Mann's Search For Meaning

The Misadventures Of Being Married... To Me

2012-02-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

The unseasonable weather has me itching to get outside as much as possible. Yesterday I left work a 1/2 hour early with the idea of getting Gretchen and the dogs to join me for a hike through the fields and beaches of the Sassafras National Resource Managment Area (NRMA). This is the spot where my summer kayak trips camp for the first half of each week. The state owns 991 acres of farm fields and woodlands, including 9 miles of hiking trails and some of the most spectacular beaches along the Sassafras River. (The picture above was taken this past June). It's a great spot to let the dogs off the leash so they can roam and explore all the wondrous scents produced by the Eastern Shore. To top it all off, Gretchen had never been there.

She put up a minor protest. After spending all day motivating high schoolers to get excited about science, she was understandably tired. She also had a lot of grading that she needed to catch up on.

"C'mon," I pleaded. "It'll be good for us to get some fresh air. If we leave now we'll be back by 6:30. I'll make dinner and you'll have plenty of time to do your schoolwork."

As she considered this, I took advantage of her hesitation and said, "I'll put the dogs in the car."

..........

We drove down the dirt road that leads into the park and Gretchen took in the scenery and exclaimed, "Wow, this place is huge!" That's the impression that most people have upon arriving at the NRMA for the first time. It's hard to imagine that a thousand acre property could be a "hidden" gem, but that's exactly how I'd describe it. Plenty of Kent Countians have no clue that it's there.

We walked the dogs down one of the trails leading to the river, their joyful bounds scrubbing away the stresses of Gretchen's day. She took my hand and sighed, "Okay you were right. I'm glad I came out."

We arrived at the beach and Angus stood with his back to the water, watching me with fierce concentration. His body quivered in anticipation. I picked up a stick and threw it 15 feet out into the water. Without hesitation he plunged into the 35 degree Sassafras and retrieved it. True to his lab nature, Angus is never happier than we he's retrieving something from the water.

Bonus, on the other hand, isn't so sure about that behavior. I don't blame her. I doubt her skeletal frame would survive very long in those conditions. With a bit of coaxing from Gretchen she eventually waded out enough so that the water was touching the underside of her belly; a new record. For the most part she was content to wait for Angus to make it back to land where she would pounce on him and try to steal the stick.

As the sun got lower, the air cooled off and we made our way back to the car. Again the dogs led us; sprinting, sniffing, and unearthing their way through the woods.

Once we reached the car, Bonus was waiting for us. As a new adoptee, she still has that nagging fear that we may abandon her at any second, so she knew as long as she stayed with the car she'd be safe.

Free of such neurosis, Angus had wandered down a side field, pursuing whatever phantom sirens call to dogs.

"Let's put her in the car and I'll drive down and get him," I offered.

If this was a horror movie, this is where the creepy music would start to play. We made our way off the dirt road and onto a grass road.

I started to slide in the mud and just when I was about to make a joke about getting stuck, I got stuck. I climbed out of the car to see how bad it was. At the same time a jingling collar announced Angus' emergence from the woods. I put him in the car and began to curse the fact that he'd led me to the one muddy spot in 1,000 acre park.

I tried pushing the car while Gretchen drove. We got stuck deeper.

I tried building a solid path of sticks under the tire. We got stuck deeper.

I tried digging the wet mud away from the tire, thinking that I could get the tires on firmer soil. We got stuck deeper.

It was now twilight. Somewhere in the woods an owl began to hoot. Then a fox let out that creepy fox-cry that can best be described as a woman being murdered.

We were stuck in the middle of nowhere. No one knew we were there. It was getting dark and cold.

As much as I begrudge cell phones, I was glad Gretchen had hers and was actually able to get a signal. As she began to make calls to potential rescuers, it seemed no one was available. Time after time the phone just kept ringing or sent us to a voicemail.

After what seemed like an eternity, but turned out to be 45 minutes, we got a hold of our friend Nick Biles.

"No problem, I'll be there in 10 minutes," was his immediate response after hearing our plight.

You never feel more blessed than when you realize you live in a community made up of friends who are willing to help you at a moment's notice.

Nick arrived with his 4-wheel-drive truck and his 8-year old daughter. Madeline was sporting her mud boots and was excited to be a part of the rescue.

Ten minutes later and we were out of the mud and back on the relatively solid surface of the dirt road. As we made our way out of the park Gretchen said something like, "Oh the joys of being married to you..."

To which I replied, "You wouldn't have it any other way."

Her: "And you wouldn't find any other woman to put up with it!"

So I guess all of this is a roundabout way of saying I love her and the state of our union is STRONG!

Get On Board, Ravens Fans!

2012-01-21T11:56:00.001-08:00

Morgan Creek Murmuration

2012-01-20T09:05:00.000-08:00

My latest Field Guide, about the massive migrating flocks of blackbirds, can be found here: http://www.chestertownspy.com/field-guide-morgan-creek-murmuration-by-john-mann/

HARBOWL Here We Come

2012-01-19T07:27:00.000-08:00

To be successful, Baltimore must
repeatedly make Tom Brady uncomfortable.

In my last post, I wondered if we were witnessing a changing of the guard in the NFL culture that states, "Offense sells tickets, but defense wins championships." Through the first two rounds of the playoffs, the answer has been a resounding, "No."

Of the four teams that remain, you have the league's #2 and #3 defenses in the 49ers and the Ravens, respectively. Meanwhile Green Bay and New Orleans, the #1 and #2 ranked offenses are both watching the Conference Championships from their couches.

But what about the Patriots and they Giants? They were pathetic on defense all season, ranking 31st and 28th in the regular season. Both teams boast powerful offenses. If the Superbowl ends up as a rematch of New England and New York, wouldn't that prove that having a great defense is overrated in today's NFL? Yes, it would. But we haven't gotten there yet. As much as the national media wants that Superbowl to take place, (a Boston columnist wrote about it on Tuesday, as if beating the Ravens was a forgone conclusion... of course this is the same columnist who famously jinxed the Red Sox chances of making the postseason, but I digress) I just don't see it.

Let's take a step back and see how each team reached the Final Four. The Giants, who have been battling injuries all season are finally healthy and riding a hot streak that allowed them to reach the postseason. They made short work of the Falcons (24-2) and then beat the Packers (37-20). Although, I would argue it wasn't the Giants' defense that beat the Packers (Green Bay's receivers dropped 9 balls!), but rather the Packers' lack of defense that allowed the Giants to put up 37 points including an inexcusable Hail Mary before halftime. The Packers had no D to speak of. That was good enough for 15-1 in the regular season and 0-1 in the postseason, where D is still king.

The 49ers D has been so strong that it has carried a first year head coach and a mediocre quarterback past the New Orleans' Saints record-breaking, #1 offense. I'm not trying to take anything away from Alex Smith, who lead two game-winning drives in the final 5 minutes, or the strong rushing attack of Frank Gore, but San Francisco's defense forced 5 turnovers which allowed the team to build a lead that ultimately was too much for the Saints to overcome.

The Patriots-Broncos game is kind of an anomaly. All season the Broncos defense played out of their minds, which allowed their gimmicky offense to keep winning late in the fourth quarter. But by the end of the year they were worn out. A questionable game plan by the Steelers allowed the Broncos to advance, although they still OT to beat a gimpy Roethlisberger. New England exposed the Broncos to be what most of us thought they were. Based on that game, New England has the #1 defense in the postseason, but sometimes your brain has to explain that your eyes can be fooled. We'll see on Sunday if New England's D is for real.

Finally, Baltimore. They looked the ugliest of the teams that won last week. Of course they were the only ones playing against a strong defense, #4 in the regular season. If not for the injury to their starting quarterback, Houston would've been the most complete team in the NFL. So, I'm not concerned with the fact that Baltimore looked ugly winning against them. Most teams would've. In the end, the Ravens' defense was too much for a third string quarterback. It speaks to the strength of the rest of the Texans that the game was in doubt until the final play.

So, what will happen on Sunday? I'm a traditionalist. I still believe that if you have the dominant defense and running game you will win more often than not in the NFL playoffs. Clearly the two teams that fit that criteria are San Francisco and Baltimore. Both games will probably come down to the final 5 minutes.

Picking scores is a silly, futile process but I'll give it an attempt:

Baltimore 24 New England 21

San Francisco 28 NY Giants 24

It should be exciting/exhausting for us as fans. But when it comes down to force of will, it is always easier to destroy than create. Defense and rushing the ball are all about smashing into your opponent, wearing them down, and destroying their will. In Baltimore, we've been conditioned to enjoy that brand of football. It's all we've known for more than a decade, which is just fine because...

Offense sells tickets, but defense wins championships.

What Wins Championships?

2012-01-03T11:04:00.000-08:00

There's no doubt that the NFL has become a pass-first league. Not only did Dan Marino's 27-year old passing record fall to Drew Brees, but Tom Brady also passed Marino. Matthew Stafford also finished with more than 5,000 yards. The top ten quarterbacks for 2011 all had over 4,000 passing yards. This is no longer a "three yards and a cloud of dust type league."

But statistics only matter in fantasy football. Do all these passing yards and passing touchdowns translate to wins? Yes and no. Phillip Rivers, Tony Romo, and Cam Newton all eclipsed 4,000 yards but rather than studying film for the playoffs, they're scheduling tee times. Sometimes a lot of stats are the result of needing to score because your team has a lousy defense.

"Offense sells tickets. Defense wins championships." Those words were true when Bear Bryant spoke them. But do they still hold up in 2012?

This year's playoffs should go a long way towards answering that question. 5 of the top 10 defenses (Pittsburgh, Houston, Baltimore, Cincinatti, and San Francisco) and 5 of the top 10 offenses (New Orleans, Green Bay, New England, Detroit, and Atlanta) will do battle. Green Bay and New England (the #1 seeds for their conferences) are ranked 32 and 31 in defense. Meanwhile, each conferences #2 seeds (Baltimore and San Francisco) rely on strong defensive performances to win. Overall, the AFC is slanted in the direction of defense, while the NFC is slanted in the direction of offense.

It's likely that this year's conference championship games, and perhaps the Superbowl, will pit teams with completely different styles against each other.

The teams that score a lot can't stop their opponents from scoring, while the teams that struggle to score boast defenses that terrorize the opposing Offensive Coordinator.

Offense gets the glory. But defense wins the game.

I believe it's still true. But, in Baltimore, we're kind of biased.

WE3: A New Kind of Literature

2011-12-08T07:54:00.001-08:00

As a young teen I was an avid comic book reader/collector. Eventually I grew out of that phase. Looking back, I guess I could say that video games took their place. Instead of simply reading about a super powered being fighting to save the world, video games allowed me to take control of the hero.

When The Watchmen movie came out a couple years ago, I read up on the graphic novel that inspired the movie. I was amazed to see that it was named one of Time Magazine's Top 100 Novels. I hadn't considered the idea of comics as serious literature. Since reading The Watchmen (which I thoroughly enjoyed), my definition of literature has expanded. So, I'm always on the lookout for graphic novels worthy of a spot on my bookshelf.

WE3 is one such book. It's the story of three pets (a dog, cat, and rabbit) who are taken by some clandestine government organization, combined with cybernetic suits, and trained to be the soldiers of the future. The idea is that generals could control armies of animal soldiers by remote control and no human life would ever be lost in war.

I recognize that storyline seems pretty far out there, but the writer's handle it in such a way that you're willing to suspend disbelief. The three main characters (codename: WE3) are just one phase of the ongoing development of animal soldiers. Once their phase has run its course, they are ordered to be "decommissioned."

When a scientist with a soft spot for the 3 releases them from their constraints, they escape the facility and begin their desperate journey to "home," a faint memory held by the dog. The army, desperate to keep their existence from the public, pulls out all the stops to hunt them down. I've seen the plot summarized as Homeward Bound meets The Terminator, but that's oversimplifying things. Arnold Schwarzenegger has never played a role with the emotional depth displayed by these three animals.

In addition to the intriguing storyline, I was blown away by the art work. Rather than treat the pages like a flat plane onto which images are pasted, the artist used it as a three dimensional space, bending their images into perspectives that make the eye really focus to see what's going on. Some may find it confusing, but I though it was visually stimulating and gave the action sequences a real sense of movement. I could be wrong, but I think this was a groundbreaking technique for the medium. Like "bullet-time" in The Matrix, this is a style that's sure to be copied.

Also, despite the cutesy animals, this is not a story for children. The level of gore could be off-putting to some, but I found the attention to detail in each decapitation or heart explosion to be so lovingly rendered as to transcend them from crass to craft.
WE3 is a quick read. It took me about an hour. As part of their "enhancement," the animals can talk, but only in very brief 3-4 word phrases. Many of the pages are wordless. The minimal amount of language serves to help the reader (viewer?) slip into the mindset of the animals. They make sense of their world based on what they see, hear, and smell. They don't "talk things out."

Because it's such a short journey, I'm sure I'll revisit WE3 to take in the details that my eyes missed the first time around.

Again, this forced me to consider my definition of "literature." Can their be such a thing as visual literature? Based on the lasting impressions WE3 made on me, I'd have to say yes.

Larger Than Life

2011-12-06T11:28:00.001-08:00

In my 31 years as a Baltimore sports fan (that's right, I came out of the womb rooting) I've had my share of surreal moments, those times when you get closer to the game than you ever thought possible. Some were simple, like serving Johnny Unitas lunch on a Sunday afternoon while waiting tables at Hillendale Country Club. Some were dramatic, like the time I won a radio contest and got to form the base of the "V" as the Marching Ravens spelled out the team's name at halftime. A lot of them involved my friend, Todd: I brought him along to the marching band game, I watched him start the first bonfire on Frat Row after Maryland beat Indiana for the 2002 Men's Basketball Championship, and we nudged our way close to the stage at the Ravens' Superbowl parade in 2001 and somehow ended up on the front page of Superbowl.com. (There was also the time we went to a Wizards-Heat game and Todd caught Alonzo Morning's wrist band, which isn't really Baltimore related, but still pretty cool.)

This past Sunday probably took the cake on all of those. My brother-in-law, Jason, won an auction for a Miller Lite Home Tailgate. That in itself is pretty cool, as Miller Lite provided beer and food for 40 or so people at his house. On top of that, they provided a special guest to watch the game with us: Mr. Jonathan Ogden. That's right, one of the NFL's top 100 players, the man who will be the first Raven to go into the Hall Of Fame, and the star of a few classic Gebco commercials hung out with us this past Sunday.

The first thing you notice about J.O. is just how large he is. That's to be expected about a man who is 6'9" 345 lbs, but the size of Ogden's head makes him seem even larger. (Anyone who ever watched him play marveled at how tightly his helmet seemed to fit.) But once you got past the physical stature, NFL accomplishments, and bank account (I assume), J.O. was remarkably normal.

Miller Lite provided four Ravens' sweatshirts. To make distributing them more fun, Jason set up a pool for the game where we each wrote our names in a few blocks that would correspond with possible scores. If your score matched the numbers at the end of a quarter, you would win a sweatshirt. With no prompting, J.O. walked over and wrote his name on a few squares. Never mind the fact that you'd have to sew all 4 sweatshirts together for them to fit him, he wanted to be part of the action.

As we watched Tim Tebow wrap up the Broncos' game with another fourth quarter comeback, I called across the room, "J.O., admit it, this whole league is fixed!" "Yeah, it's like the WWF," someone else chimed in. Ogden laughed and said, "You might believe that to watch this game."

Early on in the Ravens' game they had a fourth and one. Harbaugh had to make a decision to go for it or kick the field goal. They'd been running the ball well, so I was surprised to hear J.O. say, "I would kick it." You would think 100 times out of 100 a lineman would want to go for it. Although, J.O. did play for a Superbowl-winning team that went 5 games without a touchdown. He understands the value of taking points when you can get them.

The Ravens went for it and were stopped short. I guess the big man knows what he's talking about.

At halftime he signed autographs, posed for pictures, and even let people try on his Super Bowl ring. He was easygoing and personable with each of us, but particularly charming with the kids. At one point I watched in amazement as my Mom plopped a nephew down on Ogden's lap (correctly assuming he'd be fine with it) while 4 or 5 more kids squeezed in on either side of him for a picture.

As the game went on and the outcome was no longer in question (as if it ever was), J.O. migrated to the kitchen were my sister's boyfriend introduced him to Pisco Porton, a spirit that he distributes to bars and restaurants in the area (more flavorful than vodka and more subtle than tequila... there's your plug Kris). Ogden must have enjoyed the taste of it, because it seemed like whenever I looked over there he was amongst a circle of people taking shots to a toast of one kind or another. Shots in the kitchen are not an unusual occurrence when my family gathers, but it's not every day that we have an 11-time Pro Bowler joining us. (Lest I besmirch J.O.'s good name, he had a designated driver).

Showing off our rings.

It was refreshing to meet someone unaffected by the trappings of success, fame, and money. If his smile doesn't tell the story, let me do it: J.O. enjoys the company of other people. He's funny, self-deprecating (I got him to briefly do the Gebco dance), and down to earth. I think I speak for everyone in my family when I say, he'd be welcome back anytime.

As long as someone else is picking up the food bill...

Field Guide: Creek Therapy

2011-10-09T12:09:00.001-07:00

Here's a link to my latest Field Guide: http://www.chestertownspy.com/field-guide-creek-therapy/

Field Guide: Tailgating

2011-09-22T20:25:00.000-07:00

You can read the latest Field Guide here: http://www.chestertownspy.com/field-guide-tailgating/

Osprey Rescue

2011-07-29T06:53:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest Field Guide entry.

It seemed like a normal morning. As part of Sultana Projects’ Canoe Camp, I was leading a group of young campers on a paddle of the upper Chester River, near Crumpton, MD. We rounded a corner and began approaching the beach where we planned to spend our day swimming and fishing.
I could see my friend, Liz, standing on the dock waving us in. But, as we got closer, I realized something was off. Liz was shouting to us and waving a net over her head, but I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.
“There’s an osprey stuck in the water!” As her words sunk in, I encouraged the boys in my canoe to pick up their pace and we paddled over to get the net from Liz.
By now, I’d spotted the floundering osprey. Apparently it was a baby who’s first attempt at flight ended with disaster. As its mother circled and shrieked above, the fledgling anxiously swam around the base of its nest.
As I got nearer to the bird, I began to think through my game plan. Was I really about to try to scoop up a raptor and put it in my canoe with two small boys? What if it got nervous and attacked?
Behind me, I heard Charlie’s voice. “John, I have experience with birds. Let me get it.” Charlie is one of my co-workers and has spent many years raising chickens as part of 4-H.
I gave him the net and began filming as he paddled up to the osprey. Despite the fact that it’s less than 6 months old, the osprey was much too large for our net.
Luckily, it seemed to sense that we were there to help. Rather than “catch” the bird, Charlie simply had to hold the net out and let it climb onto the pole. He gently placed the net in his boat and the bird remained perched on it.
Charlie and the boys in his boat began to slowly paddle towards the osprey’s nest. Whenever the bird began to flap its wings and chirp, Charlie would summon his inner “bird whisperer” to soothe it. By talking to it quietly, or imitating its flaps and chirps with his own, Charlie was able to keep the osprey calm.
Once they reached the osprey’s nest, Charlie extended the net towards it. Still unsure, the bird stubbornly clung to the net for a few moments before eventually flapping its wings and hopping back into the bundle of branches where it has spent the entirety of its young life.
We cheered Charlie and the successful rescue of the bird.
Charlie had been careful not to touch the osprey, so as not to transfer his scent, but still we wondered if the mother would return. We watched as she circled off and on for a half an hour before finally settling back in the nest.
Later in the day, the rescued osprey displayed courage and resilience as it attempted once again to fly. This time, all was well and I watched in amazement as it climbed higher and higher, soaring above the trees for the first time in its life.
The entire affair seemed almost dreamlike. And you might not believe it, if I hadn’t captured it on video. While they’re not always this dramatic, I assure these moments of magic exist in every corner of our County’s great outdoors. If you venture out and pay attention, sometimes you’re lucky enough to witness them.

Gone Fishin'

2011-07-17T07:17:00.001-07:00

Here's the latest Field Guide column: http://www.chestertownspy.com/field-guide-gone-fishin’/

Field Guide: Snapping Turtles

2011-06-05T08:21:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest Field Guide entry.

Dreaming of Kona

2011-06-02T14:09:00.000-07:00

If you remember back in October I wrote this piece about my second Dewey Beach Sprint Triathlon. At the the end of that column I revealed that I have a new life goal: complete the Ironman World Championship in Kona, HI by my 40th birthday (July 3, 2020).

Since then I've taken a few steps to get closer to that impossibly big dream. I explored the scary world of Craigslist. I'm comfortable with shopping online, but Craigslist is still a little Wild West for my taste, with its lack of buyer and seller ratings/protections like eBay has. But I took a chance and bought a mid-90's Trek bike. The gear shifters didn't work so the seller, a nice enough guy, knocked $100 off the price and I got it for $400, which seemed like a decent deal.

After taking it to the local bike shop, I discovered the shifters are most likely dead. And apparently someone decided that 21 gears weren't sufficient for a bike, so all the new ones come with 24 gears, which makes it very difficult to purchase replacement gears for my 21-speed bike, although the search continues...

I signed up for a Sprint Triathlon in Rock Hall on June 26 (750 Meter Swim, 15 Mile Bike, 5K Run). On September 24 I'm running the Skipjackman in Cambridge, which is a 1/2 Ironman (1.2 mile swim, 64 mile bike, 10 mile run).

It seems like I'm on pace, right? Not a bad start for Year One of my Kona training. Well, today I Googled "qualifying for Kona" and came across this:

3 main ways:

1) Qualify at a IM brand race (can be either full distance or a half - there are slots available at all IM branded full distance and some HIM distance races) in your AG (or corporate challenge if you are a CEO for a company that makes over I think $5 million a year) by placing high or getting a roll-down slot if someone over you passes it up. Edit: It is NOT time based, it is finishing place based in relation to the rest of your AG.

2) Enter the Kona lottery and hope you are one of the very few (200 worldwide) that get drawn.

3) Buy a charity slot (they sell on EBay for around $40k or so).

Okay, no way I'm buying a spot on eBay for $40K or becoming the CEO of a company that grosses over $5 million, so we can scratch those two. The Lottery sounds like a nice option, but it's a looooong shot and it costs $50 just to submit your name each year. The Ironman Qualifiers (which are also difficult to sign up for) cost between $500 and $600 and even then you have to finish in the Top 3 of your age group. The Ironman in Kona cost $675 this year.

