the authentic Chinese cuisine they are often claimed to be.

The crazy thing about this is...it should work. China is becoming a business capitol of the World and quickly. The reality is that Americans and other 'Westerners' will be living in China more and more as more American and 'Western' companies need to have offices in the country. I'd expect a lot of faux-international American cuisine-serving restaurants to show up over the next few years.

This issue isn't new to Americans--even Everybody Loves Raymond tackled it when Ray and Company went to Italy. It was a watershed moment for Ray, he ate Italian Pizza, which was like eating Pizza for the first time every, so he said. And it probably was. American Pizza is not Italian Pizza, not even in the ballpark. And most of us know that. As a foodie-culture, we are relatively aware that we take international food and twist it to fit out palates, which most Americans will admit, aren't exactly...classy. We like fast, fatty foods and a good portion of my generation actively hate cooking.

I don't think many Americans will be arguing, anytime soon, about the needs of our culture to get healthier, eat better and cook at home more. However, for those of us living in countries-not-our-own, this is a win. A taste of home in a faraway place.

I do, however, wonder what the average Chinese citizen thinks when walking by the window with the shining neon-light that reads "Chinese food."

 

Photo taken from Frank Langfitt/NPR. (I'll totally take it down if they ask. They don't even have to do so nicely.)

10 Reasons Why Michael Sam Coming Out Gay Shouldn't Be a Big Deal

1. He's pretty damn good.
The kid made SEC Defensive Player of the Year honors. Something that has garnered a First Round pick in the NFL Draft the past seven years running.

2. He's going to be Rich.
All of you, presumably not rich people, who hate that Michael Sam is going to be an NFL player--as these eight NFL insiders supposedly do, need to remember one important thing: If he gets drafted, he's going to be rich. He won't give a shit what you think.

3. He probably ain't the first.
According to various population demographics I've just looked up, the gay population is actually pretty high. Michael Sam is probably not the first gay guy in the NFL. He's just the first guy to tell everyone that he's gay heading into it. Is it the wisest thing to do? Probably not, considering that "MichaelSamisafaggot" is trending on twitter right now, I'm inclined to believe he's going to have it difficult--at least until people forget, which they will. Because people are dumb--Agent K taught me that. 

4. Money, money, money...
It's pretty good business for the NFL. Having an openly gay player is a great way to make inroads into a segment of viewers that they've never made significant headway with before. If you think they don't want the extra viewers, then you've never been a multi-billion dollar industry before.

5. Pro locker rooms are already weird.
This is coming from someone whose spent a lot of time in locker rooms...it's already intensely weird that everyone is naked in college and pro locker rooms--and everyone flirts. I don't know if pretending to be gay or being fake gay is a thing, but...it's a thing. We've seen it on TV shows before...with 'bros' as the central characters. "Gay chicken." I'll leave it at that. Locker rooms are weird places--I find it difficult to believe that an actual homosexual would make it in anyway weirder. Would a hetero-sexual male do that with every girl he saw? Not if he wanted to get a girlfriend ever...or stay out of jail.
 
6. His teammates probably aren't too worried.
Is anyone really worried about him hitting on his teammates? Has anyone seen a football player before? This guy is going to have money. His men are going to be GQ models.

7. He's going to know all the hottest girls.
Going with in the vain vein of number 5. Gay guys know all the best girls. His teammates will probably have to sign in on some kind of list to hang out with him. He can just post it on his locker. "I'll be at such and such at 10 PM tonight, Beyonce and her back up dancers will be in attendance--only accepting 10, the ladies love defensive players and beards. Must wear suit and tie."

8. A bunch of college kids supported him, grown-ups can too.
Michael Sam has been pretty open about this, and according to him--he came out last August, before the season was fully underway. It apparently didn't hurt the team, as they got all the way to the SEC Title Game before losing to the National Runner-Up Auburn Tigers--and then winning their Cotton Bowl struggle vs. the dominant defense of the Oklahoma State Cowboys, 41-31.

9. Jonathan Martin and Richie Incognito agree about this.
This particular drama cycle needs its very own post. I came back to writing the blog just after the Incognito/Martin circus arrived and then eventually packed up its tents and left town. I'll eventually write a post about this or submit an article to Yahoo Sports. But suffice it to say, if the supposed bully-ee and the bully-himself don't care about the kid being gay, then the average dude in the NFL probably won't either. (I keep saying "probably" so as to leave room for all the stupid that may happen.)


10. The NFL needs this to go well.
The NFL has had a rough year. The Hernandez murder(s). The allegations of an NFL team asking a player about his sexual orientation--a highly illegal practice...the bullying claims from Jonathan Martin and subsequent defense of Richie Incognito by his Dolphin teammates (which, one way or another is going to lead to changes in the NFL player-culture.) Essentially, the NFL can't be seen to handle this issue poorly. It's just another PR nightmare waiting in the wings.

