Teachable Moments in Sports

As a father, when I watch sports with my sons, I seem to have an instinctual desire to turn certain key moments into valuable lessons.  I know that they will watch the action jumping out at them in high definition, lifelike color and if I don’t pair their observations with my own thoughts on certain key matters, they could end up admiring and glamorizing the wrong aspects of the game.  My feelings on trying to control and spin to my own liking any sensory input they receive is akin to China’s Internet policies.  Hey, my house, my rules and sports these days seem to be chock full of teachable moments.

My sons and I have had long talks about steroids.  Not only have I taken the whole “Say no to drugs” stance, but the intolerance I have for cheating has been made clear.  A line has been drawn regarding cheating in sports and my sons realize that performance enhancing drugs lie miles on the opposite side of it.  Once, when asking me who my favorite play as a child, Mark McGwire, was, I responded, “Who?  That guy?  That is a coward, boys.  A coward who is dead to me.”  It confused and possibly distressed them, but I felt a lot better.

Last year, when Jim Harbaugh and Jim Schwartz had their little encounter after a game, I made it clear to my sons that a certain coach was being a sore loser.  We watched video, complete with John Madden like pausing and rewinding in order to get my point across.  Last week, the Buccaneers and Giants final play controversy turned into a lecture about the difference between giving up and accepting a loss gracefully.  Of course there are also countless other small events throughout any game that provide teachable moments.  I find myself pointing to a play and telling my sons things like, “You have to keep playing until the whistle blows,” or, “You shouldn’t celebrate too soon,” and, most importantly, “See, that’s why you must always wear your cup.”

Is Kirby a Chicken?

There's a picture circling the internet, which I happened to see on the site where most of my insight into any world news not having to do with sports, cartoons and Lego comes from (I speak of Facebook, of course), that has disturbed a lot of people.  If you haven't already seen it, allow me the opportunity to show you the horrifying image:

So you are probably thinking, "What's so bad about that?"  You might be thinking it's some sort of insulating material or maybe even Play-doh.  I readily admit, the image is pretty innocuous on its own.  The repulsion comes after finding out exactly what you are looking at.  Ready for it?

The Microcosm of Sports is a Microorganism in My Stomach

Sports are awesome.  They are fun to play.  Even the ones you don't know how to play.  Chances are, if you took the time to learn cricket, you'd soon relish the opportunity to defend your wicket from the bowler's googly with an impressive Dilscoop.


They're fun to watch.  Some of the best times I have had with my friends involve watching a game of some sort with at least half of our attention, the other half being devoted to the procurement and consumption of beer.  While being at the game is usually ideal, it can be just as entertaining to watch a sporting event on television in the comfort of your own home, even if that does mean you have to listen to Joe Buck.


You can even have fun being a complete nerd with sports.  Over-analysis is all the rage these days, with Moneyball recently out in theaters.  You can sit in your cubicle with spreadsheets full of numbers in front of you on your computer screen.  Your boss won't know that you're really looking at batting stats so that you can try and come up with an equation to account for a player's real value by combining average RBI, OBP, WHIP, TB, XBH, OPS, GIDP, BABIP and shoe size in order to reign supreme over your fantasy league.


Speaking of the nerdy side of sports, they can even assist us in awkward social situations.  I can't tell you how many times I've been sitting in complete silence next to a person I'd never met before at a social function.  I just sigh, shake my head and say, "Man, those (fill in team name here)," and there's a guaranteed conversation.  Plus, you can completely wing it by taking whatever side of an argument you want and nobody will call you on it for being wrong a few days later.  Professional commentators do it all the time.


For as much as I love sports, I am the first to admit that there are more important things in the world.  They exist to provide us entertainment and to provide a situation in which to teach life lessons to our youth.  When the ten year old league hockey coach chokes out an parent form the opposing team in the stands, I cry foul.  Sports teach us about life.  Life should not revolve around sport.


Still, with the happenings in the NFL in particular, I find the result of my team's weekly game to have a profound effect on my mood for at least seventy-two hours afterward.  I'm not sure I like this.


For example, just yesterday, my Bears won their fifth straight game.  They looked sharp again on both sides of the ball, their special teams contributed as usual and they remained in a solid position in the hunt for a postseason run.  I watched the conclusion of the game with great pleasure and left for work later that night with a warm feeling in the cockles of my heart.


All was right with the world.  There was a spring in my step.  I whistled happily on the way to my car.  I allowed people to merge in front of me on the expressway.  I needed no coffee.  The chemicals in my brain kept me more than awake.


Just as I arrived at my job, however, I tuned my radio to the local sports talk to hear the love fest.  I expected to take one last hit off the hookah of local sports media post-win optimism before heading in to work.  The talk that met my ears put me in a very different mood, however.


I learned that Jay Cutler, he of the quickly increasing importance to our team's success, had suffered an injury on the thumb of his throwing hand.  It would require surgery and he would likely miss the remainder of the regular season and possibly the playoffs.


Nooooooooooooo!