I knew that triathalon could be an expensive sport, I just didn't realize how much of that money went towards entry fees. So Kona is still a goal, but for now I'm tempering my expectations. Unless I become a world class triathlete, find $40K sitting around, or take over as CEO of Under Armor, its unlikely that this particular dream will come true.

But I'll continue to plug away. And even if the closest I get to Kona is sipping on a cup of Royal Farms Kona Blend or watching the race on NBC, there's still merit in the attempt. I'll be in great shape and have a lot of fun doing it.

Take that billionaire CEOs!

Final Daze

2011-05-19T07:37:00.000-07:00

"It's the end of the world as we know it

and I feel fine." -R.E.M.

Have you heard the awesome news? The End of the World is almost here! In fact, it begins on Saturday. At least, according to Harold Camping.

"It is absolutely going to happen," said Camping, who has determined after five decades of studying Scripture that May 21 marks the beginning of the end. "We do not have a Plan B at all. There is no possibility that it will not happen, because all of our information comes from the Bible."

Read more: http://www.kansascity.com/2011/05/19/2886629/end-daze-harold-camping-says-doomsdays.html#ixzz1Mo1lmrDR

Camping has even nailed down a time when doomsday will officially begin; "around 6 PM." No word if that's Eastern, Central, or Pacific time. Or whether rapture will hit Australia 12 hours before it reaches the U.S. I wonder how many people will book flights to American Samoa, which will officially be the last place on earth to experience 6PM on May 21st. If you hop on a Concorde, could you temporarily outrun the end of days? Also, will we be able to watch each nation's final countdown? Perhaps this is what Dick Clark has spent all his life training for. Now it makes sense why he didn't retire after the stroke...

"We go now to Paris, where the City of Lights is ablaze in hellfire and brimstone. Really a dazzling display befitting the French people."

Meanwhile in the U.S. Kesha and Lady Gaga will keep us entertained as millions gather in Times Square to watch the Snooki-ball drop for the final time.

What will you be doing to mark the beginning of the end? I'll be enjoying my Bachelor Party fishing trip. Although, does it really count as a bachelor party if my wedding date is doomed to never happen?

In any event, we made our reservations way before billboards were instructing us to "Save The Date." And, if we cancel now, we'll loose our security deposit. So when you weigh that against hiding out in a bomb shelter, or repenting your sins and begging for salvation, the choice is clear right? I mean, we already bought the beer!

So, if this is my final blog entry, let me say its been a fun ride dear reader. I know, at times you've felt neglected, ignored, or forgotten. But through it all, you've stuck with me. And in times like these, what more can a guy ask for?

Playing It By Ear

2011-03-16T06:31:00.000-07:00

Here's my latest Field Guide column.

I like it, so I put a ring on it!

2011-02-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

Yes, after 30 years of having the Beyonces of the world hammer home the message, it's finally penetrated the depths of my Neanderthal brain. Last night I asked Gretchen to marry me and she said "Yes!"

We spent the weekend with her father in Ocean Pines. I'd set it up with him ahead of time to have his wife take Gretchen out of the house on an errand on Saturday night so that he and I could have a one on one conversation. If you're a man who's gone through that before (or a quarterback who's sat in the locker room before a Superbowl) you understand the gut-churning that takes place before such a talk. Thankfully he was pretty merciful on me. We had a really great talk, he gave me his blessing, and I refilled my wine glass.

On the drive home on Sunday I mentioned to Gretchen that I'd like to stop by the Chestertown waterfront and check out the restorations on Echo Hill's buy boat, Annie D. She said that sounded fine. Then as we got closer she mentioned that she was feeling kind of tired and would rather just head home.

"Let's just check out the boats for a few minutes and let the dog stretch his legs."

"Okay, fine."

By this point it was 5:30 and there was still plenty of light left in the day, but it was kind of overcast. So I was surprised to find so many people strolling about the waterfront; feeding the ducks and looking at the boats. I wanted this moment to be private between us, so I wasn't about to drop to one knee and create a spectacle.

We walked over to the boats and took a good look at them. I thought about proposing to her right on the deck of the skipjack Elsworth. But boats, even 110 year old boats, are temporary and I wanted to do it in a permanent spot. By this point the promenade was clearing out and I saw my opening. I led her back over to the area I had in mind.

"Do you remember when we first started dating and walked down to the river one night to look at the water? We were standing here hugging when that old, drunk guy starting laughing and shouted over to us, 'Hold on to that one, man. You're gonna marry that girl one day!'"

"Yes, I remember that."

"Well it made me think that this would be the perfect spot," I said as I dropped to one knee, "To ask you to marry me." With one hand holding the dog's leash and the other hand retrieving the ring from my pocket I thought I was incredibly smooth, although Gretchen told me afterwards that my hands were trembling the whole time.

I told her about my feelings and desires for the future, and those words I will keep as our own. I'll never forget the look on her face. Her eyes were wide and filled with tears and her hands covered her mouth.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" she cried out.

I fumbled around trying to figure out which finger the ring should go on. "Here let me," she said taking the ring from me, "You're shaking."

She slid the ring onto her finger and miraculously it was a perfect fit. (I never got her ring size, I just bought the ring I liked figuring we could resize it later if it didn't fit.)

Then she smiled and said, "Oh my gosh. I don't remember anything you just said." So I repeated it to her and her response remained the same and we headed back to my car as fiancées.

Angus was blissfully unaware that anything significant had taken place.

Winter On The Shore

2011-02-17T09:46:00.000-08:00

Here's my latest Field Guide article.

Inscriptions

2011-02-15T13:38:00.000-08:00

I love books. I have for as long as I can remember. It probably started with bedtime stories and then weekly trips to the library. While I didn't always value getting a book as a Christmas or birthday gift, I was always kind of fascinated with the idea of an inscription.

A good inscription should be dated and convey some sort of connection between the giver, the receiver, and the book. It can serve as a time capsule. It can offer a desired message that the giver hopes the book delivers to the reader.

Notes written on cards or in letters are nice, but I've never been one to save them for too long. Invariably, they're read, enjoyed, and discarded. A book, by its very nature, is more permanent than a letter or a card. Any time I want, I can pull Robinson Crusoe off my shelf and read what my Dad wrote me for Christmas 1990.

People tend to think more about what they inscribe versus what they'd write on a card. As the inscriber, you realize your words will last as long as the book. It's not something you scribble at red lights on the way to a party.

The fact that your writing on a piece of literature should be humbling. In the same way you'd straighten your tie before entering a courthouse, you'd better mind your grammar while inscribing.

Ever since I learned about Google Shopping, it's directed many of my online purchases. Books, especially, can be found on the cheap. Often used, they sometimes cost as little as a penny plus three or four dollars shipping and handling. My most recent purchase was Tom Horton's An Island Out Of Time, which came with the following inscription:

Enjoy & many more wonderful years in your quest to make life more pure for others. Love, Barbara Nov 20, 1997

Even if it wasn't written to you, an inscription can provide meaning. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I'll take that over an E-book any day.

Virtual Economy

2011-01-31T07:05:00.000-08:00

I've briefly experimented with selling things on e-Bay. I've found that electronics are easy to sell because they're usually small, which cuts down on shipping costs, and they can fetch a good price. Every year, I buy the new version of Madden and NBA 2K, so this time I sold last year's versions on e-Bay. I only made around $15 on the transactions, but that's worth more to me than useless pieces of plastic on my shelf.

When you pre-order video games, which involves paying a retailer for the game before its actual release date, they often throw in a bonus. These bonuses are meant to entice gamers to pre-order, which includes the risk of committing your money to a game before it's been reviewed. Sometimes these bonuses are just simple things, like posters. I was able to sell two posters for $12. Any little bit helps offset the cost of a $60 game.

More recently the bonuses have been virtual items. Special guns, characters, or items that can only be unlocked by entering one-time use codes. These codes are e-mailed to the buyer from sites like Amazon once the game ships.

In order for most of these codes to work, your game console needs to be connected to the internet. Since I'm doing my gaming from a one-room farm cabin, a high speed internet connection just isn't an option. Therefore, these codes have laid dormant, collecting virtual dust in my e-mail inbox.

Then I realized that some ingenious entrepreneurs had discovered that these codes could also be sold on e-Bay. Of course! Since it's just a virtual commodity, shipping doesn't become a factor. Whatever price you can command for your virtual wares will go straight into your pocket... or more likely, your Paypal account.

I had 2 such codes to sell. One was for "golden guns" in the epic Western shooter, Red Dead Redemption. The other was for a special suit of armor in the medieval hit-man game, Assassins' Creed: Brotherhood. The golden guns code gives gamers a fame boost for each kill, which might not make any sense if you've never played the game, but basically it allows you to "level up" at a slightly faster rate. The armor code, officially called the Helmschmied Drachen code, gives the gamer a cool looking suit of armor, but no gameplay advantages. In the gaming world, this is known as a skin.

So, I listed the items on e-Bay. As always, supply and demand dictate the marketplace. Red Dead Redemption was one of the best sellers of all time, and was pre-ordered by millions. Therefore, a good number of golden gun codes can be found on e-Bay at any given time. The average sale price is only $5, which is about the price I got for mine. Assassins' Creed didn't receive as much hype as Read Dead, and so it didn't pre-sell as many copies. Those who did pre-order it probably chose places like Gamestop (where you can pick up your game on its release date) over a site like Amazon (where you have to wait for the game to ship to you). As a result, Amazon's Helmshmied Drachen code is rare, and much sought after.

Cha-Ching!

I listed my code at $39 for a week-long auction. At the time of this post, with one day remaining, the bids are up to $50. The game cost me $60. I have the chance to recoup that amount just by selling a string of words and numbers that's been sitting in my e-mail inbox. Only in America!

Well actually, anywhere in the world, thanks to e-Bay.

Final sale price: $61

Creative Control

2011-01-20T12:30:00.000-08:00

“The artist must create a spark before he can make a fire and before art is born,
the artist must be ready to be consumed by the fire of his own creation.”
- Auguste Rodin

Write a song. Go ahead try it. Write the lyrics, write the music, then record yourself singing it and post it online. Oh yeah, do this all in 7 days, then do another one in another seven days, and continue this process every week for the next year.

Does this sound like a painful process? Well, Baltimore-based rapper E-Dubble, real name Evan Wallace, has made it seem like a pleasure. On Thursday night he released his 52nd consecutive "Freestyle Friday." Each one of these tracks features lyrics written and rapped by E-Dubble laced over existing music. Part of the fun each Friday was hearing just which artist he'd chosen to "collaborate" with. Unexpected choices like The Avett Brothers, Tom Petty, and even Hanson not only fit, they seem like they were made to go together.

Regardless of your opinion of rap music, there can be little questioning E-Dub's work ethic. Week after week, he brought it. In the midst of holidays, his birthday, or weeks when he was sick, he continued to put out quality tracks for free every week. That's right, for free.

In the non-profit business, we refer to non-fundraising events as "cultivating activities." They're not meant to bring in immediate money, but rather to spread brandrecognition and appeal. To this end Mr. Wallace has succeeded in spades. Not only has he seen his Facebook following grow to around 5,000 people, but one of his earliest freestyles "Hampden Parks," a remix of the theme from NBC's Parks and Rec, was featured in a promo for the show.

Each week's track was flanked by either an intro or an outro where E-Dubble mused on life, current events, or cracked wise at banks trying to stick him with overdraft fees. They served as an time capsule, letting us know that each one was made this week. It was the audio equivalent of those photographs where someone's holding up the New York Times to prove the date. In case you doubted that anyone could produce such a volume of music every week, there was E-Dubble talking about Easter, or the Census, or Michael Vick just to remind you that every word you'd just listened to had only come into being in the past 48 hours.

After 52 weeks, no one could begrudge him a break. Track 52 seems intentionally vague as to what the future holds. Its called "Make Like A Tree," so he's leaving, right? As he says, "FF, its a wrap now." But, don't expect this prodigious poet to disappear. As he says in his farewell freestyle:

Hard work is all we keep preachin'
lead by example, no I'm not leavin'...

aint goin' nowhere,
put away them goodbyes

It's been said that talent isn't so rare. Rather, it's hard work that separates those who make it from those who don't. If that's the case, than it appears that E-Dubble can set his own limits. And it seems he's aiming for the sky.

enjoy a year's worth of creativity at http://www.reverbnation.com/edubble

Where Credit Is Due

2011-01-19T14:00:00.000-08:00

"You don't even have good credit. You can write but you can't edit." -Regina Spektor

I live fairly simply. My car is a Hyundai. It's almost 10 years old.

It's white, gets decent gas mileage, and it's paid for. For the past 5 years, while working at Echo Hill Outdoor School, housing has been provided as part of my compensation. For the past year I've lived in a one room cabin on the corner of a farm. (The shower is in the kitchen.) I've never had a cell phone. For the past year I haven't even had a land-line. This doesn't mean I fear technology. After all, you're reading my blog. But, I've never liked the idea of monthly bills. Currently I have one, for car insurance, and it's less than $100 a month.

The result of living like this is that I've been able to save a decent amount of money, but when it comes to the world of credit reports, I don't exist. It's not that I have a bad credit score, I have NO credit score. I've never owned a credit card. Not that I pay for things with cash, but my check card has allowed me to pay with plastic, yet not have to deal with the worry of a monthly bill.

All of this was fine until about a month ago. I've accepted a new job as Director of Educational Programs with Sultana Projects. This will allow me to remain in Kent County teaching young people about the Bay, but it's more of a 9-5 job, which will give me much more free time with Gretchen and Angus. The only down side is that once I leave Echo Hill in March, I've got to find a new place to live.

Gretchen and I have been house hunting for the past few weeks. We want a place that's in Chestertown, big enough to fit us for the next 5-10 years (during which we'll hopefully be married and raising a family), and has a yard large enough for Angus.

This is an ideal time to be buying a house, as prices and interest rates seem to have bottomed out. But the process has indoctrinated me to the world of credit. Because I haven't been using credits and paying off various monthly bills for the past 10 years, banks are not willing to lend me money. I would think that my bank statements would prove that I'm fiscally responsible. Its proof that I've been able to manage my money and a put a substantial amount of each check into savings.

But apparently you need a debt to income ratio. You've got to show that you're part of the game before anyone will let you off the sidelines. So, I've acquired a credit card. And now I need to spend, but not too much, to show that I can pay off a monthly bill.

In another unlikely development, I've become an HGTV addict. Designed To Sell, House Hunters, Property Virgins, DIY Disasters, I love them all. The real estate game is a new world to me, and you can actually learn a good amount watching these shows. I find myself squirreling away renovation ideas and handyman tips for the day when that dream becomes a reality.

Like any good Lost Boy there's a certain amount of resistance to leaving Neverland, but I'm finding that the world of homeownership and monthly bills can be an equally big adventure that comes with its own rewards.

They Are Who We Thought They Were?

2010-12-14T06:41:00.000-08:00

I don't know how it's possible, but 13 games into a 16 game season, there's a lot we don't know about the 2010 Baltimore Ravens. Are they a running team or a passing team? They've been both (and neither) at different times in the same game. Their pass defense was ranked #1 in the NFL through the first half of the season, but has since dropped to #14. At times Flacco resembles the franchise quarterback we've been longing for since... well, since Johnny Unitas. Other times he seems to be regressing. Just look at his final passes against the Steelers this season. In the first game he cooly found TJ Houshmandzadeh in the back of the end zone to win the game. In the rematch he looked nervous, short-hopping a 4th down pass to Ed Dickson with :33 seconds left.

Who is this team? Last night, their offense scored 21 points in the first half and 0 points in the second. Their defense allowed 99 and 95 yard TD drives, with a 2-pt conversion cherry on top. Clearly this is not the Ravens D we know and love. Or is it? In overtime, Ngata brings pressure up the middle, forcing a bad pass which is intercepted and returned for the game-winning TD by cornerback Josh Wilson.

How do we know so little about this team after so many games? Because they are maddeningly inconsistent. Neither the offense nor defense has put together a complete game. And this week the World Champion New Orleans Saints are coming to town.

So far the 2010 Ravens have not fared well against the NFL's elite quarterbacks. Will things be any different against Drew Brees?

I think the best thing we have going for us is that the game is in Baltimore in December. Pray for wind and rain or snow. That might be our best shot at slowing down a powerful Saints' offense.

The optimistic callers on the radio shows like to remind us that this team is 9-4. Things could be worse, they say, look at the Bengals.

But we're not the Bengals. This was a team that didn't shy away from talking about the Super Bowl in the pre-season. Derrick Mason, among others, called it a team goal. And it should be. When you look at all the weapons on this team, they are built to win- now. So, it's understandable that many of the fans are frustrated that they've yet to "put it together."

"A win is a win." Harbaugh is fond of reminding us of this. But surrendering a 21 point lead to a Texans team that probably wont make the playoffs does not reassure us that this is a team capable of going into New England in January to knock off the Patriots.

Last night's game presented us with more questions than answers. I think the Saints are coming to town to answer those questions, one way or another.

Neither Man Nor Beast

2010-12-13T08:32:00.000-08:00

As in, "A night fit for neither man nor beast." Last night was one of those nights. I kept putting off Angus's walk, waiting for the rain to stop, but eventually we had to venture out. I'm not sure what the temperature was, maybe 32.1 because it was cold out, but just warm enough for the rain to keep from turning to snow.

I went to my car to retrieve a raincoat. While the door was still open, Angus jumped in and shook off. This is a dog who is not easy to get into a car. Usually I have to entice him with toys or treats and oftentimes I resort to lifting him up into the seat. Otherwise, he'll stand there like a dog on his death bed, staring at the seat as if its accession requires some Herculean-feat of strength.

But last night, no hesitation. The door was open for a second and he was in. And reluctant to come out. Even though he'd been cooped up inside for so long and had to relieve himself, it was a night so nasty, that even my beast wanted to hide from it.

We took a shortened version of our walk. He did his business. And then he led me back to my house, standing on the porch and staring at the door. Again, this was unusual behavior. Usually he wants to extend his "outside time" and has to be cajoled into coming back inside.

Once we were back in the house, I toweled him off. Even still he shook a few times. Then he took his favorite spot, on the chair right next to the heater, and spent the next fifteen minutes licking the cold away from his body.

It was the perfect night for hunkering down under blankets, watching Sunday night football, and listening to the frigid rain falling on my tin roof. I was thankful for that shelter and wondered about those less fortunate, those without a place from which to escape an unforgiving night.

For reasons unrelated to the temperature, I shivered.

Neighborhood Mom

2010-11-08T21:08:00.001-08:00

A coworker was attending a funeral the other day for a 92-year old woman that he described as the last of the "neighborhood moms" from his childhood. You know the type: always out in her garden, or sitting on the front porch. If you were in the vicinity of her yard you could see her and, more importantly, she could see you. And she knew you. And your mother. And your father. She knew your name, and your siblings' names. She knew where you were supposed to be and what you were supposed to be doing. And if you went astray, she wouldn't hesitate to punish you, or scold you, or at the very least make sure your mother found out. She was a vital thread in the fabric that held your neighborhood together. No matter how far you went, there was a neighborhood mom nearby.

This 92-year old woman was not just one of the last neighborhood moms from Andy's neighborhood. She was one of the last neighborhood moms, period. In an era of 800-channel cable packages, cell phones, and the internet, we spend more time in our houses than ever before. This decrease in personal interactions has lead to a mistrust of each other to the point where we assume that every stranger belongs on NBC's To Catch A Predator. Neighborhood moms?! We barely know our neighbor's names!

Last night, I took the opportunity to attend a Q&A at Washington College with writer Junot Diaz. I'd not read anything he'd written, but I knew he'd won a Pulitzer Prize, so I figured it'd be worth my time to hear what he had to say.

He did a short reading. The language in his book, "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," seems informal and conversational. It easily draws you in. (Definitely on my "To-Read List".) He answered numerous questions on reading, writing, and art with a poignancy that is uncommon.

Towards the end of the night, he brought up one point which I thought fit into this whole theme of "neighborhood moms." He reminded us that when we start out reading, it is very much a communal experience. We need help sounding out the words. We ask questions like, "What does this say?" Later on, we're reading books in school. We discuss things like, "What does this mean?"

But, at some point, as readers, we go off on our own. Mr Diaz stated, it's as if when something in a book doesn't make sense, it means that A.) The writer's an asshole. or B.) I'm dumb. We're afraid to ask someone else, "What does this mean?" Mr. Diaz made the point that no one mind can make sense of life. In the same way, no one person can understand a novel. It's only through a discussion and merging of viewpoints, experiences, and opinions thought any kind of deeper appreciation can be reached. Communal reading is a way to combat our Narcissistic selves.

We need each other just as much now as we did all those years ago when Mrs. So-And-So rocked on her front porch and eyed you suspiciously as you rode your bike down the street.

It was with these thoughts swirling through my head that I left the auditorium. Parked next to me was a shiny, red pickup truck. Affixed to its bumper was a sticker with the Marine Corps insignia and the slogan: "Give War A Chance".

The Leaves They Are A-Changin'

2010-10-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

Here's my latest Chestertown Spy article:

http://www.chestertownspy.com/field-guide-the-leaves-they-are-a-changin’/

Give It A Tri

2010-09-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

Here's my Chestertown Spy article on the 2010 Dewey Beach Sprint Triathlon.

Farmville

2010-09-08T06:17:00.000-07:00

Here's my latest Chestertown Spy article.

Storming The Castle (Pt. 1)

2010-07-26T07:16:00.000-07:00

Just how big has football become in the past few years? Well, if you're anything like me, you check the Baltimore Sun's website a few times a day to see the latest updates from camp. Your also waiting anxiously for next Tuesday's release of Madden 2011, because this year's Ravens will include Anquan Boldin! You know that next Thursday is the first preseason game. Labor Day is significant not because it's a day off of work, but because its the Draft Day for the Charm City Fantasy Football League. There are about 200 mini-countdowns to the 2010 NFL season before Week 1 actually roles around in mid-September.

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to travel a little deeper into the rabbit hole. One of my Dad's co-workers used to work security for the Ravens. As a result, he was able to arrange a tour for a group of 10 of us of the team's Owings Mills practice facility. It is, in a word, impressive. After passing the guardhouse, our car rolled down 1 Winning Drive, and The Castle came into view. The complex gets this name for its oversized, stone architecture. We parked the car and approached the building, passing a putting green (with Raven flags marking each hole) along the way. Dad and I chuckled picturing 300 lb. linemen crouched over putters.