Cat Cafes -- My Greatest Fear, Realized

Yes! Finally. The time for my personal Duality of Man crisis moment has come.

My greatest enemy and my greatest love (sorry Honey) have finally been combined into one, amorphous, terrible and yet beautiful business-related-blob.





This is a cat. He's probably annoyed about something you're doing.

                                 


                       This is a cup of coffee. It's probably delicious.

This is a small cat, sometimes known as a kitten, in a coffee cup. It's probably plotting your death.








That's right, beloved readers. There are Cat Cafe's, and they're coming to America. No word yet on the Eddie Murphy connection. The article states, "The cafes will be located in San Francisco and Oakland, Calif., and will be named KitTea and Cat Town Cafe. Both of the cat-themed restaurants are looking at a 2014 opening."

As you may know, I am deathly allergic to cats. It doesn't take me long to realize I've entered a cat infested house. The itching feeling, the watering and swelling of my eyes, the disturbance in the Force that tells me my death is near--all sure signs that someone has made the mistake of not adopting a dog.

You can probably see why the news of cat-toting cafes is disheartening for me. I already have to deal with cigarettes, constant agitators of my bi-annual struggles with bronchitis, at most cafes I regularly attend. That is to say Starbucks (pick it up entrepreneurs.) I don't know if I could handle this phenomena spreading to Orlando.

Of course, Korea is experimenting with Puppy Cafes. Which is probably worse news. I pose to you this question: How many times can a husband come home with a new puppy before he's just a single man hoarding dogs?

5 Taboos of Public of Internet Use

1. Porn
I've actually seen someone do this in public before. It didn't end well for him. I've only ever seen one person physically thrown out of a bookstore before, and that man, sadly, was pitching a not-so-subtle tent and hurriedly folding his laptop into his case.

Internet Porn is one of the few sexual taboos that no one really cares about anymore. There are songs dedicated to it, it comes up in conversation. In my younger, unmarried days, on a first date with a girl  I never dated again, I was asked whom my favorite porn star was. I answered her. If you were betting on her not being my wife now, you'd be betting with the odds.

2. Openly Facebook Stalking People

It's funny when someone says it out loud. Someone knows just a little too much about you for your first time out, and you ask something like "Did I tell you that?"
And s/he says "Nah, I just stalk you on facebook."

Oh the laughs we've all had. Social Media you creepiness-inspiring bi-product of Gore and the 90's.

To me even opening up facebook, or any other social media site, at a cafe or public place seems weird. Facebook, to some degree, is what people use to let each other in on the private going-ons of their lives. It's Modern Society's way of saying "I want to know you better."

But for the dude two tables over to look at my screen and then turn and whisper to me "Bro, she's hot." And then consider that alright is most assuredly not alright.

3. The Portable Office

Don't get me wrong. I'm not against paying off a quick credit card, or checking a bank account. A few days ago I even went over a benefits package. That's fine. Laptops were made for people to be able to work freely. Hence the term "portable workstation." I'm all about getting out of the office to clear my head. I too love coffee.

But, presumably, you're getting out of the office for a reason. Bringing your desktop, monitor and a portable printer--along with enough paper work to make a Public School teacher flinch is a bit counter-intuitive. Seems like you could have just stayed in the office and saved yourself the hassle. I'm pretty sure it has a coffee pot. Or a Keurig--so good.

4. Play Video Games

Everyone's seen it. And the thing is, most of us play video games in one form another--Candy Crushers: you know who you are. Occasionally we even play the video game we see someone playing. That does not make it acceptable. Playing World of Warcraft in a cafe, with a headset on, and other people present, is a lot like saying "I don't ever want to have sex." Or maybe even "Friends are for other people."

Or ultimately "F*ck you and your books, bookstore. I'm here for the coffee and the internet." Which is probably why Borders went out of business and Barnes & Noble is doomed.


5. Watching YouTube Videos on Full Blast

Try watching Epic Meal Time without laughing or vomiting. The Whitest Kids U' Know have a skit about Abraham Lincoln that makes it functionally impossible for you to not curse out loud right along with them.

I know that in the moment, the most important thing in the entire universe is that your friend hear and see these things right freaking now. But it's also important to remember where you are. Sitting at a cafe, where people are utilizing their eyes for reading and their ears for not knowing you exist.

Feel free to add to the list in the comments section. 

The Irony of Bumper Stickers

The other day I was driving behind a small Honda Civic. I know, I know, where's the story going, Dave?