When I stepped out of my car, the air felt twenty degrees colder.  The smiles and hellos from my coworkers were ignored as I walked through the halls looking at my feet.  I didn't want them to see the tears in my eyes.  The rest of my night was absolutely horrible.  Not because anything happened at work. To tell you the truth, I was barely paying attention to any of it.  All I could do was think about the nauseous feeling in my stomach.  We were barely in control of our spot as it was and now our hopes rest on the shoulders of Caleb Hanie.  I don't dislike the kid, but it didn't work in the NFC Championship game last year and my pessimism has me skeptical that it will go any better now.


But soon enough, hope snuck back into my mind.  "The schedule is favorable enough," I thought.  "Maybe Hanie can get us into the postseason then Cutler can return rested and ready to win it all."  I began analyzing the upcoming games, scouring the internet for stats and tidbits about the future opposition so that I might bolster mathematical proof that our hopes should remain high.


Then I found an interesting story.  Some pundits are suggesting that the Bears may contact retired (for sure this time?) ex-Packers quarterback Brett Favre about possibly making another comeback.


Nooooooooooooo!!!

Warning: This Blog Post May Cause Discomfort

Having kids in your house makes you infinitely more aware of what kind of commercials are being shown on television.  I know this for two reasons.  First, I have had to field questions on what erectile dysfunction is.  Second, because my sons magically know about every single toy out there before I ever hear about it.  What is more, every toy is awesome and they want it.

Perhaps you didn’t realize that watching TV and being exposed to commercial after commercial extolling the value of a product that is far less impressive in person than it is in full color being used by professionals on screen was why your kids were able to tell you about every feature included in the toy they are melting down over not getting in the middle of the store.  I don’t mean to dash the imagery that you may have of your children hosting thoughtful and conscientious consumer-reports-esque review sessions with their playmates.

But I digress.

The reason I mention commercials today is because I have noticed recently that every commercial contains a legal disclaimer.  Medications are certainly the worst offenders.  The manufacturers make it all sound very tame at first, suggesting that their particular drug “might not be right for you.”  They say this because their drug might cause you to incur seizures, blindness (temporary or permanent), homicidal dreams or bleeding from the pores.  I’m fairly certain such symptoms would not be right for anybody.

But even children’s toy commercials have ridiculous legal disclaimers.  Foam dart guns need to remind us not to shoot at anyone’s face.  Arts and crafts products warn of toxic materials.  Small parts are announced such that parents with little ones can be prepared to worry about what their child might try to eat or shove up their noses.  A toy shown flying through the sky includes a note in microscopic letters at the bottom of the screen reading: Toy does not fly.

It all reminded me of one of my favorite spoof commercials ever.  It came from Saturday Night Live back when it was still sort of funny.  Please click the link below the picture to watch the commercial.

Watch the video by clicking here.

This time is coming nearer.

This is Gonna Suck

I had an inkling that my family and I were accumulating too much stuff.  We have been in the same home for nearly ten years, have progressed through two children and have a two and a half car garage that has not had a car parked in it in over five of those years.  That creates some major crap collection potential.


It wasn't until the past week that I realized how much stuff we actually have accumulated.  We aren't going to be on an episode of Hoarders anytime soon.  However, the amount of junk that I have removed from the above mentioned garage leaves my garage looking like the house sized equivalent of one of those fake can of peanut brittle that all the snakes come flying out of.  I'm left looking around at everything that has sprung out of it and wonder how it ever fit in there in the first place.


(Quick side not on my problem with that classic prank: One, how many people are carrying around cans of peanut brittle?  And B, how many people are so eager to randomly accept a piece of peanut brittle?)


Though my Tetris skills are legendary and I often hum the theme music to the game while packing the car for a long road trip, thankfully I shouldn't have the same problem here.  You see, the reason I am digging out all the old junk that has been collecting dust in my garage over the past several years is because my block is having a communal garage sale (or perhaps a better name would be a "get all this crap out of my garage" sale) and I am seizing the opportunity to make this man's trash somebody else's treasure until they look at it five years down the road and wonder, "Why did I ever buy this trash?"  Of course, by then it will no longer be my problem.  I should probably mention: No Refunds.


While I am very much looking forward to the catharsis of ridding my home and its extensions of al unnecessary clutter, I am not looking forward to this weekend.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good haggle from time to time.  I am more than willing to sit outdoors on what is forecast to be a beautiful day (unless I just jinxed it) and watch people haul away that which I no longer want.  I am most certainly looking forward to having a little extra cash in my pocket.  I'm even looking forward in a sick way to refilling the newly emptied space with more junk I will inevitably sell at a garage sale ten years down the line.


The problem with this weekend isn't the garage sale.  It's what the garage sale coincides with.


This is the weekend of the carnival at my sons' school.


Any time not spent arguing with some stranger over how much I want for the old Mr. Coffee (no, I will not throw in any coffee) will be spent chasing my sons around a noisy, crowded, poorly constructed madhouse full of carnies and children whom are much more likely than usual to vomit suddenly on my pant leg.  I will be trying to look in two directions at once as my boys inevitably sprint towards different rides and attempting to keep the teenagers from pushing them out of the way in line.  There will be times when they are there with friends and their parents (Thank you friends' parents!) but the fact that the school has extended the whole shebang to four days instead of the usual three this year means I will most definitely be there more than I had planned.