Once we were in the lobby, the first thing I noticed were the AFC and Superbowl trophies from the 2000-2001 season. They sandwiched a fireplace, which sported a large portrait of Art Modell hanging over the hearth. The painting was commissioned by current owner Steve Biscotti. We learned that when Mr. Modell (who's health is declining) was wheeled in for the surprise unveiling, he broke into tears and was left speechless for several minutes.

As we left the lobby and headed towards the player's section of the building we passed by a collage honoring the history of football in Baltimore. One of the largest pieces was a reproduction of a Loyola-Calvert Hall program, which Dad and I both thought was pretty cool.

Each position has its own meeting room. I think it's impressive, if you think of football as a union of many smaller factions, that they're able to get so many different parts to work together. Its surprising there aren't more penalties like offsides or too many men on the field.

The players' lounge reminded me that these giant men who get paid to smash each other around are still very much like little boys on the inside. The room looked like something out of that island in Pinocchio where they turn kids into donkeys... although the good part where the kids could indulge any of their desires. There was a Ravens' pinball machine, a purple pool table, an internet station, flat screen TVs, a Texas Hold 'Em poker set, and every video game system released in the past 15 years. The only thing missing was a wall of stained-glass windows and a stack of bricks.

Water

2010-07-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest Spy article.

Making Waves

2010-07-19T06:27:00.000-07:00

My friend Todd told me to write a blog entry about turning 30.

"Why, so you'll know how to feel about it?"

"Yeah."

Well, here you go Todd. I know too much thinking hurts your grey matter.

Thirty approaches like no other number. Twenty is overshadowed by 21 and 40 will be just another level of adulthood, but 30 seems like one of the most momentous to me. It's like, "You are now old, the playtime of childhood is over and its time to get serious!" Fortunately, I've always been good at ignoring those directives.

Todd, Adam, and I (who've been friends since Kindergarten) all turned 30 between June 16th and July 22nd. We decided a joint party would be awesome and checked our calendars to find a date that would work. Whenever we thought we'd found a day our significant others would remind us of some wedding, baby shower, or birthday party to which we were already committed. Eventually we realized it wasn't going to work and scraped the idea of a joint party.

Little did we realize their wives and my girlfriend had been conspiring for months to throw us that joint party. Anytime we thought we'd found a date that would work, they'd invent some excuse to stymy our plans.

So, on Saturday I was both surprised and excited to find out that they'd planned for the 6 of us to go out for dinner and to catch the Orioles game that night. We met up at a restaurant that was just a few blocks away from the stadium. Shortly after we were seated, the girls excused themselves for the restroom and returned wearing matching shirts featuring our heads photoshopped over the bodies of the Three Amigos. The indignity of it all is that they swiped this image from an e-mail I'd sent to Todd and Adam when we were trying to plan our own party. In a sense, they had us unknowingly working on our own surprise party!

As they took their seats back at the table, smugly grinning at their subterfuge, Gretchen mentioned that "guests" would be arriving soon.

"What do you mean guests? Who? How many?"

"50, " Becky replied.

It took a few minutes for Adam, Todd, and I to wrap our heads around the fact that the women we love had been lying to us for months and we were about to be part of a 56 person party in the centerfield seats of Camden Yards!

As people arrived at the restaurant, it was like an episode of 'This Is Your Life,' or the ending of 'The Wizard Of Oz', "And you were there, and you were there, and you were there too." Friends and family just kept funneling in. Each group heightened the energy level for the Three Amigos until we were near a frenzy on our way to the stadium.

On top of all that, the girls had shirts for everyone.

So, we took our seats beneath the jumbotron and enjoyed the early evening July sun, the cold beers in our hands, and the loved ones surrounding us. We groaned our way through another sub-par Orioles' performance, but that was merely an afterthought.

We heckled Vernon Wells incessantly. We saw our group welcomed on the Jumbotron. We danced to John Denver. And amazingly we (mostly Todd) started a wave that successfully made it around the stadium!

The game flew by in a swirl of oversized and overpriced beers, sloppy base running, and the sophomoric humor that I hope will forever define get-togethers between Todd, Adam, and me.

What epiphanies do I have to share? How should Todd feel about turning 30? Well, I guess I'd sum it up like this:

Life moves pretty fast (Ferris Bueller). Cram in as many good times as you can. Saturday was pretty epic as far as good times go. I can't think of a better way to celebrate than with the people we love in the city we love.

As you proceed through whatever stage of life in which you currently find yourself you have two choices:

You can either wait for the current to take you somewhere, or you can make your own waves.

As Todd said a few times on Saturday night, "HEY EVERYBODY, WE'RE STARTING THE WAVE IN 3, 2, 1..."

See buddy, you didn't need me to tell you how to feel about turning 30, you did a pretty good job summing it up yourself.

Canoe Circumnavigation Is A Success

2010-07-09T22:29:00.001-07:00

Latest Spy story here.

New Spy Article

2010-07-02T06:27:00.000-07:00

Part II of the Grand Canyon Series

Circumnavigating Kent County by Canoe

2010-06-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

New article here.

Ca-Cawing The Canyon

2010-06-14T17:45:00.000-07:00

New Spy article is here.

Not THAT Tea Party

2010-05-27T15:38:00.000-07:00

This is the eve of my favorite Chestertown weekend, the Tea Party. Back in 1774, the residents of Chestertown met and resolved to forbid the importing, selling, or drinking of tea as a sign of solidarity with the residents of Boston. Local legend has it that Chestertown citizens then met in the town square and stormed the British brigantine, Geddes; expelling her cargo of East India Tea into the Chester River. This last bit is more lore than fact, as no written account of the incident has ever been found. But, why let historical accuracy get in the way of a good time?

So, way before the Palin-backers appropriated the name for their political "revolution", Chestertown has hosted a Tea Party Festival every Memorial Day Weekend. Its an opportunity for countless musical acts and craft vendors to create a carnival atmosphere in Chestertown's historic district. Open-container laws are waved, tri-corner hats abound everywhere, and there's even a town wench who marks her territory with fire-engine red lip-prints (again, not historically accurate, but why rock the boat?).

Through the years, I've experienced many different aspects of this weekend, from running the 10 mile race, to re-enacting the dumping of the tea, to racing in the Raft Race, to DJing the closing party on Sunday night. This year finds me nursing sprained muscles in my left shoulder, so my activities will be limited. I'm slated to once again dress up in itchy wool and shout lines that were never spoken amidst a crowd of mostly drunken people who won't easily be able to hear me. All the while, they'll be waiting for us to dump the tea, which due to my physical condition, I won't be able to do. I'll rebel in words and spirit and then cheer from the sidelines.

The Raft Race, which takes place on Sunday morning, is usually even better than all of Saturday's events. Teams build makeshift "rafts" out of any non-boat materials they can dream of. I've seen a hollowed out A-team van, a cardboard canoe, and even an outhouse float their way around the Chester River course. Every raft I've been on has fallen apart and we've been left to swim our wreckage around the course all the while catching beers (hopefully not in the head) from the flotilla that gathers to watch. So, the Echo Hill rafters can rest happy in the fact that I'll watch their raft from shore, which greatly increases their odds of staying afloat.

I'll end the night by reprising my role as DJ Doo Doo and co-hosting the party at Rolph's with my good friend, DJ Ladylike. I've always loved controlling the music at parties and seeing my choices get people up on the dance floor. Actually DJing last year was such a rush! Kate, I mean Ladylike, has finagled the beer distributor into renting us some real DJ equipment for the night, so this year should be even better. I've spent the past few weeks updating my playlists in gleeful anticipation.

Monday, of course, is a recovery day. However you spend your Memorial Day weekend, I wish you a good one. If you don't have plans, why not come to Chestertown and join the revolution? (Just don't expect to bump into Sarah Palin.)

Tough Mudder

2010-05-24T07:28:00.000-07:00

The latest column is up. Read it here.

Field Guide

2010-04-28T03:24:00.000-07:00

The latest column is up with a description of my entry into the world of civil disobedience.

Read it here.

The Story

2010-04-12T12:01:00.000-07:00

"Above all else, it's the story that matters." -Stephen King

He wrote this in an essay about the process of writing. His point was: don't get too bogged down in literary "tricks," but focus instead on telling a solid story. When I talked to people about The Masters, these words kept popping back into my head.

I used to make a point of watching Tiger Woods, especially if he was in contention at a major. But, as the events of the past 6 months unravelled, I realized that my excitement and support for him not only faded, but reversed. I found myself rooting against Tiger on Sunday.

I used to always say that I wanted to seem him break Jack Nicklaus' record, so that I would know I had the pleasure of watching the world's greatest golfer throughout his career. I still believe he'll break that record, and in doing so prove himself the greatest, but for me the pleasure is gone.

I've heard people say, that they don't care about his personal life, they just want to see great golf. I derive the greatest pleasure watching sports when I know the story behind the action. It's the story that gets us on the edge of our seats watching women's figure skating. When we know that the teenage girl's mother passed away a few days before the competition, suddenly we're astonished by what we see. It's Lance Armstrong's battle with cancer that endears him to us and made the Tour De France an event that even non-sports fans followed. Sure, I appreciate greatness on the field, but it's the details behind the competition that fleshes these competitors into the third dimension that makes them human.

So, when the details are ugly, be they steroids, adultery, or domestic violence, I sour on that athlete. Much like Elin, Tiger and I had a beautiful thing going, but it will never be the same.

As far as stories go, its hard to script one better than Phil Michelson delivered last night. Dealing with both his wife and mother's battles with breast cancer he was able to string together a flurry of amazing shots while fist-bumping the crowd on his way to his third Masters title.

For one afternoon at least, karma seemed just.

The Cool Uncle

2010-03-01T14:27:00.000-08:00

I found out this morning that my Uncle Mike, my mother's youngest brother, died at age 56. I'm dealing with this news by doing the two things that help me get my head straight. First, I took a walk outside. Through the swamp, through the woods, and along the beach, I let my mind drift through thoughts of my uncle. Now, while those thoughts are still fresh I'm sitting down to write. This is the process that works for me.

My Uncle Mike was a super hero. When I was a kid, he was the coolest thing I could imagine. First off, he was a firefighter. Like most kids, firefighters occupied the stratosphere of my cool-scale. On top off that he had a mustache, which is awfully impressive to an eight year old. He wasn't married, which meant that we (his nieces and nephews) got top billing in his book. He drove a corvette! Mustaches are impressive, but a yellow corvette with retractable headlights puts you shoulder to shoulder with Captain Kangaroo in my opinion. Every time Uncle Mike visited my parents house, we begged him to make those headlights hide and reappear, and than watched, fascinated, as it happened again and again.

As I grew up, I came to know another side of Uncle Mike. While driving drunk he smashed his corvette into a bus and totaled it. Everyone was okay, but the car, his pride and joy, was totaled. While fighting a fire, he had part of a building collapse on him. During his recovery he was treated with pain medication. I'm sure some of my details are foggy on this because these details aren't laid out for a young adult still enamored with his firefighting uncle. I do know he became addicted to the pills and lost his job as a firefighter. I guess he earned money from a pension because he stopped working and over the ensuing years drugs took over his life. I don't know what or how often he used, but I know that his appearance at family parties became less frequent and his behavior when he was there became more bizarre. He was a junky. There's no polite way to say it. He lost weight, he was jittery, he became late, forgetful, and anxious. The frailties of a man I swear could've beaten up Superman, became fully exposed.

Addiction runs in the family. My Poppy, Uncle Mike's father, was a recovering alcoholic. He blamed himself for his son's condition. While Poppy's genes didn't help, each man makes his own choices. I don't know what demons Uncle Mike was battling or what pains he was trying to forget through the drugs. I know that the family tried everything from support, to isolation, to encouragement, to attempting to force him into rehab. But, again, each man makes his own choices.

It seemed in the past few years that Uncle Mike was turning things around. Maybe it was the death of Poppy that woke him up. He was working full time at a dollar store, he got a puppy this Christmas after his longtime pet died, he was attending more family parties and looking slightly better, and he even surprised Nanny (his mother) by attending church with her yesterday.

Whether his death was the result of a slip-up, or some other cause, is irrelevant to me at this moment. I'm trying to come to terms with which man I'm grieving for.

When she got the news this morning that Michael had died, Nanny responded, "My Michael?"

Her little boy? The hell-raising teenager? His brother's wingman? The corvette driving super hero firefighter? The junky? The man who surprised his mother in church yesterday with a kiss on the cheek? Who had died?

All those things. Along with some piece of my childhood innocence. Along with hopes for redemption. Along with the chance for me to sit him down and try to talk some sense into him.

Sure, men make their own choices, but that doesn't excuse me from not making the choice to confront him. He was only 56, just two-third's through the average life expectancy. By all rights he should've had another 30 years on this planet. Did he know the possibilities this life offers?

You could go to Vegas and become a black jack dealer. You could go teach English in a foreign country. You could take your puppy for a walk in the woods and inhale the cool air, and feel the late afternoon sun, and hear the songbirds, and imagine the steady progress of Spring.

We'll mourn for both the man we loved and the man we hated. We'll mourn for the potential that was never realized. We'll mourn for our children who will never know the super hero we knew.

But we'll also love. We'll love him and Poppy and all those we've lost. We'll love Nanny and hope that our love can fill more of the room than her pain. We'll love each other. We'll love that our lungs still draw air and we'll finish mourning and hopefully the lessons outlast the sorrow.

This is your life. You make your choices. Make them both good.

Melo'd Out

2010-02-23T09:11:00.000-08:00

When I first fired up NBA 2K10 a few months ago, I didn't know which team to play with. I've always been a fan of Kevin Garnett, so I leaned towards the Celtics. However, the problem with that team is they're so stacked with All-Stars, it makes the game too easy. The Wizards are the closest thing to my home team, but the Gilbert Arenas situation soured me on that squad. Besides, the fallout from those events has left their virtual team's personnel baring little resemblance to the real Wizards. Then the NFL playoffs came along and my video game playing time was rededicated to Madden.

Last week I happened to catch the end of the Nuggets-Cavaliers game (which you can view here). Its hard for the NBA to keep up with college basketball when it comes to excitement. In a typical regular season game there's very little emotion. So many teams make the playoffs that there's just not much incentive to push your limits in February.

In this game, Carmello and Lebron really came alive with a game of oneupsmanship, scoring 40 and 43 points respectively, while shooting 50%. I love to see solid team basketball, but it's also fun to see two superstars go toe to toe with each other, with Carmello hitting the eventual game winner over Lebron with 1.3 seconds left.

Denver seems to have compiled a roster of hard-working, likable guys. Chauncey "Mr. Big Shot" Billups runs the point. Then there's Kenyon Martin, owner of the world's dumbest tattoo, Chris "The Birdman" Andersen comes off the bench, and they even have a former ACC'er, Ty Lawson, as the backup point guard. They're young and fun to watch. Add to this the fact that their coach, George Karl, who survived prostate cancer in '05, announced that he's now battling throat cancer, and its hard not to root for the Nuggets.

Melo's moved past the 'Stop Snitchin' controversy and so have I. This kid from West Baltimore is one of the best basketball players in the world. I don't know why it's taken me this long to get behind him. One of the luxuries of living in a non-NBA city is that you get to be a free agent as a fan. I root for players more than teams. For a long time it was Dan Majerle. Then I pulled for Kevin Garnett.

Last night I finally started my season in NBA 2K10, playing as the Denver Nuggets.

Chestertown Spy Column

2010-01-24T09:49:00.000-08:00

The blog has been lacking a bit lately, which is something I'll try to fix. But in the meantime check out my bi-monthly outdoor column, 'Field Guide,' on The Chestertown Spy.

Winner In A Runaway

2010-01-11T17:58:00.001-08:00

Well, I didn't do so hot with my wildcard picks. I only picked one winner properly (which fortunately was the Ravens). All four games went OVER the totals, so I was 2-2 on that front. That makes for a pathetic 3-5 overall, or $1,000 in the imaginary hole. So, after such an abysmal performance I vow to never pick games on here again... that is until this weekend's games. That's right, like any true degenerate I can't stay away from the action! Here we go again!

Arizona @ New Orleans (-7) 57 total

First of all I've got to take the OVER. These teams have proven all season that their defenses can't be trusted. I think New Orleans could win the game, but I don't see them covering the 7 point spread. Larry Fitzgerald just seems to elevate his game to another level when the playoffs roll around. I wouldn't be shocked if the Cards won outright, so I'm taking Arizona + 7 and the UNDER.

Baltimore @ Indianapolis (-6.5) 44 total

These two teams played a very tight game (Colts 17-15 win) in November. I think that Baltimore is playing at a much higher level than the team the Colts beat in Week 11. Also, I think the fact that Indy hasn't played a meaningful game in almost a month will hurt them. The Ravens are playing at an extremely fast and physical level. The Colts could come out flat and find it hard to catch up. This one should be close until the end, but I'm seeing a Billy Cundiff dome field goal being the difference. Give me the Ravens +6.5 and the OVER.

Dallas @ Minnesota (-3) 46 total

I think the two old QBs are going to meet up in the NFC title game. I'm still not buying Dallas. I don't see their defense being able to handle Adrian Peterson. Once they start stacking 8 or 9 in the box, Favre and Percy Harvin should make them pay deep. I look for the 'Just For Men' beard dye ads to increase tenfold if Favre and Warner play each other in the next round. I like Minnesota -3 plus the OVER.

NY Jets @ San Diego (-7.5) 42.5 total

If San Diego's smart, they'll serve up a healthy dose of Darren Sproles. I think they've finally given up on LaDainian Tomlinson's resurgence. There's no reason to think Darrelle Revis won't shut down Vincent Jackson, like he's done to every other #1 WR this season, so it makes sense to attack the Jets on the ground. (Cedric Benson torched them for 169 yards and a TD last week.) I like the Bolts to win, but I'll take the Jets +7.5 and the OVER.

Stiff Competition

2010-01-07T06:30:00.000-08:00

It's been far too long since I've written about sports on here, and with the NFL Wildcard Weekend coming up, what better time to start? Once again the Ravens have earned the right to be one of the 12 teams competing in the NFL's "second season." Its been an odd year for the Ravens. They've played very close games against the NFL's elite (yet garnered just one win in seven games against current Playoff teams) and taken care of business against those they were supposed to beat, going 7-0 against sub .500 teams. They knocked of the then-undefeated Broncos and came within 4 total points of beating then-undefeated Minnesota and Indianapolis. All told, it's been a good (not quite great) season, so the 9-7 record and final AFC playoff spot are deserved. The enigma lies in what to expect in January, not just for the Ravens, but for the rest of the NFL as well. So, here goes my best Jimmy The Greek impersonation.

NY Jets At Cincinnati (-2.5) Over/ Under: 34

I really don't like the way Cincinnati finished their season (losing 3 of 4). The Bengals were in position to lock up the AFC North in early December, yet they left it up in the air until Week 16. Having said that, I don't see Mark Sanchez winning his first playoff game on the road. The Jets favorable end of season schedule (gimmies against the reserves of the Colts and the Bengals) is the only reason they're in the playoffs. I'll take the Bengals -2.5 points. I know these are two good defenses, but 34 is a LOW number. I'll take the over.

Philadelphia At Dallas (-4) Over/Under: 45

I'm at an admitted disadvantage when it comes to picking NFC games. I watch WAY more AFC football. However, ignorance has never slowed me down before, so here goes: My gut (and is there any sounder source) tells me to go with the Eagles. Despite losing to the 'Boys 24-0 last Sunday, I've got faith that Andy Reid and Donovan McNabb will go deep into the playoffs yet again. I'll take Philly +4, although I think they'll win outright in what should be the highest scoring game of the weekend. Give me the over.

Baltimore At New England (-3.5) Over/Under: 43

The Big Daddy! Baltimore has never beaten the Patriots. NE is undefeated at home this year. Baltimore has struggled all year against good QBs. Tom Brady has the refs in his back pocket (see Baltimore Sun article). Everything is pointing towards a Patriots win, right? Maybe I'm blinded by my heart, but I see Baltimore pulling off the upset. I think the injury to Wes Welker is huge. Baltimore's secondary (strengthened by Ed Reed's return) can double Randy Moss. If Julian Edelman and Sam Aiken beat you, you deserve to lose. I think this will be a close, low-scoring affair with a Ravens' defensive score being the difference. Give me the Under with Baltimore + 3.5 points.

Green Bay At Arizona (-1) Over/ Under 47.5

Green Bay. All the way. This is another rematch of a game played last week and its the only one that I think will bear the same results. Anquan Boldin's dealing with a high ankle sprain and probably won't play. In the NFC, I see Arizona as a team on the decline and Green Bay primed to be a powerhouse for years to come. Youth trumps experience in this case. Give me Aaron Rogers (aka the temp from The Office ) and the Packers +1 point and Under the huge 47.5 points.

So, there you have it; my picks for the weekend. Sports gambling is a losing propstion, so consider these for entertaiment purposes only. In that vein, I'll pretend I bet $500 on each pick. So that's $4,000 in imaginary wagers. I'll report back on Monday to let you know how I did.

-Johnny The Greek

Under The Mistletoe

2009-12-26T19:53:00.000-08:00

The following is an article I wrote for The Chestertown Spy. I'm now writing a bi-monthly column for them on the environment and the outdoors. This is my first piece.

Kent County is not short on holiday spirit. Lights adorn the downtown shops, Santa’s shed is in Fountain Park, and school pageants fill the local auditoriums. The clumps of mistletoe spotted growing on the trees of Kent County seem to suggest that even Mother Nature is in on the act. And while mistletoe grows here year-round, it is only during the winter, when trees have shed their leaves, that this parasitic plant becomes easily visible.

At first glance you might presume that the clump of leaves on a bare tree is a nest. If a closer look reveals the leaves to be green, it is most likely mistletoe. Birds ingest mistletoe berries and then excrete the seeds as part of their droppings left on branches. From these droppings the seeds can germinate.

Mistletoe is actually a hemiparasite. This distinction is made because, while the plant can produce its own food through photosynthesis, it takes nutrients from the host tree by rooting itself into the bark. While mistletoe can harm or cause deformities in the branches (or even harm the tree), it usually doesn’t kill its host, for if the tree dies, the mistletoe also dies.

Mistletoe is most often found growing on hardwood trees, like oak, in Kent County. I’ve seen it flourish in dense areas, like the Big Marsh swamp, and also on isolated trees in someone’s backyard. Once you’ve developed an eye for the short green leaves peppered with white or red berries, you’ll start to notice the plant is in every corner of the County.

If you plan to hang a clump in your house for the holiday season, how will you go about obtaining it? Sure you could buy it at the store, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, in a county so rich with this Christmas crop, surely you can harvest some yourself.