On the rear window the owner had one of those family stickers, you know the type, a mother, a father and a couple of kids holding hands. I wasn't really sure what type of family owned a Honda Civic, but I moved on to the next bumper sticker.

In white capital letters on a black background it read, "DON'T BE A DICK."

An interesting message for a family vehicle.

But I wonder, is this a preemptive "DON'T BE A DICK."? Is he telling me, "Dude, do not tailgate me, that's rude. I have a family." Because, I wasn't tailgating him. I was hanging back. Because I'm a good driver and I care about driver safety.

Was he maybe saying that I should treat my family and friends right? That I shouldn't hit my girlfriend? I just don't know what to believe.

I did, however, find it incredibly ironic that he (I'm just going to assume it was a dude at this point.) had one of those widened mufflers. The type that does very little actual muffling. To the point where you wonder, why did he pay for a muffler at all?

I'm pretty sure there isn't a single person whose driven behind a car with a muffler like that and hasn't thought, "Damn, this guy sure is a dick."

A Letter to Hot Waitresses

Dear Hot Waitresses, (Also, in this case, the one who served my table Friday at Outback.)

I'd like to lead this letter with a notation of how incredibly hot you all are. You're incredibly hot--beautiful even, if it makes you all feel less...thirteen.
Notation over.

Beyond that (incredibly important) point, I very much enjoyed your (in this case) quick and smiling service, and I'm inclined to visit your establishment again in the future--not only because I enjoy [Outback's] cuisine, but because you made my experience better and I kind of want to ask you out.

Which leads me to this letter, and why it exists. Hot waitresses, or if you want to go PC, incredibly beautiful female servers, seem to be a staple in the food industry. I understand the logic. People (all people, don't lie to me) like attractive people. Our biology essentially forces us to trust beauty. Ugly people are bad and they'll rifle through your purse if you get up to go to the restroom and leave it behind. I know it's horrible, but even ugly people like attractive people more...you don't fight your nature. (At least not with any expectation of winning.) Thus, (to the point) we (the people who dine at your establishments) are more inclined to tip an attractive server. We like you right away! An ugly waitress with a golden personality really doesn't have the time to win me over in the thirty minutes I'll be eating. Her tip may suffer.

Now, following the logic that many waitresses are beautiful leads you smack into the second conundrum:

Men are weak. At least in your presence, hot waitresses. We can't really help ourselves. You're everything we were born to love. You're beautiful. You smile a lot (so you must be happy!)You bring us food and in some cases pick up our trash when we finish. You keep our drinks full and laugh at our jokes. You are in a room full of televisions playing sports and you don't roll your eyes or complain about how we don't care about you anymore. You are the perfect woman.

So here's the question, all waitresses in general and also Outback waitress in particular, how does a guy know when there's something actually there? You, the employee aren't going to hit on the customer. That could lose you your job. And would come across as desperate.

The customer, of course will hit on you, and you'll respond lightly, with neither an affirmation or denial of his affection, because it could lose you money. But, then, I could see how from your perspective, I (male customers) am just flirting with you because that's what men do. We flirt with hot waitresses. It's safe to assume that you know how beautiful you are. You're serving tables, and making pretty good money doing it. You're not a child.

So then, the only option to those of us without cosmic charisma and killer good looks:
Go to the restaurant every weekend. Constantly connive to get the same server. And over a period of weeks and months, befriend her and win her over.

Of course in that time she could have met a guy at a bar one night and wha-la, boyfriended. 

How do you win, in this situation, hot waitresses?

It certainly isn't the classic "number on the napkin." (Or dollar bill.)

I'm not a regular at very many bars anymore. But when I was, the waitresses loved to bring over the various notes they got from men throughout the night. Now, we all know I'm not above judging people. (That would be silly, I have a comedy blog.) These guys weren't always bad looking slobs. Some of them were well put together guys that if they asked me I'd give them some practiced line like, "I'm not gay, but if you're buying..." (Practiced because gay guys love me, obviously.)

Is it just something about the restaurant industry that kills your warm and fuzzy parts, hot waitresses? If I asked you out after talking to you at a coffee shop would you go out with me? Or kindly decline and quickly walk away so you could call...sorry--forgot the age--tweet all your friends about the "absolute idiot who just asked me out at Starbucks. He was kinda' cute though..." (I added that last part to feel better about this entire pretend situation.)

Well, I'm sorry, hot waitresses, that I have a hard time asking you out at work. Many of you are heartbreakingly beautiful and I know heartbreakingly isn't a word but, shouldn't it be? 

Maybe, in the future, I'll find a way around the conundrum, like, right before you bring the check, asking "Hey, how do you feel about going out?"

I've heard that sometimes works.

Sincerely,
Dave