Add into the mix the fact that I will be working this weekend and you have a recipe for disaster.  I am seriously considering wearing a sign around my neck as a legal disclaimer deeming me not responsible for any of my actions through Monday morning.  I can't be certain at what point I will snap.


Kind readers, I do not know if you are the religious sort.  It does not matter to me.  I ask that you pray for me anyway.  Whether it be to God, Allah, Buddha, Odin or the Big Ragu, any divine assistance I might be eligible to receive this weekend would be much appreciated.


At the very least, please cross your fingers.  Then keep your eyes on the news for the quirky story about the man who attacked someone at a garage sale with an old Dust Buster.  That will be me.

An Impassioned Plea

Transformer Generation Dad has been up and running for approximately a year and a half now.  Over this time, we have mildly gained popularity through very little effort.  We now have 230 "likes" on Facebook and the site gets a few hundred hits per day.


In the interest of continuing to exert very little effort on the popularity of this blog, today has been designated as a day of eliciting help.  We ask any and all readers of Transformer Generation Dad to do your part in spreading the word about the wonderful content you discover here (Disclaimer: Not all content is wonderful).  If each person who reads, enjoys or even stumbles upon this blog by happenstance could do a few things for me, we would be eternally grateful.


First, please run the gauntlet down the right hand side of the page and follow, join, like and vote in any of the numerous ways made available there.  In particular, we encourage you to follow the blog via the Google Friend Connect option.


Second, please tell others.  Whether this means "retweeting," "suggesting" or just plain old word of mouth, we would love to have new readers visit the blog.  We're pretty confident (perhaps unjustly) that those who stop by and read a few posts will be pleasantly surprised by the blog's content, including the Third Person Thursday posts, so we just want to get new traffic.


Finally, visit the left hand column and vote in the monthly poll and participate in our Perplexus giveaway.  The successful running of more giveaways with other cool products depends on the participation we receive.


Thank you all for your help in this matter.  Should everyone pitch in and help spread the word about Transformer Generation Dad, then we can continue to focus our efforts on producing quality content instead of marketing strategies.


And, who knows, maybe one day you all can be responsible for saving me...I mean, us from the terribly miserable and life-sucking career we are currently trapped undertaking day after dreary day.  No pressure.


Thanks for reading.

No Rapture?

Since the world did not end on Saturday, (at least I sure hope it didn't because this looks an awful lot like what we were supposed to leave behind) I suppose I'd better get back on the horse and produce some blog posts.

Weekly features, with buckets full of rapture references, will be posted soon. Then there's the review of Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, which I never thought I would get to see, so I've got that going for me.

Stay tuned all you still living, breathing, judgement day surviving readers.

Third Person Thursday: Dr. Seuss Takes on the NFL Collective Bargaining Agreement

As this week's Third Person Thursday post fall smack dab between what would have been the 107th birthday of Dr. Seuss and the (now extended) deadline of the NFL's Collective Bargaining Agreement, I have decided to combine the two into my own version of a Dr. Seuss book. I only wish I had the time and the talent to have included illustrations:

In a far away land called Coopa-Boo-Wall

there lived people who played the most strange sport of all.

You start with eight people then someone shouts “Hark!”

and you throw ‘round a ball shaped like a question mark.

But the details of play aren’t important right now.

We don’t need to discuss the who or the how.

What matters is that this game was quite loved

by all in the land both below-ed and aboved.

To watch their favorite sport, the Coopa-Boo-Wallers came

and paid a whole lot of money to watch every game.

Since the sport was so loved, watched and followed by trillions

the players that played it got paid by the millions.

As more time went by they made more than just millions.

Soon enough the players were being paid billions.

While the players were happy to be making their billions,

the owners of teams were making kajillions.

While billions are nicer than millions, you see,

kajillions are better times one million and three.

Then a player stood up and said, “I see what is what.

You owners make money while I bust my butt.

I’m the one who does work, who runs ‘round the field

but you owners are the ones who take the most yield.

Conditions must change and they must change right now

or you’ll get no more play from this player no how.”

The rest of the players stood up and applauded

‘cause they too had all thought what this player had thought-ed.

The players wouldn’t play lest they got some more cash

that they could see the owners possessed when they’d flash

their possessions like cars that cost in the zillions

while poor players could only afford cars that cost millions.

The owners didn’t take this sitting down, didn’t stew.

They thought, “Sure we have more money and a right to it too.”

They warned all the players, “If you want increased pay

and want us to bow down and consent to your way

and are going to tell us we’re selfish all day

you don’t have to make threats, we just won’t let you play.”

So began a disagreement of a most unpleasant sort,

the kind of disagreement you must settle in court.

So players and owners went to the highest court in the land

to determine how much money should be in precisely which hand.

While they shouted and argued and told each other, “Pound sand,”

and refused to see eye to eye on a single demand,

there were people out there who had all been forgotten,

there were people who thought this was particularly rotten.

While the sides fought to get as much money as they can,

They forgot about who made it all possible: The fan.

The fan bought the tickets. The fan paid the fees.

The fan bought the merchandise, the foam fingers and tees.

The fans sat at home in the extra time they now had

and sat in their armchairs, feeling quite sad.

As they stared at blank TVs and wallowed in sadness

that sadness became much more like a madness.