In swamps mistletoe usually grows low enough that it can be plucked by hand. In other areas, you’re going to need a ladder or someone to climb the tree. Or perhaps you subscribe to the method that a local hunter assured me was the most efficient; shotgun harvesting. If you don’t mind the cost of a shell many choose to collect their mistletoe by simply blasting it out of the sky.

However you get it, if you’re going to hang mistletoe in your house, be sure it’s in a place where small children or pets can’t reach it. Ingesting mistletoe can lead to stomach cramps, diarrhea, or even death in a few cases.

And if you’re going to kiss under the mistletoe, shouldn’t you at least understand why? There are many myths attached to mistletoe. As the only green plant in a wintertime deciduous forest, it’s not hard to see why many cultures afforded it significance. Some believed that it symbolized vitality and fertility. Frigga, the Norse goddess of love, lost her son to a poisoned mistletoe dart. Her tears turned the berries from red to white and raised her son from the dead. Afterwards, Frigga kissed anyone who walked under mistletoe out of gratitude for the return of her son.

While researching mistletoe I also discovered there’s proper etiquette when it comes to kissing under the plant. When a couple meets under the mistletoe and kisses, the man is to remove one berry from the plant. When all the berries are removed, there is to be no more kissing under that mistletoe.

May your holidays be merry and bright, and may you meet under the mistletoe with that special someone while there are still plenty of berries left to be plucked.

Dig A Little Deeper

2009-12-05T06:55:00.000-08:00

Like most Baltimoreans I've been keeping up with the details of the Sheila Dixon trial. For those of you not familiar with the case, she's the Baltimore mayor who was recently found guilty of giving gift cards intended for needy families to her friends.

I woke up this morning and read this Sun article, which I found absolutely fascinating. In 2006 one of the jurors, Shawana Tyler, participated in a 'Supermarket Sweep' that was sponsored by the City Of Baltimore and attended by then City Council President Sheila Dixon as well as one of the main witnesses against Mayor Dixon, former staffer Mary Pat Fannon. For her part Ms. Tyler claims not to remember either of the other women being there and says that she thought the event was sponsored by the supermarket rather than the City. This seems a bit unlikely, considering that Tyler and Fannon appeared side by side when the $324 prize was presented to Ms. Tyler. In any event, this will probably be enough for the judge to declare a mistrial. As the article states, it can be argued that Ms. Tyler would be predisposed to look favorably on Mrs. Fannon's testimony, given their prior encounter.

While those details are interesting enough, what I find most fascinating is the fact that these details are just now coming to light. Pretrial screenings by both sides' lawyers failed to make the connection. Presumably someone on the Sun's staff either had an "Aha!" moment or was researching all Sheila Dixon articles in relation to another story. Either way, without The Sun, I don't see this coming to the surface before the Dec. 11th deadline for the defense to appeal the conviction.

If this doesn't scream for the importance of independent, regional newspapers, I don't know what does. You can get your news from any variety of sources these days, but what blog, TV station, or national newspaper would've had an article on file about a random Supermarket Sweep that occurred three years ago? If it was me on trial, I'd be damn glad to have that resource out there!

Yes, I realize the irony in using a blog to comment on an article I read online (for free) to make the point that we need to invest in our city (and local) newspapers. However, it needs to be said in every forum, because once we lose them, they're gone. Already The Sun has lost countless quality writers as the staff is consolidated, reorganized, or cut altogether. I don't pretend to know the answer. Although as I was reading an article on the Washington Post's website I had to sit through a 15 second ad for cell phones. Keeping in mind that newspapers are trying to negotiate this brave new world, I didn't get as annoyed as I might have otherwise.

Back in the early days of the internet, they made the mistake of giving away their content for free. If we're not willing to support their efforts to change that system, or if you're one of those who doesn't bother to read the news (racing around the track with blinders on), than we may wake up to find that an invaluable resource is gone before we ever truly understood its value.

Best Of Friends

2009-11-29T08:36:00.000-08:00

As I sit my coffee mug down and fold the sports page, she bolts up; excited, frantic, and slightly whinny. There must've been some imperceivable (to me) change in my biorhythm that signaled to Haddy that I'd decided to take her for a run. She watches me change from sweatpants to shorts and knows that her instincts were right. I try to lace up my sneakers, but she can no longer contain herself, pouncing, rolling onto her back, and nuzzling under my arms, making the job all but impossible. Her leash (which you'd think would seem oppressive) is her favorite sight in the world, it means she's going out.

We drive down Harford Rd. with the windows slightly cracked and she eagerly inhales the smells as they zip by. Picture a small child in a candy store told she had 30 seconds to eat all that she could and you'll get a good idea of how Haddy looks trying to capture as many foreign scents as possible. But none is more welcome than when we turn onto Texas Ave. and she catches her first whiff of Double Rock Park and the leaves, and the grass, and the woods.

She's on the edge of throwing herself through the window as I park the car, hide my keys, and take on last gulp of water. I let her out and she immediately bounds over to the grass and pees. I'm not sure whether its a release of her excitement or a way of announcing to those who can read such signs, "I'm here!"

And than we're off down the trail and into the woods, a place where we both find our greatest happiness. Its one of those perfect Sundays in Fall. The sun's warmth compliments the crispness of the air, the ground is moist and spongy after many wet weeks, and I feel like I can run forever.

Haddy, for her part, indulges in what I consider 'running.' She bolts ahead and than looks back patiently waiting for her significantly less swift and agile master. At first I can kind of keep up with her and its not so bad, but after about a mile I begin to slow down and she looks back with her head cocked as if to say, "Is that all you've got?"

We reach the base of Challenge Hill and its time to ascend. I know the history of Challenge Hill thanks to my father, who on countless Sunday afternoon hikes assured us that Indians proved their maturation from child to warrior by climbing Challenge Hill with no hands. (It was one of my proudest childhood moments when I finally achieved 'warrior-status.')

"Up," I say to Haddy and we take off up the rocky, eroding slope of the hill I once considered a mountain. She bolts up with no problem. I'm going strong for the first half and then I step on wet leaves or crumbling rocks, something that brings me to my hands and knees. I catch my balance and scramble up the rest of the way on all fours. Haddy stands at the top, unblinking, as if to say, "Are you just now realizing that you have four appendages?"

The trek down the other side of the hill is equally tenuous for me, yet she torpedos past; more concerned with catching a squirrel than falling.

Eventually we make it back to the parking lot and I'm winded and a little sore. I do a slow jog to cool down. Ever the good sport, Haddy trots alongside me. I stop to stretch and she looks at my awkward poses with mild curiosity in between snacks of grass.

During the drive home she lays on the seat. No longer desperate to see and smell everything between the woods and home, she seems content.

People still mistake her for a puppy due to her small size and endless energy, but she'll soon be 10 years old. I'm not sure how many more of these runs we'll have together.

At the house later she'll nuzzle up to my arm and lay at my feet as if to say, "Even though you can't keep up, I appreciate the effort. Good human."

Terrible Idea

2009-11-24T15:14:00.000-08:00

On Sunday night, the 71,000 entering M&T Bank Stadium (myself included) will each receive a purple and white Ravens' rally towel. Apparently the promotions department has adopted a stance of "if you cant beat 'em join 'em."

"We want there to be a sea of purple and white, so the national audience can witness Baltimore's excitement and dedication to its team," said Mark Brudett, the team's vice-president of corporate sales and partnerships.

In other words, when the TV cameras pan across the crowd, we want the country to see white towels rather than yellow ones. Perhaps sensing that adopting a Steeler tradition would be unpopular among their fans, the Ravens are emblazoning the towels with three logos: their own, Under Armour's, and that of the Wounded Warrior Project (a group that helps injured and wounded soldiers). After all, who could possibly badmouth an idea that drums up publicity for the Wounded Warriors?

Don't fall for it people. I can think of half a dozen more effective ways to raise money for that cause (paint their logo on the field, solicit donations at the turnstiles, pledge a percentage of concession sales, etc.). Lets call a spade a spade. This is asking Raven fans to become like that which they most despise: Steelers' fans.

What's next? Should the Orioles add orange pinstripes to their uniforms? Should the University of Maryland change its nickname to the Red Devils, only accept geeks, and have them wave "vodoo fingers" at opposing basketball players during inbound plays?

There are just some lines you don't cross.

Besides all that, isn't the NFL home-field advantage derived from the amount of noise your fans can create while the opposing teams quarterback is trying to call out audibles? What creates more noise: waving a cloth through the air or cupping both hands around your mouth and screaming your lungs out? What the rally towels gains in form (it might look cool to see 70,000 towels waving) they more than lose in function, serving only to partially quiet your fan base.

I understand their apprehension about a sea of terrible towels invading M&T Bank Stadium. As sick as it makes me, its an unavoidable phenomenon. Pittsburgh has a lot of emigrants spread throughout the country after the collapse of the American steel industry. Every major city in America has a "Steeler Bar." On top of that they've won more Superbowls (six) than any other franchise, which attracts a large portion of fans eager to attach themselves to a winner. So the towels are going to be there.

Rather than investing efforts into masking the Steelers' towels the Ravens organization should be focused on two things:

1. Make every effort to ensure that tickets are most likely to be purchased and used by Ravens' fans. (Although in the era of online ticket brokers, this is all but impossible.)

2. Take care of business on the field so that those yellow towels will remain limply hanging by their owners' sides.

With all that being said, rest assured that I will happily accept a rally towel on my way in to the stadium on Sunday. And come Monday my towel will be on eBay, hopefully inspiring bids from Ravens' fans... those less principled than myself.

Creature Comfort

2009-11-19T14:22:00.000-08:00

Driving home in a November thunderstorm, I adjust the heat to make the inside of my car feel like I'm sitting next to a good wood-stove. The headlights, which compensate for the deficiencies in my eyesight, allow me to see far down the dark road. The windshield-wipers hum with steady effort, removing droplets and allowing me to travel at 50 mph through the rain. I fumble with the radio dial, seeking some form of noise to drown out my thoughts. Wet leaves litter the slick black asphalt, but they are little match for the thick rubber tires that grip the road and carry me forward.

Up ahead a young buck dashes across my path, traveling from one field to another. I near him and the lightning flashes, illuminating his muscular body as he streaks towards the woods. For him there is no escape. He will run until he's away from me. With mud caked to his fur he will bed down in some wet bush as around him the storm rages on and lightning flashes above. Does he mind? No. This is what he does, he's a deer. When it rains, he gets wet. When its cold, he shivers. When mud covers his body, it stays there until rain, or sweat, or oils clean him. He's a deer, he endures.

What if I was left to spend the night in this storm? With no clothes on my body, left to forage for food and water, how would I fare? I would cry. I would curse. I would be scared. An experience that would traumatize me is just another night for the deer.

As I think about this, isolated from reality in my bubble, removed from the elements, the night, and the world, I wonder who is more advanced: me or the deer? What marks superiority: the more you have or the less you need? And if I was given the chance to shed all this 'stuff' and run with the deer, would I take it?

Every 12 Hours

2009-11-16T20:51:00.000-08:00

Sunrises or sunsets? A friend asked me which I preferred the other day. It was a question so out of context for the moment that its kind of been stuck in my head.

My immediate answer was sunsets. After all, living here on the Eastern Shore I'm regularly treated to the spectacular sight of the sun setting over the Chesapeake Bay. Sunsets get more spectacular as they go on. Maybe that appeals to the writer in me. I like my words to build towards some sort of "aha" moment when the sky is pink and the clouds are so awe-inspiring as to appear fake and you get that last wink of light before the sun disappears leaving only the memory of what it looked like lingering in your mind's eye, like the words of a good book that tumble around in your brain long after you've closed the jacket.

But, there's something to be said for sunrises. To begin with, we see less of them. You're much more likely out be out and about at 6 PM than you are at 6 AM. Usually when I see one at 6 AM its because I haven't gone to bed, which suggests a good night, but perhaps not the highest functioning mental capacities. Sunrises start out at their peak. The sky goes from black to light grey and than suddenly warm colors are everywhere. The change from night is so shocking it almost seems alien. Then slowly the colors kaleidoscope back to something more familiar and the reality of a fresh day begins.

Another friend asked me if I'd taken the picture at the end of my fishing story. (I did, although I must confess its actually a sunSET picture.) He was blown away that I could shoot something that beautiful, which reminded me how lucky I am that such natural works of art are a common occurrence in Kent County. I could take a picture like that just about every week.

Sunrises or sunsets? The sunrise from that morning of fishing did a lot to salvage the experience for me. I can remember watching the sun rise over the Chicago skyline as Todd and I drove east on I-70 returning from a backpacking trip in Yellowstone. I remember the drunken sunrises from that summer we lived in Ocean City. I can clearly recall the sunrise and sunset I watched on top of Max Patch, a bald hill on the Appalachian Trail. This Spring I'll be backpacking through the Grand Canyon for a week and one of the things I'm most looking forward to is seeing the sun interact with those rocks as it rises and falls.

Sunrises or sunsets? Besides what's happening on the outside, they both encourage the same internal reactions for me: stillness and quietness. A physical stillness as I'm almost frozen into inaction and a quietness of thought as though some larger message (one beyond words) is being communicated to my soul.

Which I prefer largely depends on who I'm with or what I'm doing; two qualifiers that go a long way in determining your happiness in any life situation. You get two astounding shows, better than any movie effect, every day of your life. At the end of our days, perhaps those who are the richest are the ones who most often took the time to watch.

Published (online)

2009-11-10T16:59:00.000-08:00

I currently have an article I wrote for Echo Hill on The Chestertown Spy (Chestertown's online newspaper.) Check it out here.

Rock Bottom Pt. 2

2009-11-02T12:29:00.000-08:00

Everything was so still, it seemed like the perfect morning for fishing. Not a whisper of breeze, not a ripple on the water... Wait a minute, how long have we been out here? Cause I haven't seen a single ripple on the water.

We changed spots, beached the canoe, and walked a rocky shoreline in search of a fallen tree that had proven productive for Nate in the past. I watched as Nate trudged out into the water. I looked down at my dry feet, took in a deep breath, and followed.

The temperature of the water explained its stillness; what could possible live in water this cold? Its hard to covey in words what the next 90 minutes were like. We casted. We reeled in. Now, reread those two sentences 100 more times. And during this entire exercise, there was not a ripple in the water that wasn't caused by us.

As the sky lightened from black to grey, I saw a dark silhouette moving towards me in the water. It was swimming on the surface and traced a straight line parallel to the shore. Definitely not a fish. Bird? Turtle? Snake? I strained to get a better look. Only as it came within five feet of me was I able to recognize the otter. I'm not sure it even noticed me standing there in hushed-breath reverence. I've been on the Eastern Shore for 4 years now and seen an otter maybe one or two other times, but always in a peripheral-blur-disappearing-ripple sort of way. Here was one practically saying, "Good morning," to me. As it continued on its journey past me, curiosity overcame discretion. I casted my rattletrap about three feet in front of the otter. Thankfully, he disappeared underwater and never resurfaced. No matter how unproductive a morning of fishing may go, there are some things you never want to see on the end of your line.

Nate and I reconvened. Biteless and tired, we decided to head back to the canoe. We shoved off into the Bay and noticed the sky lighting up in a glorious pink glow. The tide was turning and starting to flow back into Still Pond Creek so strongly that we didn't even need to paddle our canoe in its direction. And then the fish started to jump.

Every fifteen seconds or so a rock would break the surface of the water, or a smaller fish being chased by a rock would fling itself into the air. We tied our canoe to a channel marker and began to cast with fervor.

If was writing fiction, this would be the point where I landed a trophy fish. But, despite the increase in action I received zero bites on my line that entire morning. Nate almost had one in the boat. He didn't even realize it was on his line until he he reeled it above the water and the fish released his lure. But those last 30 minutes were certainly exciting.

So, how would I summarize that morning? I certainly gained an appreciation for how hard it is to catch a rockfish. Sometimes in life, you can make all the proper preparations and things just don't work out for you. Other times things just fall into your lap whether you deserved them or not. No matter which situation you currently find yourself in, don't be mindless enough to cast your lure at the otter and recognize that there will always be a sunrise to admire, but you have to take the time to look.

Rock Bottom Pt. 1

2009-10-22T06:43:00.000-07:00

This morning I awoke in the darkness of a tent as Nate tapped my bed. It was 5:30 AM and time to go fishing. I pulled on my UnderArmour, wool socks, and fleece jacket and stepped out into the cool morning. Half asleep I stumbled to Nate's car and we made the 5 minute drive towards the spit of land where the Chesapeake Bay meets Still Pond Creek.

This is the time of year that the Native Americans called "Cahonk" because of the deafening sound made by thousands of Canada Geese as they make their yearly migration past the Bay on their way towards warmer climes. But at Echo Hill, we're more concerned with the movements of the rockfish. As water temperatures cool they make their way up to the northern part of the Bay in impressive numbers (thanks largely to a -year moratorium on catching them.)

Fifteen years ago Derrick Martin, a lifelong fisherman and almost-lifelong Echo Hill teacher, caught so many rockfish that he invited his friends over for a feast. With that first fish fry a tradition, that has become a de-facto staff reunion, was born. Now every year in late October or early November current and former Echo Hill staff spend their Fall fishing for rock in an effort to feed the many hungry mouths that will descend upon Kent County for Rockfish Fest.

To catch a legal rockfish (at least 18" in the Bay) you have to pay attention to the tides. You have to be willing to get up early. You have to find a spot where their feeding. And you have to develop skill with a rattletrap, which is the type of lure most preferred when fishing for rock. The rockfish is a sport fish. Unlike those lesser pescados which may be content to gulp a worm on a hook that's sunk down to the muddy bottom, the rockfish demands that you master the art of disguising your lure to mimic a fish in distress. These are the things you must know if you plan on catching a legal rockfish. At least, that's what I've been told... I've never caught one.

But today was gonna be the day. I mean, after sleeping in a tent with eight 8th grade boys in 40 degree weather, I was willing to wake up a full 90-minutes before the sunrise! That's gotta count towards something, right?

As Nate and I pushed our canoe into the inky, calm waters of Still Pond Creek, I was sure this was gonna be the day.

(to be continued)

Mann's Search For Publication

2009-08-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

The following is an article I wrote on this year's Dragonfly Heart Camp at Echo Hill Outdoor School. I submitted it to the local paper, the Kent County News. This morning I was disappointed to see its published form: chopped, rearranged, and without soul. (In other words they made it read like your standard, boring newspaper article.) On top of all that my name was not printed. They used my words (albeit not in my order), but gave me no credit. I think its a story worth reading, so I'm continuing to pursue other publications. I'll be sure to let you know how it turns out. Until then, have a read and tell me what you think:

A Chance To Spread Their Wings

By: John Mann

Their t-shirts read, “Where Children Find Strength, Courage and Happiness,” but they could’ve just as easily said, “Where Children Teach Strength, Courage and Happiness.” The children of Dragonfly Heart Camp have received a heart transplant and/or a lung transplant or are diagnosed with Pulmonary Hypertension (high blood pressure in the arteries that supply the lungs.) The campers wear scars on their chests like badges of their strength and courage. In their young lives they’ve already faced and survived ordeals that would bring most adults to their knees. Yet their happiness is evidenced by their constant smiles, the unabashed grins of childhood joy.

Last week was the second year of the Dragonfly Heart Camp at Echo Hill Outdoor School. More than 20 children spent the week along with a diverse staff from the Children’s Hospital of Pennsylvania (CHOP) and the Outdoor School teachers. The goal of the camp is to allow children who deal with extraordinary circumstances on a daily basis to spend time with other children who’ve endured similar challenges and to experience a summer camp as normally as possible. Because immune systems, medications, and medical apparatus limit many of the campers, these experiences would’ve been all but impossible for them before Dragonfly Heart Camp.

Normalcy is not a luxury often afforded to these children. Dragonfly Heart Camp offers them a chance to be among other kids who share their medical histories. When they were first meeting each other, many of the campers would mention their diseases and transplants in the same breath as their names and hometowns. In getting to know each other they were also establishing, “I know what you’ve been through.” A trip to the beach really summed it up for Evette Hawks, 16, of Philadelphia, PA, “It was really refreshing to go swimming and not have to explain your scars to anyone.”

After 11 year-old Chestertown resident Sarah Cataldo’s year-long ordeal battling cardiomyopathy and ultimately receiving a heart transplant at the age of 8, the idea was conceived for Dragonfly Heart Camp. For many of the children, it’s their first time away from their parents. Thanks to the volunteer medical staff of doctors, respiratory specialists, and nurses the children are under 24-hour medical supervision. The Echo Hill Outdoor School staff is able to work with these campers as they would any other group, fostering positive outdoor experiences and encouraging curious exploration. Christi Hetrick, mother of 11 year-old camper, Darby, expressed her gratitude for those who make the camp a success every year. “We appreciate you more than words can say! We are truly blessed to work with such wonderful, caring people.”

Whether they were learning about the Chesapeake Bay on board one of the Outdoor School’s historic work boats or climbing the Giant’s Ladder before riding the zip line back to the forest floor, the campers were able to have the full Echo Hill Outdoor School experience. Veronica Colsher, 13, from Levittown, PA, could be heard shouting, “Don’t underestimate yourself!” to other campers as they struggled to climb to the platform 40 feet above the ground. As they reflected on the lessons from the Adventure Course, Dr. Ricki Zinman urged the campers, “Don’t be afraid to set goals.”

Betsy McCown, Associate Director for Echo Hill Outdoor School, explains some of the thought process behind how the Dragonfly Heart Camp is structured. “The age range is deliberate. The CHOP staff want 8 year-olds to see 18 year-olds who have Pulmonary Hypertension having a great time at camp. One of the goals is to give these children a residential experience away from their families in order to inspire them to become independent adults.”

Siarra Gbakima, an 8-year old from Lansdown, PA, describes herself as a couch-potato and couldn’t imagine spending a whole week away from electronics. By the end of the camp she realized, “I don’t need TV.”

On the last night of Dragonfly Heart Camp, the children had a campfire and the opportunity to contribute a stick to the fire and reflect on their week. Veronica Colsher offered a bit of perspective not to take things for granted. “When somebody says, ‘That’s the worst thing that could ever happen to me.’ They have no idea.”

Don't Blink

2009-08-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

As most of you knew, Gretchen had her condo on the market for a few months now and had been applying to schools in and around Chestertown. Three years is a long time to do the long-distance thing, and besides that she has many more friends in Kent County and prefers the overall scene there to that of West Chester, PA.

Needless to say the housing market and employment opportunities over the past few months hadn't exactly conspired in her favor. We'd reached the point where we'd both resigned ourselves to living in different area codes for at least one more school year.