This went completely unnoticed by those sitting in court.

For them, money and power meant more than the sport.

Eventually the parties had settled it all

and players and owners agreed to play ball.

But while the court battle dragged on for whatever the reason

Their sport had managed to skip a whole season.

While legal battles had raged on month after month,

the fans, who used to love the sport a whole tonth,

found themselves suddenly feeling that it wasn’t much funth

and found something else to watch and watched it at one-th.

Coopa-Boo-Wall had a new favorite sport

one where players rolled beans back and forth down a court.

The old sport had been nearly forgotten by fans

who barely showed up to sit in the stands.

The players and owners did not find this funny

for everyone involved started making less money.

And even though you might think this would drive them to tears

they only had to wait for a couple of years.

Before you knew it, the new sport was making too much

and those players and owners began to argue as such.

When they skipped a season a new sport stepped in then

and the whole silly cycle started over again.

After a few times the old sport was the favorite once more

but several years down the road the same thing was in store.

Players just can’t remain happy getting money to play

and the owners seem to think things should all go their way.

Fans should be warned that all sports are the same.

While the rules may be different they all play this dumb game.

Dog Chops with Red Wine

When you were a kid, if you lived in the Midwest, chances are you looked forward to snow in the winter. You hoped there would be enough to go sledding. You hoped it was sticky enough to make a snowman. You absolutely prayed for so much snow that the doors to the school were blocked four feet high and they had to cancel. Then you couldn’t wait to meet your friends outside and have a huge neighborhood snowball fight and use that hopefully sticky snow to plaster that kid you always hated that sits next to you in Math with a slushball to his face.

And if you didn’t look forward to all of this, you at least looked forward to an excuse to stay home and in bed, maybe with some hot chocolate if you were lucky, maybe with a video game controller in your hands most of the day if you were even luckier.

But let’s be devil’s advocates for a moment and pretend you never looked forward to snow as a kid in the Midwest. Let’s pretend that you sat at home, worrying about the gas bill and how much homework you were going to have to make up while you watched soap operas all day. Let’s entertain the thought that you were the lamest kid ever to live north of forty degrees latitude. Even then, you at least expected that it would snow during the winter and that said snow might cause you some level of inconvenience some time between late November and early March.

So when did everyone seem to completely lose that instinct? At what age does the very mention that we might receive a foot of snow start driving everyone over the deep end? How is it that our preparedness actually decreases as we get older on this issue and we begin to panic?

Everybody seems so surprised at the mere possibility of snow. The news comes up with the most terrifying depictions possible for winter storms with headlines like SNOWPOCALYPSE, SNOWMAGEDDON, WHITE DEATH FROM ABOVE or WINTER MASSACRE 2011: WHAT YOU CAN DO TO SURVIVE? NOTHING! They spend hours covering the mad rush to the grocery stores (which puts a real damper in a guy’s plans to just go pick up a case of beer, let me tell you) and the painful details of how every single shovel and ice scraper within a five hundred mile radius has already been purchased and you’ll have to get on a waiting list just to get one by April. Then you get the ridiculous interview with the poor guy at the gas station:

“Sir, are you stocking up on gas now because of the impending blizzard?”

“Um…I was just under a quarter of a tank and figured I ought to fill up.”

The guy is probably confused because the same reporter has been spewing warnings all week about staying indoors, avoiding frostbite and remaining hydrated as if he’s Bear Grylls giving out extreme survival tips to everybody. If we’re supposed to avoid traveling, why should we be running out to get gas?

I sometimes wish I would be the one to be asked such stupid questions by a reporter: “Yes, sir. I’m currently in the process of hoarding as much fuel as possible. That way, when our society crumbles as a result of our complete ineptitude in the face of some winter precipitation, I’ll be the one calling the shots. Ever see The Road Warrior?”

Honestly, we as a nation need to take it easy with our surprise over weather. Flights get cancelled, plans get changed. Our species has survived through much worse. Start remembering what it was like when you were a kid and how excited it would have been to anticipate so much snow.

If you feel like taking a few precautions would make you breathe easier, go ahead, just don’t go overboard.

Me, I’ve spent a little time reading back over The Walking Dead, so that I’m prepared to shoulder the emotional strain that the end of civilization as we know it will bring. I also sat down with my dog and had a long talk about how, if we should become stranded and detached from the rest of society, he is going to be our first alternative source of food once the canned goods run out. We’ve agreed it will be a respectable dinner. I picked up a nice bottle of red wine while I was getting the beer, just in case.

Odd Jobs (Not Steve, But He's Odd, Too)

When I was a kid, there were certain careers you aspired to. Fireman, policeman, teacher, doctor, lawyer, construction worker, those kinds of jobs. If there was a kid in the class who wanted to be a veterinarian, photographer or professional athlete, they were considered the dreamers. Working with animals all day, taking pictures or playing a game for a living? Even as kids, we seemed to understand that a job wasn’t something you were suppose to take any enjoyment from. How right we were.

Though my sons are far from entering the work force due to the strict child labor laws in this country (honestly, if we were in China the little freeloaders would at least be making me some money already) I sometimes think of the job opportunities that are going to be available to them. They can do things that I never would have considered. Had a kid told their parents they wanted to play video games or build Lego models as a career, everyone would have known who the neighborhood pot dealer was going to be.

But these are legitimate options these days. I sometimes lament the fact that I wasn’t more obsessive over my hobbies as a child. I mean, I was obsessive enough that they kept me from having a girlfriend, but not to the point that they made me money. I look at the giant Lego collection in my basement and think about what might have been. Had I been tenacious enough to insist that I could make a living building with Lego, maybe I could be doing that right now. Just the thought of being able to get paid to go to work each day and build instead of having to shell out cash to do so is enough to make me begin to understand why some people just walk into their offices one day and start firing.

So, every now and then, when the topic of what they want to “be” when they grow up arises, I try to be open-minded with my boys. When they say they want to fish for a living, I no longer picture the yellow hat, rain slicker and ship with nets off the side like the man on the box of frozen cod fillets wears. I tell my boys that if they are good enough at it, they could catch fish professionally in tournaments or be a fishing guide on a lake they happen to like. They would have to have an extra room and keep a slot open every Saturday for their old man too, of course.

This is just one such career path they have suggested they may decide to pursue. Apparently, they’re keeping roller coaster reviewer as their fallback option.

While I write this blog, I try to take it seriously (at least in front of them). I want them to see that anything one enjoys doing could be taken seriously enough to be a profession. I don’t want them to think I’m writing and enjoying it but never expect anything to come from it. I want them to see potential in everything they do.

The sky’s the limit. Even if they think up something completely off the wall, who knows what careers will develop over the coming years. And if they end up selecting a job they love and doing it every day, I will be one proud daddy. Now if the rest of us could just do the same.

If Lego is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right

Every now and then an event occurs that shakes your faith in something you previously believed to be unquestionable. You find out the truth about Santa or the Easter Bunny. The x-ray glasses finally come in the mail. Your son beats you at Blades of Steel.

It’s like a punch in the gut. You become disillusioned and everything you once counted on has a shadow of doubt cast upon it. You begin to question who you are. I received one such philosophical slap in the face recently.

My household operates under a few absolute principles. You must support your family. Education is important. Hard work will lead to rewards. Do the right thing even though it is rarely the easy thing. You will find the Lego piece you are looking for if you just keep looking.

This is how it has always been. Every Lego set I have assembled since I was a kid has left me looking for a piece at some point. Yet every time I started to convince myself that the piece was missing from the set, through some error on the part of the packaging facility, there it was. It always turned up. I’ve preached this mantra to my sons as they become more immersed in the world of Lego. Don’t get frustrated, it’s in there, you just aren’t seeing it. It’s been a valuable lesson in patience and keeping one’s cool under pressure.

My wife picked up a sizable Lego set with my boys the other day. They had done well on their report cards and were going to be off all week for the holiday, so she thought she’d pick up a set we could all contribute to over a few days. The Shuttle Adventure set (model #10213 in your at home catalog for those who wish to follow along) slowly took shape over the course of the week on our dining room table.

Three days into the 1,204 piece project, with the minifigures being built first by my sons (one male and one female astronaut I might add…well done, Lego), we ran into a hurdle. There were white pieces aplenty and a flat one by eight was giving me an awful time about being found. I was able to locate a number of one by six pieces, but not a single one by eight.

“No need to worry,” I told myself, “it’ll turn up. It always turns up.”

In the meantime, I retrieved a piece matching the size we needed from the extensive brick surplus that my childhood obsession with Lego has afforded us. I didn’t want to hold up the build and figured that when we completed the set, the one by eight would be staring at me and I would replace the spare piece we used with its exact duplicate.

By the time we finished, I had nearly forgotten all about this. I handed the nearly empty bucket containing only the few extra pieces that the Lego Company leaves in with any set (usually the smallest of the pieces) to my son so he could toss them in with our extras in the basement as per out normal protocol. Only casually did I glance into the bottom on the bin and notice a thin white piece larger than the average spare.

“Ah, there’s the missing one by eight,” I said as I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers, my insecurities consoled as usual by Lego.

But my keen observational skills, even set on casual, couldn’t help but notice the long, thin, white piece in my hand, while thin and white, was not quite as long as it ought to be. Imagine my surprise when I realized I was holding a one by six piece, not the one by eight I expected.

Could it be? Had Lego failed me? Had a brick actually been mistakenly replaced by another? As much as I tried to blame myself, I couldn’t deny the box had been packed incorrectly. Regardless of how slight the difference between the bricks in question, a mistake was made.

I now fear the worst. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourself for Armageddon. Nothing is certain from this day forward. Hug your children and tell them you love them. Venture outside if you dare, but beware of flying pigs and the freezing over of Hell. All that exists may begin crumbling around us at any moment. If Lego can make a mistake with their packaging, I’m afraid nothing may be as it seems. Have you seen Inception?

The State of the Union, According to My Six-Year-Old

After winning the Super Bowl on Madden 11, something I’ve done twice now (thank you), I witnessed something that shocked me. Following the postgame, on field celebrations, complete with virtual Roger Goddell, I found my team standing on the front lawn of the White House, shaking hands with the President. And it was actually the President! That’s right, Barrack Obama shook my players’ hands and my quarterback handed him a custom team jersey with OBAMA sewn onto the back.