Then she got an e-mail out of the blue and two days later her condo had sold. However, she still didn't have a job in Maryland. For a while she was leaning towards living with her father in PA, continuing to teach there, and paying off a few bills in the process.

Gretchen returned to work at Echo Hill for the summer and the Kent County bug must've bit her bad. As she began to see September loom over the horizon, she contemplated ways she could remain in Maryland. Could she get a non-teaching job that would pay her enough? Was she willing to work as a substitute in order to get her foot in the door? Working the Fall season at Echo Hill was also an option she weighed.

While trying to make these major life decisions she came down with a stubborn flu 3 weeks ago that's still with her. It's left her week, often bed-ridden, and understandably-frustrated. It's not Lyme's disease, but possibly a similar illness also contracted from a tick bite.

I left her last week to work a 3-day canoe trip with seven 8-10 year old boys. Imagine my surprise when the truck came to pick us up on Thursday to find out that she'd gotten a job. A woman from Queen Anne's County had contacted Gretchen on Wednesday to schedule an interview for Thursday. Gretchen explained that while she was very interested in the position, she'd been fighting this illness and didn't know if she'd be healthy enough for the interview. The woman responded with something like, "Okay, well we'll go ahead and pencil you in for 8 AM and, if you're not feeling well, you can always call and cancel."

The next morning Gretchen was driving to Queen Anne's County High School when she had to pull over her car and throw up twice. There she was on the side of the road, 10 minutes away from potentially one of the most important moments of her life, dressed in her fancy "interview outfit," throwing up and feeling drained. She had a decision to make: call the school and cancel or dig deep and find the strength to see it through. In doing so, she achieved on a level that rivals Michael Jordan's 38-point "Flu Game" performance, only she didn't have Scottie Pippen to help her down the court; he was on a canoe trip.

So, yes she got the job. In fact, she so impressed them that they called her two hours later to offer it. Starting August 10th, she will be the Queen Anne's County 10th grade Biology teacher. I still can't believe it. Even as I'm typing this she's in the other room coughing violently. She still gets bone chilling fevers about twice a day that leave her bundled and shivering as I sit there sweating in shorts and a t-shirt. I've tried to be there to help and support her as much as I can and after three weeks its exhausting. And I realize that I've only had to deal with it on a part time basis. She hasn't felt normal for three solid weeks. More than once she's apologized for being "such a mess." But, all I can think about is that moment where she was at her weakest and was able to summon such incredible strength. I look back at those bloodshot eyes, push her matted hair away from her sweaty forehead, and realize she's never looked more beautiful.

Just Moments Ago

2009-07-22T16:54:00.000-07:00

Holding the wheel of a 108-year-old wooden skipjack, doing 7-8 knots, crystal clear sky, the kids so scared they're hiding below deck. Realizing that sailing is a harmony of all elements, from the wind, to the water, to the earth which produced the materials from which the boat was built. Finding that point, that exact tip, where you're sailing at maximum efficiency, the keel of your boat like a blade on ice, and feeling that all those elements are immensely enjoying this opportunity to play with each other, each showing what it's fully capable of.

Walking the streets of Baltimore last weekend during Artscape. At some point of every Artscape I'm always overcome with pride and hope for the city. Walking shoulder to shoulder with millionaires and homeless people. Seeing the most yuppie-fide Federal Hiller contemplating the same artwork as a thugged-out South Baltimore ghetto resident. All the fear that seems to dictate so many of our interactions in the city just doesn't exist on that day. It is the country's largest free art festival. It is my favorite Baltimore weekend. Climbing a thorn covered tree to get a view of Cake. Purchasing my first pieces of artwork from Artscape. Thank you Artscape, for once again doing good things for my soul.

Sitting on the banks of the Chester River last night. Winding down on a three day camping/canoeing trip with 13 cousins aged 7-15. Seeing the strength that bonds them and feeling refreshed by the fact that at such a young age they already realize the specialness of family. Watching the dragonflies buzz patterns around me, sweeping in with the grace a fighter pilot dreams of and snatching mosquitos from the dusk.

Getting back to the computer tonight and reading that today was my Grandmother's 87th birthday. Giving her a call. Seeing that my good friend Adam just welcomed a healthy baby to his family on Monday. Giving him a call.

Every day has its moments. Moments that will sustain you. Take the time to notice them, appreciate them, and reflect on them. Because after all, they're only moments. And moments will disappear like dragonflies, unless you're lucky enough to hold out your hand and have one land on your finger, allowing you to contemplate it for a while.

Orioles' Magic

2009-05-29T20:24:00.000-07:00

Not even the thunderstorm that delayed that start of tonight's game could hold back the swell that was building up among the fans at Camden Yards. Pardon the pun, but it was a perfect storm of circumstances. The team was riding a season high 4-game winning streak. It was the first $6 dollar student night of the season (insuring an attendance and enthusiasm boosting influx from the college crowd.) Oh, and also the small matter of Matt Wieters, the highly anticipated (ok, we expect this kid to save our franchise) 2007 draftee, who finally got called up to the big show.

When you add up all the x-factors, the game itself was kind of an afterthought. Actually, after Luke Scott's grand slam in the 3rd inning gave the Orioles a 5-0 lead, Baltimore fans were able to fully enjoy the atmosphere rather than worry about the outcome. And what an atmosphere it was. From the line at the ticket window to the sea of orange jerseys that greeted me as I emerged from the bowels of the stadium, there was a different feeling in the air. It was as if we'd all awakened from an 11-year sleep to find that we were a city that could field and support a good baseball team.

Even the higher powers of the universe seemed to signal their approval as the storm clouds gave way to a bright sky and a rainbow arced over the warehouse. I'm not making this stuff up. There was an honest to goodness rainbow stretching from Eutaw St. to 395. If they'd put that in a Disney movie, I would've thrown my popcorn at the screen, but there it was. Perhaps the flood is over...

Luke Scott stole the show. In addition to his grand-slam in the third he hit a solo home-run in the 5th. This was supposed to be Mr. Wieters' night, but after that performance, the fans wouldn't let Luke sit down with out a quick wave-of-his-hand curtain call from the dugout.

There were some timid Tigers fans in front of me. After Detroit finally got on board in the 7th inning, they let out a few stifled cheers.

Me: "Wow, I didn't even realize I was sitting near Tigers' fans. You guys have been so quiet."

Guy Who Looked Like A Shaved Michael Moore: "You should've heard us before the grand slam!"

Other highlights included the roar from the crowd when they put John Harbaugh on the big-screen, the 7 'fans of the game' with W-I-E-T-E-R-S painted across their chests, and the fact that starting pitcher Brad Bergesen pitched a nearly-flawless game all the way into the 9th inning. (Give Wieters partial credit for calling a solid game from behind the plate.) In fact, about the only thing that went wrong was when the PA cut off John Denver's "Country Boy" right in the middle of the Yeeeehaaaaaaaw-crescendo. That may seem like a minor complaint, but over the course of 11 losing season you could at least count on John Denver to give you something to cheer about at every Orioles' game!

Sometime near the end of the 7th inning 'the wave' got going. Its been a while since there have been enough Orioles' fans to pull off a good wave, but this was one that even Bill Hagy would've been proud of.

As I walked back to the car, beer and peanuts sloshing in my belly, my voice hoarse from shouting "Luuuuuuke," and fireworks exploding behind me, my thoughts fell back on that glorious wave of orange jerseys rising and falling in perfect harmony; their cheers echoing out of Camden Yards and into the streets of Baltimore.

11 losing seasons faded away. The city's crime, poverty, and educational problems ceased to exist. For as the wave washed over me I saw the Baltimore that I'd only imagined before. In that moment on the crest, anything was possible.

Go O's!

The Gig

2009-05-27T18:57:00.000-07:00

The bar at 'The Sandbar' is an old wooden workboat that's been fitted with taps and fridges and is ringed by stools. We set up our speakers on the bow, "roped" off a table with caution tape, Kate clicked 'play' on the first song, and we high-fived as the sound came out loud and clear. We were now officially DJing.

Kate and I agreed to alternate 30 minute sets. She started things off. It was 7 PM on a postcard-perfect early summer night. We were standing on the shores of the Chester River and the music was flowing; loud, light, and smooth.

That was, until I got behind the wheel. Like I mentioned in my last post, 3 songs into my first set, disaster hit. I've blown out speakers before and, immediately after it happened, I knew we were done.

It was still early in the night, so its not like the dance-floor (sandpit) was packed. Although as Kate (DJ Ladylike) warned me with a head nod, "If you play any country love song those women will be dancing on the table." 'Those women' were a group of 40-somethings who'd obviously been on the river all day enjoying their libations.

The sound we were left with out our remaining speaker was flat and hollow. The speaker we'd lost was responsible for the bass and we were left only with treble. Boy, were we ever in treble! (couldn't resist)

It was still early, so its not like people were clamoring for music, but Kate and I were struck with the reality of the situation: after months of planning, picking music, and fantasizing about our night as DJ-gods, we might not be able to play. The nearest pair of backup speakers was about a 1.5 hour roundtrip drive, and they weren't even that great.

I climbed up onto the wooden bar/boat and fiddled around with wires. I tried attaching the cables to different ports. I even tried the time-honored electronic repair method of slapping it on its side. But, a blown speaker is a blown speaker; there's no bringing it back from the dead.

An older guy named Dick recognized my distress and came to help. He's one of those guys who always has a Mag-Lite in one pocket and a Leatherman in the other. He began asking me questions like, "Which ones your left speaker and which is the right?" "Where's your amp?" "Which cable controls the treble and which is the bass?" "How can you switch off that third outlet on the speaker?"

I looked at him and blinked.

"Are you an electrician?"

"No, just a tinkerer."

I explained that this was my fist time DJing and picking the right song for the right moment was about as far as my expertise in the field extended. We spent the better part of an hour tinkering with possible solutions until we came up with the brilliant idea of cutting Rolph's speakers off the top of the boat and hooking them up to our setup. One borrowed knife and a little sketchy boat-top climbing later and we were hooking up the pirated speakers. (The owners gave us permission to use the speakers, but, when your scaling a wooden boat with a knife in your hand, you can't help but to feel like a pirate.

The borrowed speakers put us back in business. Not quite as loud and overpowering-in-our-awesomeness as we'd been before, but adequately functional nonetheless. As the night grew darker our bass bumped louder. The laidback feel of the sunset music gave way to the who-cares-who-sees-me-acting-a-fool grooves of any good club.

People were actually applauding after especially good song selections. I don't know that I've ever witnessed that before. The night truly blurred after things got going. I lost track of time whenever I was behind my computer.

As a DJ, there's no better feeling than the following:

You select a new song. There are a few seconds of pause as the audience strains to recognize the beat. "Oh shit, this is my joint," someone shouts out. The mass of bodies begins to bounce in unison, hands in the air, shakin' their derrieres like they just don't care.

Sweet success.

The party at Rolph's was returned to its former glory. It was every thing I anticipated and more. Western Shore club scene meets Eastern Shore hospitality.

DJ's Doo Doo and Ladylike left the crowd wanting more. What's next for the dynamic duo?

Time will tell. But chances are we'll be pumping tunes again in Kent County well before next year's Tea Party weekend. You just gotta keep your ear to the street.

DJ Doo Doo

2009-05-26T17:43:00.000-07:00

BANG!

"What was that?"

"I think we just blew out a speaker."

That was the scene three songs into my first time DJing at a bar. But, before I tell that part, I should start at the beginning.

I first developed an interest in DJing around the time we got our first CD-burner. This amazing piece of technology allowed me to put together a playlist, burn it onto a CD, and take that CD to a party.

I found that not only did I enjoy the process of putting the music together, but I also had a good ear for music that people liked. It got to the point where I was making a different CD each weekend and my friends would get disappointed if I showed up to a party without one.

Eventually that evolved to the point that I would sometimes refer to myself as DJ Doo Doo. (I found DJ names to be kind of cheesy in their bravado and thought it would be funny to have a self-deprecating DJ name.) Over the past few years at Echo Hill, whenever people wanted to know if I'd be playing rap music at a party, they'd ask, "Is DJ Doo Doo going to be there?"

This year my friend, Kate, and I were on the Chestertown Tea Party Board, which means we were helping to plan the town's annual celebration of its colonial history. Part of that celebration is a party on Sunday night a the Snadbar at Rolph's Wharf. The Sandbar is just that, a bar in the sand on the shore of the Chester River. Each year, the party at Rolph's is the highlight of my Tea Party weekend. People arrive by car and boat to enjoy a few cold beverages and soak in a Chester River sunset. After dark the Sandbar becomes the closest thing to a club that Chestertown sees all year. Booty-shakin' music pulses from the speakers as barefoot dancers cavort to the rhythm, sweat glistens on their skin and sand sticks between their toes. For a Baltimore kid who hasn't been to a club in years, it was always a welcome dose of home amidst the natural beauty of the Eastern Shore.

Last year, for a variety of reasons, there was no music. It was still a great paty, but there was no dancing. As anyone who's ever seen 'Footloose' can tell you, a town without dancing is a place without its soul. So, Kate and I told the Tea party Board that we would DJ at Rolph's this year. Thus, the dynamic duo of DJ Ladylike and DJ Doo Doo was born.

check back tomorrow for: 'The Gig'

Not Buying Accolades

2009-05-01T08:28:00.000-07:00

To hear and read the media commenting on this first round playoff series between the Boston Celtics and the Chicago Bulls, you'd think Larry Legend and MJ had dusted off their sneakers and stepped back onto the court.

"best series ever"

"lets extend it to best of 11"

"each game is an instant classic"

These are just some examples of the hyperbole I've seen attached to this first round playoff matchup. Yes, FIRST ROUND. So, right off the bat that should tell you to slow down before sending the game tapes to the Hall of Fame vault. Of the 30 teams in the NBA, 16 make the playoffs. Detroit made it despite losing 4 more games than they won this season! All the first round does is separate those teams who actually belong in the post-season from those who benefit from the fact that a team is more likely to MAKE the playoffs than MISS them.

As a kid I was an NBA junky. I collected trading cards, hung their posters on my walls, and watched the weekend games with religious fervor. I'm not sure when that changed, but I noticed it clearly this season. I'm sure part of the reason is that my childhood heroes have all retired, but the bigger catalyst is that the games now bore me. I've switched off many a Saturday afternoon game in favor of a meaningless golf tournament or even a bad 80's movie. During the regular season the players give 70% at best. If they're not going to invest themselves, why should I invest my time?

When you compare this with college hoops, the difference is dramatic. After enjoying the frenetic pace, emotion, and intensity of the college game, I feel like I'm forced to lower my expectations to watch the NBA. This is supposed to be the highest level of basketball on the planet! But, most the time it seems like watching millionaires going through the motions, unless it comes down to the final two minutes and the game was close.

But, even as a teenager, I recognized this. I still looked forward to the playoffs when the games really did matter. Kevin Garnett is a player who goes as close to 100% in every game as anyone else in the league. When I heard he'd been traded to the Celtics two summers ago, I immediately bought a KG jersey and cheered on the C's all the way through their championship.

But, KG suffered a season-ending injury, so his only contribution to this series has been as a cheerleader in a well-tailored suit. On top of that, they traded away Sam Cassel in February. Last year the Celitcs played full-throttle basketball. You could tell that the Big Three found joy in pushing each other towards greatness every night. Now, it seems more like a business.

Rajon Rondo is running the team. I understand the Rondo is regarded as one of the better point guards in the league, but I have no patience for players who don't play defense. On that end of the court he's usually standing upright (you need to get low to play d!), walking around flat-footed (he should be on the balls of his feet), and giving his man 5 feet of space (he's one of the fastest guys in the NBA, he should be right in his man's face!). It's like he's conserving his energy for when they're on offense. If that's really an issue, he just needs to get in better shape. There's no excuse for only playing half the game.

The Bulls, on the other hand, are a .500 team. They define mediocre. They're being lead by a rookie! Joakim Noah is their starting center! If KG was healthy, this would've been a sweep. Instead we have a great team, made mediocre because of injuries and a lack of motivation vs. a team thats always been mediocre. Yes the games have been tightly contested, but that doesn't make them great. I've seen so many missed free throws and questionable shots, it seems like a battle of who will make fewer mistakes. Neither of these teams will be able to contain Orlando's Dwight Howard in the next round.

So if you buy into the hype that ESPN and sports radio try to spin for us (empty baseball stadiums show that no one cares about that product either) than you can enjoy even more mediocre basketball in the 2nd round. (Can you say Mavericks-Nuggets?) The people discussing the greatness of this series either have an agenda to promote, or they've been watching the NBA for so long that they forgot what great basketball looks like. As for me, I'll wait until Kobe and LeBron meet in the Finals.

When do NFL mini-camps start, anyway?

What's On Your List? (Part 1)

2009-04-20T12:54:00.000-07:00

'The Bucket List' is the story of two men (played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) in the their mid to late 50's who are diagnosed with terminal cancer. Despite coming form vastly different backgrounds they bond through shared experiences in the same hospital room. Over time they develop the idea of a "bucket list" (a list of things to do before you kick the bucket) and set out together to cross each item of the list before their deaths.

I've never actually created a 'bucket list,' but I guess I've gone through phases in my life where I was in a "checking items off the list mentality." When I was 20, if you'd asked me what my biggest fear was, I would've replied, "Regret." If I live into my 80's, I'll probably think of my 20's as I currently think of my years as an infant. But at the time I was acutely aware that I was making the transition from child to adult. I could think of no worse fate than becoming an old man on his deathbed wishing I'd made different choices along the way. I was determined to live life as fully as possible. The way my 20-year-old self interpreted 'carpe diem' was to begin accumulating life experiences.

So, I stepped off the beaten path and left the country. I lived in Galway, Ireland for a year. I existed as an illegal alien, holding a sign in the street for less than minimum wage and a bowl of pasta at the end of each shift. Knowing no one in the country, I checked myself into the cheapest (and dingiest) hostel in town.

Of my 23 years, that one was the most enjoyable. I met friends from all over the world who'd been drawn by similar urges of wanderlust. I scrapped by on my meager earnings. For the first time in my life I was going to the grocery store to get my food for the week. I learned how to exist on a budget. For 6 months I lived in a top bunk in a room with 12 other people. This experience taught me how little I needed to be happy. What I valued was not material possessions, but the conversations with my new friends on the hostel staircase. Listening to a strummed guitar, sipping beers, and smoking hash into the wee hours of the night, we established our own United Nations. Eventually I saved enough to move into a townhouse. While the extra space and privacy were nice I missed a bit of that hostel lifestyle that I was never able to regain. Sure, I'd go back and visit the staircase from time to time, but always as an outsider. It was never spoken, but understood. Shared experiences, especially through trying times, are the ultimate connectors for human beings. (cont. tomorrow)

Egregious Vasquez

2009-03-02T07:39:00.000-08:00

e-gre-gious [i-gree-juhs] -adjective

1. extraordinary in some bad way; glaring; flagrant

2. Archaic. distinguished or eminent

I'm not using this word to describe Maryland's mustard-yellow uniforms, but rather "the guy who wears # 21," as Greivis Vasquez has been known to describe himself. Its an interesting word. It comes from the Latin, egregius, which means "rising above the flock." This word originally meant standing out for exceptional reasons, but has now come to mean standing out for exceptionally bad reasons. At different points in his Maryland career Greivis has satisfied both definitions.

To get a sense of his potential to ride both sides of the wave of expectations that swells up every time he takes to the court, one needs only examine his last three games:

- 88-85 win vs. UNC: 35 points, 10 assists, 11 rebounds, 44 minutes
- 67-78 loss vs. Duke: 10 points, 5 assists, 5 fouls, 22 minutes
- 71-60 win over NC State: 33 points, 5 assists, 1 turnover, 38 minutes

Hell, just look at the final minute of last night's game. With 59 seconds left NC State cut the lead to 64-60. After burning 30 seconds off the clock, Greivis hit a magnificent jumper with 29 seconds left, to extend the lead to 6 points. This was huge because it relegated State to the desperation 3-point shots/foul MD strategy. Vasguez was masterfully riding the crest of the wave. State missed a three pointer. Hayes gets fouled, hits both free throws, and Maryland's up by eight. State hurls up another three-point miss. Maryland gets the rebound with 12 seconds left. State elects not to foul. Game over, right? Not quite. Vasquez decided to fire off an unguarded 3-pointer (albeit a very long three) at the buzzer, which hit nothing but net. The wave crashed hard on Greivis as boos rained down from the stands.

"I should have never shot it," he said. "I apologize. But I was into the game, and I made it. It was kind of disrespectful to the fans. ... They have a great team and great fans, so I know they're going to be mad at me."

The guy has the spectacular ability to be both distinguished and flagrant at the same moment. It reminded me of a move you might pull while playing your buddy in game of Madden. You know the one. Even though you're up by 10 points you call time out with one second left, just for the chance to heave one more pass into the endzone and rub it in a little bit more.

Classy players hand the ball to the ref. But then again, maybe class is too much to expect of a program with a 0% graduation rate.

Zing.

No matter how you feel about Vasquez, its impossible to deny that as he goes, so goes this season for the Terps. His performance against the Tar Heels was one of the best I've seen in my 15 years following the team. I know that triple doubles are rare in college basketball, but I still found it astounding that Vasquez was the first Terp to accomplish the feat since 1987. Think of all the great players that have come through College Park in that interim: Walt Williams, Joe Smith, Keith Booth, Steve Francis, and Juan Dixon. Will Vasquez go down as one of the all-time great Terps? I think that will hinge on whether he returns next year to build on what he's done this season. (Some speculate that he's playing himself into the NBA draft with these late-season heroics.)

Still I find myself trying to reconcile how I feel about "the guy who wears #21." On the one hand I want to see him as Coach Gary Williams does, "Greivis Vasquez had a great game with his scoring and his shooting, but at the same time he's a tough guy. I think Greivis really does not like to lose." But on the other hand, I know those cringe worthy moments are coming when Vasquez will shimmy his way down the court after hitting a big shot.

Maybe its too much to expect a 22 year old to remain humble while achieving great things. After all, the Joe Flaccos of the world only come around every once in a great while. So, I'll continue to watch the progression of Mr. Vasquez, hoping that eventually he'll learn to ride the wave without giving the finger to the sky.

Garyland

2009-02-05T06:49:00.000-08:00

Gary Williams can coach at Maryland for as long as he wants as far as I'm concerned. Let me start out by saying that. This may come as a surprise to those who read my blog entry from November 22 (Seeing Is Believing), when I questioned their lack of presence in the paint and predicted that they wouldn't make the NCAA tournament for the 4th time in 5 years. Several of my friends accused me of being anti-Maryland, without realizing that rooting for a team and analyzing a game are two different things.