This freaked me out a little. Not because I don’t agree with his health care policies or because I have any ill will toward the man, but because I hold a great deal of respect for the Presidency. This leaves me feeling skeptical about whether our Commander in Chief should have his likeness appear in a video game.

All that aside, the second time I won (because I’m awesome and won twice, did you get that?) I knew the Presidential congrats were imminent. Knowing my sons recognize Barrack Obama almost as immediately as Bear Grylls or Will Ferrell, I called them to see what was about to take place.

“Hey guys, come see this! Daddy won the Super Bowl and Barrack Obama is going to shake my team’s hands!”

My eldest came running up the stairs, but he was skeptical and expressed his disbelief. Oddly enough, he insisted on doing so before he crossed the threshold into the room.

“You’re lying,” he said as he leaned in the doorway, as if stepping in would mean he had fallen into some sort of nefarious trap I’d set for him. Like I was concocting some crazy story just to get him upstairs so I could force him to clean his room. Like I would do that. I’ve done it to get him to bring me a beer before, but never something that bad.

Eventually, I convinced him to come in but his little brother was nowhere to be found. So we called down to him again. We explained that I was telling the truth and no obligation to perform boring chores was attached.

“I don’t want to see Barrack Obama,” he called up to us. “He doesn’t even care about people.”

In my heart, I knew the only people you can be certain any politician cares about are themselves. But I generally avoid talking politics, even with my wife and loyal blog readers so I wasn’t about to start with my six-year-old. My sons are not at an age to dislike their President and I hold no agenda which inspires me to breed distrust or rebellion against him.

Instead of launching into a lesson on narcissism or a manifesto, I said, “Of course he cares about people. He wouldn’t have wanted to be President if he didn’t care about people.”

He still refused to come up. I didn’t push it. I won the Super Bowl before and I’m sure I’ll win the Super Bowl again. He can have another chance to see it then and hopefully he and Barrack will have buried the hatchet by then.

I did begin to wonder, however, which classmate’s dad talks politics in front of them. Whoever it is obviously doesn’t like Barrack Obama.

I say dad because, let’s face it, dads say stupid stuff in front of their kids way more often than moms do. This is a fact of life. Verbally shooting yourself in the foot is a trait linked to the Y chromosome.

Your kid repeats a swear word at school? Dad’s fault. Your child knows a little too much about the effects of alcohol consumption? Look to pops. Did a secret nasty nickname for a teacher or obnoxious relative get outside your circle of trust? Fathers’ lips sink ships.

So, parents (ahem…dads) please keep your political opinions to yourselves around your kids. First grade is not the place to sow the seeds of discontent with our government. You aren’t breeding the next generation of Republican voters, you’re just keeping my son from beholding the benefits of my awesome video game football skills. That’s un-American.

My Country 'tis of These Are My Only Options?

While going to vote today, my wife and I decided to bring my sons along. This decision wasn’t based on a drive have them witness their parents perform their civic duty. The stars and stripes were not waving in the background as God Bless America played, our sons watching us with a mixture of awe and pride as we completed our ballots.

Their presence next to us as we filled in the gap in the black arrow with a magic pen, causing me to feel like a preschooler participating in a spatial reasoning exercise, was entirely due to the fact that the time we had dedicated to vote coincided with the time immediately after we picked them up from school.

Still, having them there was special. Granted, we had to deny multiple requests for their own ballots and had to tell them they could not fill in our ballots for us, but it was still cool that they saw the whole process.

I feel like, in a small way today, we taught them lessons. We taught them that you need to speak up. We taught them that every voice in this great nation counts for something. We taught them that you need to participate. We taught them that you can’t complain if you didn’t at least try to do your part.

And the lessons don’t stop after the election night results are in. Far from it. In fact, they continue on for months, even up to the next round of elections. Some may say these lessons are the most important.

My sons can watch the aftermath and learn that just because you are the most popular doesn’t mean you are the best. They will learn that you don’t have to be smart to be in charge of a lot of people of a lot of money. The months to follow will show them what happens when you don’t keep your promises. And in the elections two years from now, if they pay attention, they will see how short the memory of many people really is and how you can completely screw things up but still be given a second chance.

“Who are you voting for?” one of my sons asked me as he looked at all the campaign signs on the way into my polling place.

“I’m going to vote for the jerk who daddy doesn’t think is as big a jerk as the other jerk,” I replied. “And that’s the best I can do.”

Yes, my sons got the chance to witness the American dream first hand as I valiantly and patriotically chose who I perceived to be the lesser of two (and sometime three or four) evils. Where else but in America can you decide to run for an office (let’s say, completely hypothetically, Lieutenant Governor), drop out of that race due to being exposed as a domestic violence offender who carouses with strippers and owns several questionable pawn shops, and then decide to run for a higher office (let’s say, oh, I don’t know, Governor)?

I ask again. Where? Nowhere, that’s where.

God bless America.

Drop That Shield!

My wife ordered me ESPN the Magazine through a promotional trial and I've been receiving it for a few months now. While I love ESPN, the television network, and watch Sports Center fairly regularly, I don't care much for their magazine. It's mostly ads and the articles that are contained in it are about subject matter I don't care much to read about. If I were you and wanted to read about issues in sports, I'd subscribe to Sports Illustrated.