I was 9 years old when Gary got the job at College Park. He's the only coach I've ever really known. I watched Gary take a program that was 1-13 the year before he took over and resurrect them into a NCAA tournament regular with 11 straight appearances from 1993-2003. He brought players like Joe Smith, Keith Booth, Steve Francis, and Juan Dixon to Cole Field House. As kids, we pretended to be those guys in our driveways. He built a program that made a habit of slaying giants (7 wins over teams ranked #1 in the country.) Gary also boasts two ACC regular season titles (one outright), an ACC tournament title, seven Sweet Sixteens, two Elite Eights, two Final Fours, and that eventual National Championship in 2002.

Aside from all the numbers, stats, and accolades, I like Gary's style. He's a hard-nosed coach who's never been afraid to let his emotions show throughout the course of a game. He works the refs as hard as he does his own players. By the 2nd half of a close game he's usually removed his jacket, having drenched it with sweat long ago. He demands accountability from himself and his players and wont tolerate less than maximum effort. I've been coaching 7th and 8th grade basketball for three years and often find myself imitating Gary's mannerisms (squatting, pacing, and shouting instructions) almost subconsciously. Gary is what I know coaching to be. And, when its all said and done, if his team has been victorious, he leaves the court with a quiet fist pump. Like any good coach, Gary defers credit to his players and deflects blame onto himself.

But, what about this year? Maryland has yet to win a road ACC game (despite having a 17-point lead in Miami). Two of their past 3 games have been blowout losses (by 41-points to Duke and by 17-points to UNC). After starting the season 12-3, they've dropped 5 out of 8 in ACC play. Many have suggested that its time for Gary to go. A Sun poll asked "Is Williams in danger of being fired this year?" Over 2,000 people responded, 71% answered yes. Sun reporter, David Steele, opined in his column that, "These should be the final months of the Gary Williams era at Maryland." This consensus seems to be the same on a national level, as today's USAToday headline read, "Garyland in State Of Mediocrity". In that article they quote Nolan Richardson (who won a National Championship with Arkansas in 1994 and was later fired when his team had a losing season and failed to make the tournament) sympathizing with Gary's situation.

"I call it creating a monster. Once you create the monster, you have to keep feeding it. And sometimes you run out of food, and the monster comes after you. The monster is the fans and university officials."

The students made their feelings on Gary crystal clear during their last home game against Miami with boisterous chants of, "We love Gary!" and a homemade sign that read, "In Gary We Trust." Debbie Yow spoke for Maryland officials when she said that rumors about Gary's job security were "crazy" and that he had her "personal full support, as he does from the department and from the university."

So, for now, the monster is at bay.

More important than outside forces is how the team responds to Coach Williams. I couldn't have been more impressed than by what I saw against Miami and UNC. Yes, they lost the UNC game, but those were extraordinary circumstances. UNC starts 5 players who will be first round picks in next year's NBA Draft. Maryland shot nearly 50% and scored over 90 points. The only problem was that UNC hit their 3-pointers with video game frequency. They were 16-25, or 64%. That's unheard of. Some where the result of poor defense, but many were hit with a hand in the shooter's face. Those guys were in an unbelievable zone. When you're playing an opponent with more talent on the road and they're hitting everything they throw up, it would be easy to give in and stop competing. But Maryland fought tooth and nail until the final buzzer. After a seemingly back-breaking alley-oop that caused the crowd to erupt, the Terps merely shrugged it off, fired the ball down court and converted an easy lay-up. They were in attack mode for 40 minutes. Coach Roy Williams was livid with his team's defensive effort. The Heels were outplayed that night. If not for their anomalous 3-point shooting, they would've lost.

Sean Mosley is looking like the player Terps fans were excited about when he announced he would attend Maryland. Next year he will likely be their starting point guard. Jin Soo Kim, who I'd written off as a bust a few weeks ago, is suddenly re-energized and showing some promise for the future. He's only a freshman and presumably still adjusting to not being the tallest guy on the court (I can't imagine he faced many players taller than 6'8" in Korea.) Even Braxton Dupree came off the bench looking rededicated to establishing some paint presence. His efforts should earn him more playing time this Sunday against Georgia Tech. Dave Neal has made himself a legitimate offensive threat with what Gary describes as, "YMCA moves." Grievous Vasquez continues to run hot and cold, although without legitimate offensive counterparts to compliment him, opposing teams are able to gear their defense towards stopping him. I'm not sure what happened to Eric Hayes. He once looked like the second coming of Steve Blake. Now he looks lost and devoid of confidence.

Is this a great team? No. Never will be. But what I've seen in the last two games is a team of players who believe in each other and their coach. No matter how hostile the environment or skilled an opponent, they are willing to compete all-out for 40 minutes. What more can you ask for in college athletics?

The Terps seem to have realized that they're not as good as they once presumed themselves. If they don't play with maximum effort, they can get embarrassed by 40-point loses. At stake is no less than their coach's legacy. The wolves are closing in.

Now is the time to fight.

Prove It

2009-01-26T13:47:00.003-08:00

Back in October, I ran my first marathon. The other day I received a postcard in the mail from MarathonFoto.com. It had this nifty "proof" of me crossing the finish line with the urgent message, "Last chance to order your photos!"

So, I logged on to their website and attempted to find myself. That task wasn't as easy as it seems, because in addition to the Baltimore Marathon, they also had pictures of the BAA 1/2 Marathon, the Banco Popular Chicago Half, the Berlin Marathon, the Berlin Marathon Skate, the Big Sur 5K, 1/2, Full, and Kids 3K, the Bike MS- Kansas City Ride, the Bike MS Washington Group Health, the BIX 7, the Bix 7 Kids. the Boston Marathon, and the BUPA London 10K... whew, and that's just the "B's". I have no idea what most of these races are (I'm really curious about the Berlin Skate), but at each event MarathonFoto.com sent out a slew of photographers to snap pictures of participants in the hopes that one day said participants would log onto marathonfoto.com, enter their bib number, and purchase some "fotos."

Which brings me to... well, me. I entered my bib number and a slew of pictures came up (most of which weren't too impressive.) Running, especially the brutal trudging that is marathon running, doesn't really translate well to photographs. In most of them I looked slow and pained. (Ok, so maybe the photos translated things perfectly, but they weren't exactly memories you'd want hanging on your wall.) But the picture of me finishing was appealing for several reasons: #1 I'm finishing. #2 My hands are raised in triumph, as if I was winning the damned thing. #3 My armpits are caked with salt. There were flakes building up and flying off my body because I was so dehydrated and exhausted at the end. Its a gruesome detail, I know, but you don't pursue a marathon if your not interested in making yourself suffer to some degree.

So I decided I wanted the picture. Now, how much does it cost?

I couldn't believe these amounts! Sure, I expected it wouldn't be like ordering prints at Walgreens, but $20 for an 8x10?!? Then I saw a feature where you could order a picture CD. Maybe that would be more reasonable, since MarathonFoto wouldn't have to develop anything. Picture CD: $49.95. What?! Oh, but look over there, you can pay to download individual images... for $39.95 EACH!! iTunes will let me download an entire movie for 1/4th of that!

And these are just the basic options. MarathonFoto would be happy to send you a 16x24 laminated poster of yourself for just $64.95. (How narcissistic do you have to be to want a poster of yourself?) Or, perhaps you'd like a small shadow-box frame featuring 5X7 photo of yourself above a brass plate with your name and finishing time? Well, that's a steal at $69.95 plus $12 shipping.

I guess when you employ photographers to attend even the most obscure road races in the country and snap thousands of photographs, knowing that only a minute percentage of people will even log on to your website, much less purchase anything, you have to charge an exorbitant amount just to make the whole venture worthwhile.

So, I decided I was better off without their services and logged off the site in disgust, right? No, I ordered a 5x7. With shipping its going to cost me around $20. Because at the end of the day I want that picture. With the way my knee's been feeling recently that may well be the only time I cross a marathon finish line.

How did we get by before the days of photographs? Why does it feel necessary to have a visual confirmation of one's accomplishments? Isn't it enough to know that you did it? Except time blurs your memories. A photograph has the ability to stand as a nearly flawless testament to what was.

They are an attempt to slow down time. Because in that picture, I'm 28 and in pretty good shape and throwing my hands in the air as if I was Kate Winslet on the bow of the Titanic. Perhaps when I'm 82 and hobbled I'll be able to squint into that picture, feel a brief recognition of that moment, and for an instant be there again. And, if that day ever comes, it will be the wisest $20 I ever invested.

Ice

2009-01-25T18:22:00.000-08:00

Last Wednesday I went down to the beach and found Antarctica in its place. The first few weeks of 2009 have brought unusually cold temperatures to Kent County. As a result, the Upper Bay froze almost completely from the Eastern Shore to the Western Shore, 4 miles away. I checked it out during my lunch break and was completely blown away.

Well, I guess there won't be any boats moving today, was my first thought. It didn't even look like water, it looked like a snow-covered plain. It was at that time I noticed the sound. Or, rather, the lack of it. I've been to the beach hundreds of times during my three years at Echo Hill, but this was the first time it was completely silent. Water, in its liquid form, makes noise. Some days, when the wind is really blowing, or after a large ship passes, the Bay pounds against the shore, doing its best imitation of an ocean. But, even on days when it appears glass-calm, millimeter-sized waves can be heard gently lapping against the sand. But, today everything was eerily still. There is a certain silence that only exists in the winter. A lion's roar is meant to declare its power, but what greater feat of strength can there be than to render everything quiet?

I returned after work armed with a camera and determined to document the awe-inspiring ice, only to find that things were dramatically different. In the few hours I was gone, the tide had turned and changed everything. Water was now entering the Bay from the Atlantic. The infusion from this warmer, saltier source had opened up large expanses of water. The ice splintered into floating shelves which were piled upon the shore, stacked one on top of the other like a giant deck of playing cards.

The sound was alien. At times it was like pieces of plastic being compacted, other collisions sounded like a car door being snapped off. Everywhere the ice was moving. I climbed over boulder-sized chunks. Some of the sculptures, shaped by wind and sun, arranged by tide and gravity, would have been at home in any modern art museum. Some were shark fins, others hands, faces, or diamonds. I snapped pictures until I could no longer feel the digits on my gloveless hand.

At one point I remember feeling completely giddy as I ran down the only narrow sand-strip that remained on the beach, straining to take pictures of as much as possible before the sun set. I also shot some video of the "Chesapeake Icebergs" hoping to convey how bizarre and transfixing this scene was. Of course the experience doesn't fully translate to film, but I still feel some of that childlike-wonder watching it on my computer. I was hesitant to post it on this blog, fearing that others would find it boring. Then I read this quote by Richard Louv, author of Last Child In The Woods:

"In medieval times, if someone displayed the symptoms we now identify as boredom, that person was thought to be committing something called acedia, a 'dangerous form of spiritual alienation'-- a devaluing of the world and its creator."

Rather than presume you an acedian, I chose to let you decide for yourself:

Bow To The Brow

2009-01-18T06:31:00.000-08:00

"Its the same as any other drive."

Picture the scene. You're a rookie QB trying to win your second playoff game, something that's never been done before, on the road against the #1 team in the AFC. The score is tied at 10-10 and you take over on your own 24 yard line with a little over 4 minutes left on the clock and one timeout.

Nerves? You're Joe Flacco, the unlikely NFL star from the University of Delaware. What could possibly make you nervous? Flacco calmly drove the Ravens 51 yards (31 of those through the air) to set up the eventual game-winning field goal with 50 seconds left.

I found the above comparison between Flacco and Bert to be hilarious. I think the only difference is that the muppet expresses more emotion.

After the game Flacco was asked by a CBS reporter to describe that final drive and, in particular, his spectacular 23 yard completion to Todd Heap on third and long. Side-stepping praise as deftly as he does a blitzing lineman, Flacco deferred all credit to Heap saying, "Todd made a really big play there." In an era when so many players seek individual praise for routine plays, its unheard of for someone to shrug off compliments.

You can see how he earned the nickname "Joe Cool." (Although, as Flacco notes, "I'm not into nicknames.) He barely cracked a smile after earning a trip to the AFC Championship game. For his part, Todd heap was not surprised with Flacco's passive demeanor. "You read his eyes," said Heap, "and there's nothing to read."

How could you not cheer for this guy? In an interview early in the season his mother shared that Flacco's older brothers refuse to be impressed with the fact that he's an NFL quarterback saying that they still consider him to be "a big dork." While at the University of Delaware Flacco didn't even own a car, instead he rode a bike around campus. (Compare this to LeBron James who was driving a Hummer to high school.)

The glamorous world of the NFL didn't do much to change his demeanor. He had his parents drop him off at the player's gate for his first game. Take a moment to let that sink in. In a parking lot full of luxury automobiles and SUVs the starting QB is getting dropped off by his parents, most likely in a Volvo. He still hasn't bought a car. A local dealership is allowing him to drive one of their BMWs. As Joe said, "Why pay for a car, when they'll give you one for free?"

Baltimore is a city that loves its humble heros. We worship guys like Cal Ripken, who showed up everyday and did his job, never seeking the limelight. Johnny Unitas, the greatest player of his era, never put himself above the team. Michael Phelps remained grounded during his quest for 8 gold medals. (Sure, we have a thing for guys with flair too: see Ray Lewis.) But, more than anything else, its Flacco's demeanor that has me excited for the future of this team. The Ravens have never had a QB to call their own. With Flacco, we as fans see the potential to watch one of the league's best for a long time to come. He has learned from every mistake he's made this season, rarely repeating them.

Before the season started, there was serious debate about whether it would be better for Flacco to learn the game on the field or from the sidelines. In October, Terrell Suggs made headlines for saying that Troy Smith should be playing more, calling him, "the better man for the job." Controversy? Flacco shrugged it off as no big deal and elevated his game to another level.

Now, just a few days after his 24th birthday, the kid is playing for the right to go to the Superbowl. Not bad for an average Joe.

Ready, Set... Stumble

2009-01-15T06:28:00.000-08:00

First of all, let me start by saying that I voted for Barack Obama. I have an "Obama '08" magnet on the back of my car. Back in January of '08, when there were still about 100 candidates for President, I took one of those surveys that matches you up with the perfect candidate. Out of all those people, Dennis Kucinich was the only candidate more closely aligned with my political views than Barack Obama. I was down with the "O" team way back when all the cool kids were pushing for a Ron Paul revolution. So don't write off what is to follow as the rants of a Bush-apologist or a disgruntled Hillary supporter. Obama's my guy.

But, we need to take our foot off the gas a little bit. The picture above is just a small sampling of the ubiquitous cover shots of Barack Obama. (Okay, the Tiger Beat one is from 'The Onion,' but I bet you believed it for a second.) The fact that Obama's been on so many magazine covers is hardly surprising. He's been the biggest news story of the past year and he's immensely popular, so he sells magazines. I get that. In fact, the whole phenomenon didn't really trip my Spidey-sense until I saw these two particular issues of Time and Esquire:

Maybe it was the fact that these magazines came across my desk on the same day. They were designed by Sephard Fairey, the artist that designed the popular 'Hope', 'Vote, and 'Change' campaign posters. Am I the only one who has a problem with a campaign poster designer creating Obama magazine covers? Doesn't this reek of propaganda? I know the media is stereotyped as being Pro-Obama, but this seems a little ridiculous. Time is supposed to be one of the few publications left with a little journalistic integrity. These iconic pieces call to mind the propaganda of former communists and dictators. (See Che Guevara or Saddam Hussein.) The leader looks over the shoulder and above the viewer, suggesting hope and promise. They contain very little detail. They are meant to impress and inspire support, not inform. They transform a person into a product. Has Obama become a brand?

Beyond arguing the aesthetics and integrity of magazine covers, I'm more disturbed by Obama's botched cabinet appointments. If you blinked you might've missed these stories, as they disappeared from the front pages with alarming rapidity. On Dec. 3, 2008 Obama designated New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson to the cabinet-level position of Commerce Secretary. (You may remember that as the country's only Hispanic governor, Richardson's endorsement of Obama was seen as key in securing Barack a large portion of the Hispanic vote away from Hillary.) On Jan. 4, 2009 Gov. Richardson withdrew his nomination as a result of an ongoing investigation into improper business dealings in New Mexico. The allegations are that he granted state contracts to campaign donors.

Next came the story of Timothy Geithner, pegged by Obama to be the next Treasury secretary. During his Senate confirmation hearings, it was revealed that Geithner hasn't paid self-employment taxes for several years, to the tune of $48,000, even though he acknowledged his obligation to do so. Geithner has since squarred things away with the IRS. Obama knew about these issues before choosing Geithner, but proceeded with the nomination anyway. And apparently the Senate is willing to overlook what's beeing described as an "embarrassment" in the name of approving the right guy for today's troubled economic times. I guess a guy who can avoid paying that much money to the IRS for all these years must have a diabolical financial mind.

I want to end with the other side of the coin. As Obama's image is getting airbrushed on its way into the White House, President Bush's is being caricatured on his way out. I know Rolling Stone doesn't purport to be Time or Newsweek (although it was a Rolling Stone reporter who brought us the story of Generation Kill), but this is taking things to the extreme. The cover story of their latest issue uses the tabloid-tactic of making up the news. Matt Taibbi writes a mock interview that he wishes Bush would give in which he apologizes for all the short-comings of the past 8 years. To give you any idea of just how shallow this reporting stays, at one point Taibbi has Bush "reflecting" on the time Condoleezza Rice farted in the Oval Office. Save your time, don't read it.

What's going on here? The media is glorifying one political party while demonizing the other. Isn't this exactly what people bash Fox News for? Wasn't the election of Obama meant to signal the end of Red vs. Blue politics? Well, that's for us to decide. If you find Condoleezza fart jokes humorous, they will continue to write them. If the Geithner news doesn't alarm you, it will no longer be news. We voted overwhelmingly for change this past November. But change doesn't happen with the simple checking of a ballot box. You have to remain aware. You have to pay attention. You have to read. People get the country they deserve.

This Tuesday I will be taking a half day off work to watch on TV one of the single biggest things that's happened in my 28 years, the swearing in of Barack Obama. I will be cheering. The magnet remains on my car. And I will continue to watch and scrutinize. It's important that we write the stories as they are, not as we wish them to be.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2009-01-12T08:39:00.000-08:00

I was talking to my friend, Leif, (who's an avid Steelers fan) on Sunday morning about the possibility of the Steelers and Ravens meeting in the AFC Championship Game. He told me that he'd actually rooted for the Ravens on Saturday because it meant that the Steelers would get to host the AFC Championship, rather than travel to Tennessee. Back on December 23rd I wrote: "All I want for Christmas is a playoff meeting with the Steelers and a chance to set things straight." So, we both got our wish. Of course, come Sunday night, one of us will regret that wish.

I also wrote a post earlier this year about how eerily similar the two teams are. Familiarity breeds contempt. In the NFL, it doesn't get any more familiar than playing the same team 3 times. The Steelers have beaten the Ravens twice this year, by a combined seven points. We know what to expect from this game. Its going to be physical, its going to be low-scoring, and its going to come down to the final minute.

I've heard talk about how hard it is for one NFL team to beat another 3 times in a given season. Don't buy into that. It's one of those sayings that sounds accurate, so people repeat it. But, look at the facts: There's been a sweep 11 of the 18 times teams have met in those circumstances. Thats 60% of the time. In other words, its more likely to happen than not. But that has 0% bearing on this Sunday's game. Like I said, the previous games were settled by a combined 7 points. The first decision came on a field goal in overtime. The second one came on a TD pass in the final minute. The only way to witness a closer competition is to challenge your reflection to a staring contest.

How much does this game mean? Well, after the Steeler's Dec. 14th win over the Ravens, Willie Parker had this to say: "This is like our biggest win. I know we won the Super Bowl, but you just can't understand the feeling of the players in this locker room right now."

On Sunday they'll be playing, not for the AFC North title, but for the AFC Championship and, more importantly, the right to go to the Super Bowl. What more could you ask for as a sports fan?

Ed Reed told Tennessee that Baltimore was the team, "you don't want to see." I don't think anyone would line up to play Pittsburgh either. They held San Diego to 15 rushing yards. They allowed the Charger's offense only one play and 17 seconds of possession in the entire third quarter. Take some time to digest those numbers. They are mind-boggling.

Willie Parker (146 yards, 2 TDs) appears to be back to full health. Normally I wouldn't concern myself with an opposing team's running back, because normally nobody runs on the Ravens. But if you're not concerned, then you haven't been paying attention. Chris Johnson racked up 72 yards in the first half against the Ravens. (If he stayed healthy, I think Tennessee would still be alive.) Parker and Johnson are both small, quick backs who like to get outside and turn the ball upfield. In order for the Ravens to be successful, they'll have to keep Parker inside the tackles.

I think our defensive game plan should call for a maximum amount of blitzing. When we only rushed 4 players, Kerry Collins was able to pick apart our secondary. However, under pressure his passes were off target and one was intercepted. Ben Roethlisberger is far better than Kerry Collins at avoiding the rush. It seems that he's not suffering many setbacks from his concussion two weeks ago. The Steelers relied on their running game, but when they called on Big Ben (17-26, 181 yards, 1 TD) he was extremely accurate.

Perhaps, as Ravens fans, we can take solace in history. Pittsburgh has hosted 3 AFC Championship Games in the past 10 years and lost all 3. In 1998, Elway's Broncos beat them. In 2002 and 2004 it was Tom Brady's turn. Could Joe Flacco join those elite QBs and reduce all those terrible towels to tear-soaked tissues?

Hines Ward hopes not. "I'm going to my fourth championship game," Ward said. "I'm 0-2 at home. So I want to win this one... I'm tired of losing at home."

Or, if you want a more recent connection, how about the fact that the Ravens beat the Titans? Yes, the same Titans team that dominated the Steelers in Week 16, 31-14. The same team that was stomping on those terrible towels and screaming that the road to the Super Bowl ran through Tennessee. (Then they waved powder blue knockoffs against the Ravens... Repulsive Rags?)

Now, Pittsburgh's feeling dominant. They handled the Chargers so decisively that Big Ben was able to watch Byron Leftwich toss long bombs in the fourth quarter. (That's are far cry from the Ravens-Titans' game which was a heavyweight bout until the clock read 0:00.) They're playing a team that they've already beaten twice. They're 5-point favorites. We've got a rookie QB and a rookie head coach. The road to the Super Bowl goes through Pittsburgh.

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah...

For some reason the words of Ed Reed continue to ring in my head, "Here comes the Ravens. The team you don't want to see."

The stakes couldn't be any higher. A win couldn't be any sweeter, a loss no more devastating. This is why we are fans.

To quote Ray Lewis' favorite move:

"Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?"

Remember Them

2009-01-03T11:35:00.000-08:00

I've been spending a bit of my free time in Iraq recently. Not literally of course, but through a book and a television show. I didn't make a conscious decision to go with an Iraqi theme, it just kind of worked out that way. And so, naturally my thoughts have been drifting to Iraq.

Its easy to forget about Iraq. The news from there has become stale. The war's been going on for 5 years, which is considerably longer than America's attention span. Even if you are someone who pays attention to world events (which already puts you in the minority) there have been much sexier stories to dominate the headlines. America elected its first black president. There were terrorist attacks in Mumbai. Most recently, Israel is pushing into Gaza, going on the offensive against Hamas. The only time Iraq makes front page news anymore is when a reporter throws his shoe at President Bush. (aSHOEsination attempt?)

I'm just as guilty as anyone. I've reached my saturation point when it comes to world politics. I'd much rather read about the Ravens chances in the playoffs. But when the information is presented in a narrative format, its much less intimidating. (I've always preferred Literature class over History.)

So I started watching HBO's Generation Kill for entertainment purposes rather than educational ones. (I didn't realize ahead of time that it was created by David Simon and Ed Burns, the guys behind The Wire.) This 7-episode miniseries is based on the book written by embedded Rolling Stone reporter, Evan Wright. He spent 21 days with the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the US Marine Corps. They refer to themselves as the "tip of the spear." During the first few weeks of the Operation Iraqi Freedom, the Recon Marines were the first ones on the ground, pushing head before the eventual assault on Baghdad.

What makes Generation Kill so great is that, just like The Wire, it presents an unflinching look at reality. Language is not cleaned up. Soldiers are not glamorized, nor are they demonized, they simply are. Saving Private Ryan is a fantastic movie, but it fell into "The Greatest Generation" trap. There was no greatest generation. Our grandfathers were no nobler than we, just as our great-great grandfathers, the slave owners, were no more wicked. Human nature is just that: our nature. It is part of our very essence and as such is not subject to change. So while it can be tempting to idealize the past, like photoshopping a zit out of an embarrassing photo, what does it leave you other than a portrait of someone else?

You will fell uncomfortable watching Generation Kill. As well you should. There is nothing organized or neat about war. There is nothing "smart" about bombs. After screening a few of the episodes, one Iraqi veteran said it was so realistic that he had a hard time reconciling between his actual memories and what he'd seen on the television screen.

So what was reality in the first 21 days? In one word: bravado. The United States went into Iraq with a pretentious, swaggering display of courage. There are countless examples of this: from the unprecedented smallness of our invading troops (both in numbers and equipment) to their misappropriation (reconnaissance troops are meant to act almost a scouts, not as an invading force). In the end we found that invading a country isn't nearly as challenging as running it and restoring order. If you're looking to have a better understanding of the decision making and day to day during the first month of the war (as well as a better look at the modern military), I can't recommend this series highly enough.

Shortly after finishing Generation Kill I picked up How To Break A Terrorist: The U.S. Interrogators Who Used Brains, Not Brutality, to Take Down the Deadliest Man in Iraq by Matthew Alexander. This is the story behind the hunt for al-Zarqawi, the head of al-Qaeda in Iraq. There are very few books that I've read in less than 24-hours. This was one of them.

Remember al-Zarqawi was the religious leader who organized the Sunni bombing of the Shi'ah "golden dome" mosque. He was hoping to incite a civil war, which would make the area so unstable that the U.S. would be forced to pull out. At the time he was considered priority #1 for the U.S. military, ahead of even Osama Bin Laden.

This book details how Interrogators started with low-level al-Qaeda operatives, gained intelligence from them, and worked their way up the ladder. The author of this book is a proponent of a new line of thinking when it comes to investigations. Torture tactics have been outlawed ever since the Geneva Conventions, but interrogators have been using psychological tools such as intimidation and deprivation to break down their captives. "Mr. Alexander," the name is a pseudonym, believes that establishing trust and building up a prisoner's esteem is a much more reliable and efficient way to elicit information. The proof is in the pudding, as Mr. Alexander's new school techniques eventually brought down al-Zarqawi. I can't imagine the self-control it takes to buddy up to a guy who designs suicide vests. How do you sit down with a man who's killed thousands and pretend to be his friend? It was these interactions that made How To Break A Terrorist impossible for me to put down. I'm not sure how this book was cleared to get published, indeed there are whole sections literally blacked out by the Dep't. of Defense, but the opportunity to get a first hand look inside the interrogation room with top al-Qaeda operatives is too good to pass up. The writing is not the best, but the suspense in this book (which is hard to accomplish when the outcome is well-known) is second to none.

While driving home for the holidays, I passed by a house in Chestertown that I hadn't seen in a while. There's a sign on their lawn with the words "Remember Them." The rest of the lawn is covered with tiny white flags, one for every U.S. service member killed in Iraq. The point is simple. It doesn't take a side. Its not political. Its simply a reminder: take a break in your day and remember those who have died.

There should be such a house in every community.

Time For The Big Dance

2008-12-28T22:00:00.000-08:00

On Sunday afternoon the Ravens did what they've done all season: they dominated a team they were supposed to beat. The Jaguars made things interesting, jumping out to a 7-3 lead, but in the end the Ravens would not be denied, running off the game's final 24 points. Now it's time for the playoffs. As Ray Lewis said, "Throw out the records. We're all 0-0."

How ironic is it that we meet the Dolphins in the first round? Last year we were the only team that they beat. After a 1-15 season, Cam Cameron lost his job as head coach and moved north to become our offensive coordinator. Now, thanks in large part to his creativity in offensive play calling, the Ravens have gone from a 5-11 team in '07 to an 11-5 team in '08.

The Dolphins are also 11-5 thanks to the efforts of another NFL reject. Chad Pennington was unceremoniously cast out of New Jersey after the Jets signed Brett Favre. However, this Sunday it was Pennington leading the Dolphins into the playoffs over Favre's Jets in the Meadowlands! Sometimes the ridiculous soap-opera scenarios of the NFL seem better scripted than those of the WWE.

Next Sunday's game should be a lot of fun. Both Miami and Baltimore seem to have peaked at the same time. We both mix in a slew of trick plays, usually while operating out of the "Wildcat" offense. Yes, we beat them earlier in the season, but these are two very different teams now. In the end, I believe our defense will prove to be the deciding factor. As scary as it is to imagine, I see Ray-Ray and the gang stepping it up to a whole new level for the post-season. (Please no more laterals, Mr. Reed.)

As we filed out of M&T Bank Stadium for the final time in 2008, fans were in a euphoric state. My friends and I were discussing the logistics of driving to Miami for the game. Spontaneous applause and cheers erupted along with calls of, "Let's go Flacco!" and Jim Mora's, "Playoffs?!" You got the feeling that everyone's anticipating big things on the horizon for this team.

Just like in 2000, we're a wild card team. Just like in 2000, the Super Bowl is in Tampa Bay. (Because of Hurricane Ike The Ravens bye was Week 2. If they make it to the AFC Championship Game, that would be 18 straight weeks of football, which has to be an NFL-record.) This Ravens squad feels much more complete than the one that won the Super Bowl, mainly because we actually have an offense. Also, the league feels wide open. Call it parity, call it paltry, but the NFL is ripe for the taking. (7 of the 12 playoff teams are new.) At this time of year all we as fans want is the opportunity to see how good our team is against the league's best. And, of course, if we take care of business in Miami, there's a re-match with Pittsburgh awaiting us...[EDIT: I didn't realize as the low seed, we'll have to go to Tennessee first. Oh well, hopefully the Ravens and Steelers can both make it to the AFC Championship Game.]

Thank you Santa!

Christmas Memories

2008-12-24T06:08:00.000-08:00

It seems like a good day for random Christmas reflections. The good thing about "random" entries is that it doesn't matter where you start or finish. So here goes:

Earlier this month I was reminded of one of my earliest. I went with Gretchen and her family to a Christmas tree farm. My family never went to a tree farm (we got ours from Memorial Stadium each year). In fact, a few years ago my parents converted to an artificial tree. So it wasn't until we were putting the tree up in Gretchen's place that I remembered exactly what a real Christmas tree smells like. After we'd strung the lights and hung the ornaments, I slid my head under the tree. Lying on my back, looking up at the multicolored lights, and inhaling the full pine tree smell, I was instantly transported back to being 6 years-old and falling asleep on many a December night in that same position. I think it started because I wanting to see things from a present's point of view. Try it some time...

What else? I remember visiting a shut-in from our church on Christmas Eve. I'm guessing she was in her 80's. I can still hear her raspy voice and I remember dreading the cigarette smell of her house. Now, as an adult, I can appreciate these yearly visits on a deeper level, but as a kid it seemed like a chore we had to endure before going home to hang our stockings. Hold your breath, eat her cookies, and then you can go home and wait for presents. What brats we were! But now, I'm glad to have those memories. Even though I didn't realize it at the time, I loved Miss Mary. Thank you Mom and Dad for teaching me that.

I remember after we'd hung our stockings, I'd round up a gang to walk the few blocks to my godmother's house. Our middle school was about 10% white and 90% black. We must've been a little bit racially confused, because I remember on those walks we would bundle up into every piece of winter gear available. Hoods were worn up, hats were pulled low over our brows. Scarves covered our noses and gloves concealed our hands. If you followed these steps to precision you achieved the desired "no-race" look. In other words, from afar it would be hard to tell what race you were. In other words, 4 white kids were less likely to get jumped if they looked like 4 black kids. These were the games we played.

I remember the year my brother, Luke, and I snuck up into the attic to see what was shaking in the Christmas stash. The haul couldn't have been better. There was his Lego Pirate Ship and my Gameboy. There were our two #1 requests just resting there in the attic! My parents had been against video games for just about as long as video games existed. I begged them for an NES. No. I begged them for an SNES. Still no. When the Gameboy came out, I begged them for that even though it seemed like a futile exercise. Maybe she suffered a temporary brain lapse, maybe she thought the box said Bibleboy, but for whatever reason my Mom had bought me a Gameboy! What could be better than that?

It was around this time that the Catholic guilt began to set in. We broke down in tears and confessed our sin to Mom. I remember her telling us that she worked really hard to surprise us each year and we'd ruined that. She was going to have to return those gifts now that the surprise had been ruined. Luke and I spent the next few days agonizing over the fact that we'd ruined our own Christmases. Eternal happiness had been within our grasp, but we were too impatient to wait for it to reach us. Much like Adam and Eve, we gave in to temptation, and now we were surely banished to an upcoming Christmas full of argyle sweaters and cotton socks.

You probably guessed it. Mom pulled the rope-a-dope on us and we opened the pirate ship and Gameboy on Christmas morning just a genuinely surprised as if we'd never seen them before.

Take some time today to remember your favorite Christmas memories. Take notice of a child tomorrow. What will they carry with them into adulthood? Enjoy it fully. We only get so many...

Merry Christmas!

The Rest Is History

2008-12-23T09:36:00.000-08:00

I thought about calling this post, "Walt Coleman: The Most Powerful Man In The NFL." After all in 2002 Coleman's controversial "Tuck Ruling" sent two franchises in decidedly different directions. This was a play where Tom Brady was hit by Charles Woodson. As he tried to tuck the ball into his body he fumbled it. Oakland recovered and appeared to have won the game. Coleman later said of the play, "It was in the last two minutes of the game, and the replay guy buzzed me and said the play needed to be reviewed. After I went over to the monitor and looked at the play, it was obvious to me that it was a forward pass. So I changed the ruling from a fumble to an incomplete pass and, as the saying goes, 'the rest is history." The Raiders lost and have since languished in NFL futility, while the win fast-tracked the Patriots into place as the only sports dynasty of the new millennium.

Fast-forward to Dec. 14th, 2008. On third down and with less than 50 seconds left in a 9-6 game, Pittsburgh QB, Ben Roethlisberger, scrambles and connects on a 3-yard pass to Santonio Holmes, who was ruled down just shy of the goal line. Once again, its up to Coleman to go "under the hood" and make a game-deciding decision. Based on most expert's opinions the play is too close to call either way. Because there needs to be indisputable visual evidence that the ruling on the field was incorrect, prevailing wisdom suggest that the call on the field will be upheld. However, Coleman ultimately overturned the play, saying that Holmes caught the pass with his feet in the end zone, and therefore scored what would become the game-winning touchdown.

While watching the game I remember being confused with this ruling. NFL touchdowns always depend on where the ball is, not the feet. In order to score a TD, the ball must break the plane of the end zone. Apparently Coleman was confused too, because after the game he tried to explain away his ruling to a pool reporter, stating that the nose of the ball barely broke the plane of the goal line when Holmes first had possession. I've yet to read and explanation from him as to why he failed to mention this on the field during the game. Even though this ruling has been widely criticized by sports media (see Sports Illustrated), both the NFL's Supervisor of Officials and Commissioner Roger Goodell defended Coleman's ruling as 'correct.'

So what? This was two weeks ago. Why am I still crying about it? Good teams overcome bad calls.

Well, there are a few reasons. #1- It came against the dreaded Steelers. They've been squeaking out lucky wins all season. (The Titans finally showed that the Steelers aren't nearly as good as their record indicates, by stomping them both literally and figuratively.) #2 We as fans were denied an incredible 4th and goal finish. Mike Tomlin has since said that he would've gone for the TD on 4th down. Imagine Big Ben leaning into the Steelers' offensive line, desperate to pick up those last 6 inches, as Haloti Ngata, Ray Lewis, and Bart Scott met him with equal force from the other side. I can't say that we would've stopped them, but I'd feel a lot more satisfied either way. #3 That one call goes a LONG way towards deciding the AFC North. If Coleman doesn't overturn the call on the field and the Ravens somehow stop them on 4th and 6 inches, we'd be the current #2 seed in the AFC and looking forward to a 1st round bye (which would be huge for a team that hasn't had a bye since Week 2).

But, at the end of the day, one man (and one call) doesn't determine your future. In the NFL, as in life, you decide your own future every day. The Raider's have made terrible personnel decisions since the Tuck Rule game, while the Patriots continue to make brilliant free-agent moves year after year. If anything, I would hope that these circumstances fuel the Ravens. They should feel shortchanged, but recognize that the opportunity for great success is still there. This is a down year in the NFL. There are no elite teams. Simply get into the playoffs and anything can happen.

All I want for Christmas is a playoff meeting with the Steelers and a chance to set things straight...

Perhaps the NFL is trying to make amends with the Ravens. They moved this Sunday's game to 4:15. If New England loses to Buffalo in their 1 o'clock game the Ravens would be in the playoffs win, lose, or draw. I don't see New England losing, but its nice to know that there's at least a slight chance that the Ravens game could become meaningless and they would be able to rest some of their starters.

Two Of A Kind

2008-12-10T04:50:00.001-08:00

There are many reasons to be excited about this Sunday's game between the Baltimore Ravens and the Pittsburgh Steelers. The Ravens are 9-4. The Steelers are 10-3. The division title is still up for grabs. Both teams would be in the playoffs if they started today, yet neither team has clinched a playoff berth. To call the rivalry between these two teams "intense" would be giving too much credit to that word. This thing goes beyond intense. Familiarity breeds contempt and the only thing more familiar to these teams is their own reflections. Both franchises try to outphysical their opponents. Both teams boast stout defenses. Both teams would prefer to run the ball down your throat, mixing in the occasional pass at a time when it is both unexpected and deadly. The fans of these teams are from second-tier, working-class cities. You can't have this many things in common with your opponent and not feel passionate about the game. However, what's got me most excited about THIS Sunday's game has nothing to do with records, playoffs, or rivalries.

It's the two men in the picture above. I heard Bruce Laird, a former safety for the Baltimore Colts, on the radio describing Ed Reed and Troy Polamalu as the best safeties he's ever seen play the game of football. I've never seen either man play at a higher level than this year. Ed Reed was drafted in the 1st round of the 2002 Draft; Polamalu went in the 1st round the following year. As a player's career progress he learns more about the game. The downside is that he eventually reaches a point where his physical skills begin to decline each year. I believe both these men are at that golden moment where their physical talents and their knowledge of the game have met at the highest point possible.

Both Reed and Polamalu had incredibly acrobatic interceptions (photographed above) this season. The old cliche about safeties and cornerbacks is, "if they could catch, they'd be wideouts." On these two particular plays, Reed and Polamalu made receptions that would've eluded most receivers. If a ball gets tipped at the line and its fluttering through the air, smart money's on Reed or Polamalu to come down with it.

That's what I'm going to be watching for on Sunday. Yes, I care about the outcome, playoff implications, etc. But I want to see which star shines brighter. Both these men have the ability to change the outcome of a game in the blink of an eye.

Its rare that you meet someone fully realizing their potential, but it seems like Reed and Polamalu were put on this earth to play safety in the NFL. What could be better than seeing two masters, at the top of their craft, exchanging brushstrokes in what has the potential to be a masterpiece?

To Move Mountains

2008-12-09T08:19:00.000-08:00

The picture at the top of my blog was taken this summer when Gretchen and I were hiking through Shenandoah National Park. I was struck then with thoughts that usually comes to me whenever I spend a few days hiking through the mountains. These are timeless features. Buildings will crumble, people will die, entire civilizations come and go, yet the mountains remain largely unchanged. Much like staring into the stars or out at an ocean horizion, the permanence of mountains reminds me that in the grand scheme of things, my problems are minor ones and that my time on this planet will be brief. In mountain years my life is no more than a grain of dirt on an anthill. Rather than depress me, the recognition of this spurs me on to live life as fully as possible. In another way, the mountains connect me to the thousands of years of human beings who stopped, if only for a moment, and contemplated these same features.

Mountains have seen dinosaurs and they will see the last days of this planet. That sentiment seemed true until the 1970's. In response to the gas crisis of that decade, the coal industry sought out cheaper, more efficient ways to harvest coal from the mountains. It was at this time that mountaintop removal mining (MTR), or valley fills became widespread. Coal mining requires hundreds of workers and a takes much longer than MTR. Wikipedia goes into a great deal of detail on the process, but basically it involves removing up to 1,000 feet from the top of the mountains, the non-economically viable material, in order to expose the underlying coal seams. The removed mountaintop, or overburden, is deposited in the surrounding valley, hence the term "valley fill."

A 1983 ruling prohibited dumping the overburden within 100 feet of streams. However, this law has been largely ignored. The Miami Herald states:

"Government figures show that 535 miles of streams were buried or diverted from 2001 to 2005, more than half of them in the mountains of Appalachia. Along with the loss of the streams has been an increase of erosion and flooding."

Even though the coal industry had been ignoring this law for years, it was the basis for many court cases brought against them on the behalf of citizen and environmental groups. For years, the coal industry has sought to have this law repealed. In one of his last acts as President, George W. Bush has granted them this wish.

However, the EPA still had to approve this law change. Surely the ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION Agency would not approve a law change that would allow the dumping of dirt, rocks, and coal sludge into stream beds. In a move that seems to be in clear violation of the Clean Water Act, the EPA approved President Bush's law change. You read that right. The group that we depend on to protect our environment just approved a law change which makes it legal to dump coal sludge into our water supply!

Those who defend mountaintop removal say its cheap, efficient, and creates valuable flat-land where there was previously little available. Have we become so conceited as a species that we think we are wise enough to reshape the topography of our planet as we see fit?

As a country we just voted for change, not just in the presidential race, but across the board. The opportunity to work towards clean energy is here. We can continue to use the fuels from hell (below ground)- coal, oil, gases- or we can start to use the clean, renewable fuels from heaven (above ground)- water, air, and solar. In lieu of buying me a Christmas gift this year, I asked my parents to make a contribution to We Can Solve It, an environmental advocacy group committed to repowering America with 100% clean electricity within the next 10 years. If you feel moved, take action. I understand finances are tight, but even if you can't contribute financially you can at least sign the petition. To write President-elect Obama and ask him to end mountaintop removal coal mining, visit ilovemountains.org.

As human beings our potential is limitless. We have the power to move mountains... or protect them.

The Wire

2008-12-02T07:24:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched the final episode of HBO's "The Wire." This series aired from 2002-2008, so admittedly I was late to the party. However, I had the benefit of watching 6 years worth of television (60 episodes) in 3 months.

I'm not posting about it here to write a review. What could I add to that conversation? Every major TV reviewer raved about the show. No less than Time, Entertainment Weekly, The Guardian, the Chicago Tribune, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Philadelphia Daily News called it, "the best show on television." (Yet, inexplicably, it never won an Emmy.)

I've always been a proud product of Baltimore. But, how much of it do I know? Outside of the Inner Harbor, the stadiums, and t

he bar districts, how much of it do any of us know? I've seen glimpses of other places: the rough neighborhoods, homeless shelters, and crack houses. But they come to me in the form of 30-second news clips, or maybe a headline and photograph I glance at on my way to the Sports page.

What The Wire succeeded in doing, was making this other world real. Each season focuses on a single crime. Over the course of each 12 episode sea

son I got to intimately know the characters and their motivations. The writing and acting are so superb that they became real people. (I would drive through Baltimore and half expect to se

e Stringer Bell pull up next to me at a red light.)

Over the course of 5 seasons the scope of this show was dizzying. From the corners to the docks to politics to the school system to the Baltimore Sun to the police d

epartment to the jail system they wrote an entire city into being. No entity exists in a vacuum. The choices of one sector directly affect all the other players. And the look at each of these sectors is unflinching. As Time put it, "no other TV show has e

ver loved a city so well, damned it so passionately, or sung it so searingly."

Somewhere along the way, we as a society turned our backs on these people. They've created their own society complete with its own economy, hierarchy, and

values. The murders climb, the test scores drop and it seems like hope has been lost. The Wire never wraps anything up in a neat bow. It merely holds a mirror up to the c

ity. You may not like what you see, but there's no denying: that's what we look like. The Wire is merely presenting reality and its downright compelling.

So, why have so many great stories been ignored for so long? At first I'd say its because our attention span is too short. But, look at how long we followed the Natalee Holloway case. Is it because the characters are poor and black? Well, we do have quite a history of ignoring those people (see Katrina.) Is the story too complicated, are we not smart enough to follow it? I have too much faith in humanity to believe that.