When the most recent issue arrived in my mailbox yesterday, however, I gasped as I looked at its cover. Disney's ownership of everything has apparently come full circle. They own ESPN and they now own Marvel. So, the artists from Marvel were assigned the task of creating thirty different comic book covers to sum up what challenges each NBA franchise faces in the upcoming season.

If you are a fan of comic book or basketball, flipping through the layout is a lot of fun. I enjoyed the presentations of the different Marvel characters melded with NBA stars. Kobe Bryant is shown in the process of being outfitted with a Lakers colored Iron Man suit. The headline mentions his iron will and he is also shown wearing his five championship rings, resembling the Mandarin in another drawing. The Boston Celtics are portrayed as the Fantastic 5. Carlos Boozer stands behind Derrick Rose as the Red Hulk. New Nets owner Mikhail Prokhorov looms as Galactus with Devin Harris as his herald, the Silver Surfer, in his palm.

The art in these mock covers is amazing. On top of that, Marvel does a great job at connecting each team to a character or theme that makes sense and sheds light on their current situation. Very clever work, and very insightful. In fact the thoughtfulness and effort that was obviously put into this project far exceeded everything contained within all the prior issues I've read combined. ESPN had nearly won me over to their magazine.

Nearly.

I had one major problem.

I make no secret of the fact that Captain America is my favorite Marvel character (Steve Rogers specifically, but that's not the point right now). Cap's red, white and blue shield, to me, is a beacon of all that is good, unselfish and truly American. Captain America stands for strength, honesty and fairness.

Thus, I was more than a little pissed off when Lebron James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh were drawn using Captain America's iconic shield. But there the scheming three were, crouched, shields above their heads, prepared to deflect the glare of the glare of the world's scrutiny upon them.

I don't necessarily think James should have stayed in Cleveland, nor am I bitter about my team not landing him. I do, however, have a problem with the way he strung everybody along. I feel it was obvious that he was going to sign with the Heat form the start of free agency. The way he lied to everyone, the flashiness of the news conference in prime time and the firework laden pep rally in Miami after he signed are all the exact opposite of how Captain America would conduct himself. Humility, honor and respect are not what I picture when I think about the team Pat Riley has assembled.

I suggest that James and Wade should have been represented by the Red Skull and Baron Zemo. Captain America could have been showed unconscious and tied up in the background in order to make it clear that they stole his shield. Chris Bosh, meanwhile, could have been represented by some other, less important, overrated villain with a weak low post game.

Whoever had the idea to connect these guys with Cap out to be fired. I call now for that Marvel or ESPN employee's resignation. I further plan to tear out the offensive Captain America/Heat page of the magazine and then keep the rest of it around. The covers really are cool to look at. If you want to see it for yourself, pick up a copy, just be prepared to avert your gaze from page 92.

Please, Mr. Postman

I have the utmost respect for the position of mail carrier. Day after day (except Sundays and holidays), through rain, sleet, dark of night (I’ve never received any mail after 4 PM, but whatever) and all that jazz, the mail gets safely where it’s supposed to go.

Usually.

Of course, there are the occasional exceptions. Like when I get the mail that should have been delivered to the house a block down which has two numbers transposed with my address. But that’s no big deal. How can I complain about walking a block to deliver mail when the postal carrier has to walk miles every day doing the same thing?

Maybe because I’m not getting paid to do it.

But look at me, being so picky. I suppose I should lighten up. So the mail gets delivered accidentally to a nearby address. The person sorting obviously looked at the numbers too quickly and didn’t realize that all the rest of the mail in that pile except for the one they were dropping on top had the exact same last name.

Not looking closely would also explain the apparent disregard for the bold printed words across my protective cardboard comic book inserts that read DO NOT BEND. This must just be an honest oversight (every week) by the carrier while trying to provide with extra speedy service before that whole dark of night thing sets in. I’d hate to think that there is some sort of personal vendetta against me or my reading material that would lead my mail carrier to jam my comic books into my amply-sized mailbox folded lengthwise like a single to be tuck into a g-string.

It’s entirely possible, I reckon, that I’m the one who isn’t paying attention to the details. Maybe somewhere on the insert, after the instructions of DO NOT BEND is a finer print that reads:

…unless you feel like it…

…or…

…unless it’s necessary to fit it in the mailbox, because setting it between the doors just looks shoddy and you, valiant and dashing mail carrier, are better than that…

…or…

…unless this jerk gets so many catalogs and junk mail every day that it weighs down your bag and you’ll be requiring shoulder surgery after retirement as you attempt to lug it around this godforsaken neighborhood, because that is obviously the homeowner’s fault, not the fault of any of the companies sending out the junk mail. Do you hear me? He’s ruining your retirement! Are you going to let him get away with that?!

(Note: I just checked and none of these things are written on the inserts. There goes that theory.)

Honestly, to pick up on all the details contained within the average day’s worth of mail, the sorter and deliverer would have to be really getting a good look at each item. Perhaps it’s for the best that they don’t. Perhaps I should feel lucky that I don’t have Big Brother poring over my day’s correspondence for any signs I may not be on the up and up. Maybe one day my wife will be out of town without me and in her longing to see me and hold me close she will send me a steamy post card. References to all sorts of naughty details that I don't want anybody else reading would, no doubt, be written there. I would certainly want some privacy then. Surely, then I will see the benefits in the details of my mail being glanced over by those handling it.

Of course, should that mail get delivered to the house a block down with two numbers transposed, all that privacy goes out the window and I think then I’ll be kind of pissed.

To Cheat Or Not To Cheat? That Is The Question For Amoral Scumbags Everywhere.

I’ve been outraged many a time by people who do things professionally that I wish I could do.

As a little league baseball player, Mark McGwire was my hero. I attempted to trade my entire baseball card collection to my friend just to get a single McGwire rookie card. Even when the steroid scandal first broke, I held out wildly innocent, twelve-year-old hope that he wasn’t involved.

“He’s always been a big guy,” I told myself. “I mean, look at the size of his kid."












"Maybe he didn’t juice. Maybe it really was just creatine supplements.”

As we all now know, it was not just creatine supplements. Big Mac, Big Red or whatever you choose to call him (I prefer the Big Fat Faker Who Cheated Because He’s A Big Stinky Face Cheater, but I know it’s a bit long for most so I don’t think this nickname will catch on) used steroids and human growth hormone and probably a multitude of other unknown substances used for horse breeding that we don’t even know about.

But despite the fact that I have been so affected by Mark McGwire’s transgressions that my emotions over them can threaten to highjack a blog post, I do not write today to speak of Mark McGwire. I write today to speak of a man who I had never heard of prior to today: Mike Hart.

Despite not knowing him from Adam less than twenty-four hours ago, Mike Hart has cut me to the core. He has participated in an activity or sport that millions would love to be good enough at to participate in professionally. He pretended to have skill and natural ability enough to rise above the rest of the pack and be lucky enough to have a dream job. But, apparently, Mike Hart is not as skilled, able or lucky as he led any of us to believe. Mike Hart is a cheater.

The bass fisherman from Southern California was participating in the U.S. Open bass fishing tournament this past weekend on Lake Mead. Hart caught and submitted five bass for weighing. While the fish would normally be released after weighing, three of them happened to die during the process and these fish were to be filleted and their meat donated to charity. When these three fish were cut open, they were each found to contain several lead weights which Hart later admitted to inserting down the throats of the fish.

When competing professionally, or even on an amateur level, at fishing, it is weight that counts. Length of the fish may also be measured, but fatter is better than longer when it comes to bass.

So, here we have a man who gets to fish all day. He gets paid to do it. Winning this single tournament in particular lands (no fishing pun intended) the winner a $40,000 prize AND a new fishing boat. Mike Hart attempted to cheat his way into winning these prizes by weighing down his fish and got caught. The tournament officials commented that this is a process Hart could have gotten away with numerous times because such cheating is so difficult to detect due to the catch and release policy.

I am enraged by this. How long was this man able to cheat and lie his way into a dream job? A competitive nature has a very discernable place in sports, but that’s not what this is. This is just plain cheating, just as steroids is in baseball. You deny others who are trying to excel in a sport through natural means the right to perform at their highest level.

I am happy to hear that Hart has received a lifetime ban from the pro fishing circuit. However, what of the fishermen he’s beaten in the past? These people have been denied the joy and opportunity of winning because this fake crammed his fat ass into the top spot through deception. Even if you go back and take his wins away and give them to the runner up, it’s cheapened now for everybody.

You, Mike Hart, have taken a pure, fun, timeless sport and ruined it single-handedly. On behalf of Transformer Generation Dad and all its readers (yes, all seven of us), I point at you with the big old middle finger of shame and say, “Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater!”

I know that was totally anti-climactic, but it’s all I could think of, you…you…you butt face!

So there.

Punch Your Vote

I’m a bit disappointed in two aspects of this past month’s poll.

First of all, I’m saddened that peanut was not the run away favorite M&M variety. It is unquestionably superior to all the other listed flavors in size, shape and deliciousness. All those who responded with any other answer are obviously insane.

The second thing I’m disappointed in is the fact that I am only accusing five people of being insane. This was an extremely low poll turn out.

Ever the gentleman (and humble too), I have graciously decided to take the blame for making last month’s poll question something less than exciting. I suppose the decision wasn’t one people took seriously.

So, I asked myself, “Self, how could you grab the attention of the masses with this month poll? What pertinent issues should I search for input on?”

These questions, combined with a shameless grab at attention led me to decide that this month’s poll would deal with the single most important and interesting topic to each and every freedom loving American:

Celebrities!

Woo-hoo!

So, please participate. Tell your friends. Which celebrity would you most like to punch in the face?

I know there are so many annoying douche bags that have been left out, but I tried my best to choose those featured most in the media lately and I stayed away from politics. This is purely about movie, television and music personalities. I included two from each of these categories. Admittedly, Rosie O’Donnell hasn’t been in the news much lately, but I had to put her on there. Guess where my vote is going.

If there were a write-in option, I would have provided it. Instead, I encourage you to vote for one of the existing choices and attach any names you thought should have made the list to the end of this post in the form of a comment.

Happy voting!