I will always love this city and root for it. But cheering from the sidelines won't help things get better. We slapped "Believe" on as many billboards and t-shirts as possible, but what changed? O'Malley proved himself to be just another politician when he left for Annapolis. At the end of the day, no politician or TV show is going to save us. The power, as always, rests with the people. The Wire did a good job of presenting the world we currently live in. We have two choices: continue to ignore that world or begin to pay attention.

Bah, Humbug

2008-11-29T07:45:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I never feel more out of touch with American popular culture than on Black Friday. Last week I was telling people that I enjoyed Thanksgiving because it was so low-key. Its not associated with any religion, no one buys presents for it, and you don't even have to get all that dressed up. Thanksgiving celebrates all that is good with life: family, food, and football. But, before that euphoric buzz has even worn off I'm reminded: I'm kind of a stranger in my own country.

Its a miracle that Thanksgiving has been able to withstand the trappings of our consumer-culture for so long. But just a few, short hours after Turkey Day we begin to feel the crunch of that day which has been all but hijacked by the Capitalist machine. Yes, Christmas has started. Well, it probably started sometime around Halloween, but now its in full swing. Watch TV and you'll see a commercial. Surf the internet and an ad will pop up. Movie channels are showing Christmas movies and radio stations are playing Christmas songs. Look at The Baltimore Sun today and the top story isn't about 195 people killed in India, but about shoppers searching for bargains.

Look at some of the other headlines. A temporary maintenance man was killed in a Long Island Wal-mart by a stampeding mob rushing into the store at 5AM. His fellow employees were injured and also run-over as they tried to rescue the fallen man. When police finally arrived and cleared the store many of the patrons complained that they'd been in line since Thursday morning and attempted to continue shopping. Think about that. This mass of people was so out of touch with reality that they valued saving $100 on a new flat-screen TV over a man's life.

Shortly after reading that article I came across this ad for Target, encouraging people to rush into their stores for their 2-Day Sale. It doesn't take much dot-connecting to realize this was the last image seen by Jdimytai Damour, the man killed in the Wal-Mart stampede.

As disconnected as I may feel from the majority of Americans. I take comfort in the fact that there are like-minded individuals out there. As I made my way north on Rt. 1, enjoying the landscape of farm fields and Fall foliage, I was assuaged a bit by the words of comedian Lewis Black:

When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was the day that the family gathered together and ate and drank and passed out. And nobody woke us up and said, "Let's go shopping." Because Thanksgiving is no longer Thanksgiving, just call it what it is :'Christmas Halftime.'

And on Friday, on that Friday following Thanksgiving, you can go to anyplace in America and nobody's at home. They're all at the mall. Some of them have been at the mall since the day before; in tents and stuff. "So I can get that new Barbie doll that shits candy in your hand. It's not even for my kid!" Everybody's at the mall, everybody's shopping.

And there's no news, the only news is about people shopping. Every reporter's at the mall going, "Did you buy shit? Did you buy shit? DID YOU BUY SHIT? Get back in there and buy shit! America's depending on you to buy shit today." And then that night, that's the lead story, "We're fucked, nobody bought shit today! We're fucked, we're fucked! Stock up on food, I don't think we'll make it til Thursday."

So, to my fellow Grinches, you're not alone. This is our time of year too.

Seeing is Believing

2008-11-22T06:38:00.000-08:00

To read this morning's Baltimore Sun coverage on the Maryland-Vermont game, you'd come away feeling pretty good about the team. They played against a well-coached, veteran-heavy, confident team that shot the ball very well in the second half. Maryland had an off-night, but managed to force overtime on Vasquez's gutty 3-pointer with 6.7 seconds left and then dominated in the extra period. Good experience for a young team. We got the win. Time to move on, right?

Well... while all that may be true, I attended the game and therefore feel I am able to provide a bit more of an in-depth analysis. This was my first time seeing this year's Terps and I was curious to see what Coach Gary Williams had put together.

I knew they'd be a small team. We lost Bambale Osby (6'8") and James Gist (6'9"). I'd heard Gary planned on using a 3 (and sometimes 4) guard lineup. That could be exciting. Sure they'd be undersized on defense, but having 3 or 4 guards on the floor at a time had to mean fast-paced, high-scoring games. What it also meant was that the pressure of establishing an inside presence would fall squarely on the shoulders of the lone big man on the court.
Last night that task was given to Braxton Dupree (6'8") out of Calvert Hall. In sports, there's nothing quite so pathetic as a basketball big man who refuses to play inside. Maybe he's soft, maybe he's lazy, but Dupree wanted no part of the paint last night. This was particularly troubling because, if Dupree won't play big against a small Vermont team what's to make us think he'll step up to UNC's Tyler Hansborough or Duke's 7'1" Zoubek? On one of the night's most telling plays, Dupree hovered out around the 3-point line on offense (despite the fact that he had 3 inches and 30 lbs. on his defender). Instead of stepping to receive a pass, Dupree waited for it to come to him. The defender jumped in front of him and stole the ball. Dupree gave a half-hearted attempt to chase after the now streaking VT player and then slowed to a walk as his opponent slammed the ball through the hoop for an easy 2 points. I believe that was the last action Mr. Dupree saw for the night as Gary banished him to the bench.
Greives Vasguez. Just his name brings up a whole range of emotions. The kid's not subtle. He's fearless too. He hit a couple of big shots when Maryland needed them, including the crucial 3 to send the game to OT. But he's also a jerk. It's one thing to play with emotion, but Vasquez's fist pumps, shimmying, and chest-pounding after made baskets are more about humiliating his opponents than expressing himself. A few of his antics last night could've easily drawn technical foul calls. I blame Gary for not cracking down on this behavior when Greives first arrived at Maryland.
The offense looked stale. Vermont seemed to flow and crisply pass the ball around the floor, working the inside-out game to perfection. Maryland did a lot of standing around/ one-on-one. We got back into the game on the basis of two Dave Neal 3-pointers. I love the Dave Neal story just as much as the next guy, but when you start relying on 3-pointers from the biggest, least-athletic guy on the court, you're in trouble.
How about some positives? Dino Greggory played like a beast. He may have just stolen Dupree's started spot. Eric Hayes has gotten more aggressive offensively and the team flows better when the ball is in his hands (I'm not sure why they got away from that). Adrian Bowie went off late in the second half and finished with a nice double-double, 17 points 10 rebs. In fact Gary called him "our 5" (the number for Center) which was both a compliment to Bowie and a not-so-subtle dig at Dupree. The Jin Soo Kim experiment continues. The 6'8" Korean continues to show promise, but he definitely looked confused on the offensive end and a little slow on the defensive end. I know he joined the team late, so hopefully with more practice he'll become a contributing member of this team.
Bottom line: Gary got win number 400 at Maryland. The team gets its first game against a ranked opponent when they play #5 Michigan State on Thanksgiving. A lot can happen over the course of a season, but if I had to make a prediction from what I saw last night, Maryland won't be dancing in March.

Who's Afraid Of The Dark?

2008-11-19T19:37:00.000-08:00

Not you? How about the woods... at night? Of course you are. That's where serial killers live and the Blair Witch and if they don't get you, some wild animal will or you'll get lost and starve to death.

At least that's how I used to feel. I distinctly remember when we were 19 or 20 driving to Loch Raven Reservoir, parking the car, and seeing how far into the woods we could walk without flashlights. I don't think we ever made it out of sight of the streetlights. I was always convinced that some drug addict or cult leader was just lying in wait for a few daring delinquents such as us.

In 2005, when I spent 5 1/2 months in the woods I was forced to come to terms with the dark. I remember a few early nights in Georgia, lying in my tent, listening to the lonely cries of coyotes and feeling equally alone and vulnerable. As the summer went on though, the dark woods became a familiar and comfortable place. Just as you feel secure walking from your bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night, so was I in the woods. Having spent every day in the woods I came to the seemingly obvious conclusion that the nightime woods are the same place, minus sunlight.

Its this degree of understanding that I try to pass on to students at Echo Hill any time I lead them on a Night Hike. We spend 90 minutes acclimating to the dark, exploring Echo Hill's campus, listening to owls, star-gazing, and hopefully coming to the realization that our surroundings haven't changed, they're just less-well lit.

Night Hikes are seldom more rewarding than when they're with an inner-city group, such as the D.C. group I had last night. They couldn't have been more out of their element. It was as if I was leading them on an exploration of another planet.

"What's this squishy stuff we're stepping on?"

"That's mud."

They'll held onto each other and me, as if to let go would have sent them hurtling into the deepest abysses of outer space. And why not? Some of the kids who come to Echo Hill have never seen stars before. If you'd spent your entire life inside lit buildings, beneath streetlights, or among skyscrapers that never go dark, a pitch black field would seem other-worldly.

Our fears of the dark are well-founded. There was a time in our existence when wandering out into the nighttime woods would've most likely resulted in your ending up as some large predator's dinner. Nowadays, we've killed off or driven away the large predators, but deeply ingrained survival instincts are hard to shake.

When I look out across the Bay to the Western Shore, the Southern skyline has an orange glow to it. You might be fooled into thinking that the sun had just set over the horizon there, but come back a few hours later and you'll notice the glow is still there. What is it?

Baltimore.

Its a fantastic coincidence that as these thoughts were kicking around in my head I came across the latest issue of National Geographic. The November cover story is The End Of Night: Why We Need Darkness. They do a great job of explaining the phenomenon of light pollution. When I saw their photo of a Utah skyline I felt much like one of those D.C. 6th graders, seeing the stars for the first time.

Tips From A Pro

2008-10-10T08:27:00.000-07:00

One of the best things I did in preparation for tomorrow's race was to e-mail my friend, Liz. Liz was a fellow shalloper and avid marathon (and even ultra-marathon) runner. So, when I was feeling a bit anxious about the impending 26.2, I asked her for advice. Here are her words of wisdom:

Don't worry! What you have on your side is the ability to push past mental walls, and that is all a marathon really is. Hiking the AT and rowing around the Bay have done that for you. That being said- you are probably in fine enough shape to finish, though it won't be without some pain. I've run a marathon after not being able to run for the 6 weeks before, and my at my first marathon, the longest I had ever run was 11 miles.

Here's what I would recommend: It's stuff that seems really logical, but I have learned the hard way:)- don't run much the two days before the race- 1-2 miles and that's it. We're triaging here:)

-don't do a warm up run before the race...just take the first couple miles easy (easier said than done:))- it will automatically warm you up and you aren't putting an extra mile onto your body. Unless you are planning on trying to win the race, there is not point in warming up- do stretch though.

- carry Ibprofen with you- I would recommend taking 2 an hour before, and then 2 half way through the race. but try to eat a gel with it so it doesn't upset your stomach- it'll just help to keep stuff from swelling too much.

- don't eat red sauce with your pasta the night before- the acid can mess you up in the am:)

- by all means have a cup of coffee the day of:)

- Don't freak out if you can't sleep the night before- I have a hard time- but do make sure you have everything packed and read to go (# on shirt, etc). If you think you'll end up losing your shirt due to heat, pin your number on your shorts. I have literally had a friend forget his shoes at the start line- that was interesting.- Watch wearing shorts with a big seam in between your legs...ouch.- Bloody nipples have got to be painful. Girls wear sports bras which takes care of the problem. Use bandaids or some kind of body glide/vaseline.

- try to eat when it's available, but not too too much. I dump an extra cup of water on my head at aid stations- no one minds you taking two. Then again, I don't really sweat when I run.

- ok- this will be important when running, esp if you don't have much time to train. divide the race up into sections. the first 5k, the first 10k, the first 1/2, then like mile 14-18, 18-22, 22-26. Seems silly, but this way you are only concentrating on 4-6 miles at a time and it's not so overwhelming. and the last silly thing which TOTALLY works is whenever you think of the race between now and then, imagine yourself running strong, head up. Take a couple minutes each night to really think of how you want your race to go, and how well you see yourself running. It has been proven to improve folks race times and form.

- If you are really afraid of shitting your pants, take an immodium...cause that's gross:)

- when you go through an aid station, don't be afraid to walk, it'll give your muscles a chance to rest. If you are running, squeeze the paper cup into a tight notch so you don't get water up you nose...You will totally finish if your knee lets you and you just think of it simply. Try to talk to folks to pass the time. If you are running so fast to where you can't really breath- you are going too fast. Slow down for a bit- if you still want to run fast, do it at mile 20. Folks say that the first 20 miles and the last 6 are two different races...and they are right. talking to others is how I got through my first one. and pee wherever you want- everyone does.

After the race- WALK! Drink chocolate milk (it beat out all of the fancy electrolyte/protein drinks as a recovery drink). Walk more! and even though this parts sucks more ass than anything- fill your tub with COLD water and ICE and sit in it for 10-15 minutes. I usually scream curses, but it has cut my recovery/sore as hell time in about a 1/3 cause it stops any inflamation that may be starting. And be sure to keep eating all afternoon so your gut doesn't turn into the eternal pit of dispair, looking to turn your body into one holy hell:) Even if you are a bit nauseous, try to eat little bits.

Wow- have I said enough?

That's it! Have so much fun and let me know how it goes. Do the horrible ice bath thing- it is TOTALLY worth the cursing which will ring out from the bathroom.

Thanks again Liz. Hope others find this as entertaining and helpful as I did!

Marathon

2008-10-09T12:28:00.000-07:00

"All I have to do is make sure it comes down to a battle of wills. Then I know there is no way I can lose." -Steve Prefontaine

This Saturday I will be attempting to complete the Baltimore Marathon. As a kid I remember watching my Dad run a few marathons. Well, actually I remember restlessly sitting on a couch in front of a department store for a few hours until my Mom said, "There's Dad." I remember sprinting along with him for a few paces before he disappeared from our sight. I remember all the people gathered around. This made an impression on me. A marathon was a special thing. Not everyone could complete one. But, my Dad could. And one day I would too.

So, Saturday is to be my day. Perhaps. If you believe the books and the magazines, marathon training follows a 4-month schedule of gradually increasing distances maxing out at about 20 or 22 miles and then gently tapering off before the big day. I guess that's reassuring. Such a plan encourages us that anyone can run a marathon, so long as they're willing to play the game by the established rules.

There were no rules for the first marathon. Pheidippides ran from Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians had been defeated in the Battle of Marathon. Exhausted from his 26.2 mile journey he collapsed at the finish, announced "We have won," and died.

The lesson learned? 26.2 can be done, but proper commitment and training are required to run it safely. Well, dear reader, if you've gathered anything from my infrequent postings to this blog, its probably this: I struggle with commitment. Once the newness wears off I usually lose interest. So, my "training" has been anything but committed. My longest run has probably been 7 miles. On an average week, I'll do about 15. This is adequate training for a 5K, not so much for a marathon.

On Saturday I'll line up with very little clue of what lies in front of me. The longest I've ever run in my life is 13 miles and that was in high school! My Dad has told me that at some point in every marathon, usually around mile 20, you hit the wall. This is the place where, physically, every ounce of energy feels drained and your mind is telling you its time to stop. The wall can be so powerful that my Dad remembers completing 26 miles and not knowing if he would be able to complete the last .2.

I look forward to meeting the wall. In an earlier post I referred to it as the edge. Its also a phenomenon I dealt with while trying to live for a week according to 1608 standards. Once the distractions are stripped away or blurred into the background, its incredible what you can learn about yourself. Run 26.2 miles on very little training?

I can't think of anything healthier.

Truth In Advertising?

2008-10-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

While running long distances on the narrow roads of Kent County, its easy for the mind to drift. In fact that's one of the things I most like about distance running. Yes, it may be painful for the body, but its equally meditative for the mind.

So tonight, as I was making my way down the flat asphalt, surrounded on either side by high, dry stalks of corn begging to be harvested, I heard what I thought were the playful screams of children. As I listened closer, the sound soon revealed its-self to be the familiar, "cahonk" of a flock of geese.

That sound identified, I continued on, but still let my mind play with the noise, here turning it into the yelps of a pack of Indian warriors, there morphing it into the cries of a hundred women. The sound was so eerily close to human, that it was easy to imagine it coming from a variety of different sources.

And then that got me thinking about sounds, specifically the sounds we make when we talk. As kids, we learned these sounds by imitating our parents. But where did the first vocal humans learn the sounds they made? How did the first cave-people learn to form their vowels and consonants?

"Cahonk."

To me, it seems quite likely that it was the animals. Its in our nature to imitate. Surely as we heard birds and other mammals call each other we learned to make those noises. Perhaps it started as a way to hunt those species. Even today we realize that by imitating the call of the goose you can call them in closer.

Once learned, the meaning behind these sounds must've expanded. Suddenly through a whole range of octaves far more expressive than grunts and groans, new emotions, emotions so new we wouldn't have known what to call them even if we had words, were able to be expressed. How welcoming that must've been! Think about how frustrating it can be to have a word perpetually on the tip of your tongue only to continuously elude you. Now imagine feeling something for which no word or sounds exist.

Thanks to the animals we were freed. We were complicated. We were evolved.

And then this got me thinking about the reverse. If this theory is true and all human sound was learned by imitating animals, then it stands to reason that if a single organism could somehow emit the sounds of every animal on the planet, it would have the ability to converse in every know language. In other words, if you could combine all the animals into one super-being, that being could make every possible human sound.

And then this made me think of those three frogs sitting on the lily-pads outside of that swamp-side bar.

"Bud." "Weis" "Errrr."

Who says TV never taught me anything?

Dewey Beach Triathlon

2008-09-14T19:19:00.000-07:00

The alarm clock blared to life at 4 AM. Yes, 4 AM really does exist.

Gretchen and I stumbled to life, packed our bags and loaded the bikes onto our bike rack. Although I can write all that in a sentence, it actually took us about 45 minutes. We made our way down the dirt lane heading away from Echo Hill's campus.

BLINK. My check engine light flashed on. We turned the car around and switched our gear and bikes onto Gretchen's car. It was now 5 AM. Race registration was open from 6- 6:30. According to Google Maps we had a 1 hour 45 minute drive ahead of us. Nice way to start the morning...

A little bit of luck and some creative driving later and we made it.

The Swim (1/2 mile)

This was the part I was most nervous about. The only time I really swim is when I'm trying to catch a wave to body surf. Now I was going to swim a 1/2 mile in the Atlantic? To be honest, I wasn't even sure how long a 1/2 mile was. As we approached the beach I could see the 3 pink buoys marking off the swim area. Wow. That was way farther then I'd imagined a mile would be. The swim always goes with the tide, so we had to walk the 1/2 mile to the farthest buoy before swimming back up the beach. As we walked down I actually got a little winded. This is not a joke. If the walk had me feeling a little tired, what was the swim going to do?

Racers were separated into different groups based on our ages and experience levels. Different groups were designated by the color of their swim caps. Since Gretchen and I were both "novices" we couldn't understand why my cap was orange and hers was blue. It turned out that either she registered incorrectly, or was given the wrong cap, because the blue caps were for women aged 25-30. Having never competed in a triathlon before, Gretchen took off and competed with one of the strongest groups in the field.

I, on the other hand, waited. And waited. And then waited some more. It seemed like every possible age group had gone while us orange-capped newbies were left to sit on the beach and contemplate the ever-strengthening churn of our nerves. Finally it was our turn. The only other group left was pink-cappers. I can't imagine who ranks below novices, but there was no time to ask questions, it was my time to enter the ocean.

(stay tuned for the rest)

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

2008-09-04T08:55:00.000-07:00

Did you notice the sun was shining just a little bit brighter today? Or that the air smelled just a little bit sweeter? Did you wake up feeling fresh, ready to face the world? You probably weren't able to put you finger on exactly what was so different (and so pleasant) about today, until you remembered, Sept. 4th is the start of the 2008 NFL season, which also means its the start of the Fantasy Football season.

For the past 5 years I've been a member of the Charm City Fantasy Football League which, despite its fancy name, is not actually sponsored by the city of Baltimore. The league is made up of me and 11 of my most degenerate friends.

By far, the best part of fantasy football is the draft. As we progress further into our adult lives, its a sad fact that less of our time is spent with each other huddled together in a basement enjoying cheap beer and crude conversation. The Fantasy Football draft ensures that this activity takes place at least once a year (for some of these guys this is the only time I see them.)

The location tends to change from year to year, but there are always a few constants: Each guy comes armed with the secrets that he believes will give him a distinct advantage over the competition. For some its a firmly clutched Fantasy Football magazine, selected from the dozen or so on the supermarket shelf. Others spend weeks forming and then reworking their player rankings by position. A handful of us even bring laptops to the draft, hoping to pick up on some last-minute piece of information that we hope will give us a leg-up on the less technologically-inclined. Scatter in bags of chip, containers of dip, and your favorite domestic beer and you've got a pretty good setting of the scene.

A good (or bad) draft can make (or break) your season. In 2005 I took Tiki Barber (who ended up with 1,800 yards) and won the league. In 2006 I went with LaMont Jordan (who ended up with 434 yards) and missed the playoffs. Last year I was lucky enough to land Tony Romo (36 TDs) and T.O. (15 TDs); that pair netted me third place. There's always the chance that some undrafted player will have a breakout year and you'll be lucky enough to pick him up from the waiver wire, but with 12 teams drafting 16 rounds worth of players, most of the quality players are already spoken for. By in large the fate of your team is sealed on draft day.

This year we had one owner (we are referred to as owners, b/c the players are the guys who wear pads on Sundays-- yes everything about this is very geeky) who couldn't make the draft because of a last minute commitment to a Labor Day party. So, he had another owner draft for him. Is this a conflict of interest? Absolutely. Were any of us going to complain if his team ended up looking less than stellar? Not a chance.

Another owner relocated to California this year. 5 years ago this would've meant he was out of the league. On Monday it meant that we video conferenced with him and projected his larger-than-life likeness onto Adam's big screen TV. Welcome to the future.

To help keep track of who's picked who, we have a draft board that hangs on the wall. As players are picked a sticker with their name is affixed under the owners name. For the 6th straight year Lori, Mark's wife, acted as our Vana White. Its uncanny how good she is a that job. Picture, Round 14, someone calls out that he's drafting Eddie Royal, and somehow Lori knows that's the rookie wide-receiver for Denver. Given Mark's track record over the past two years (11-15), I think it might be time for him to handle the stickers and for her to draft the team.

Inevitably someone will draft a player that's already been taken. The penalty for not paying attention: finish your beer. If you draft someone so obscure that NFL.com didn't bother printing a label for him: finish your beer. Sensing a theme here?

At the end of the day you're left with a few studs, a few average guys, and a few gambles that you hope pay off. Everyone thinks that he outsmarted the other 11 guys, but just like the real NFL, on any given Sunday...

The trash talking continues throughout the season on the leagues website as owners post articles belittling, heckling, and challenging the manliness of their fellow leaguemates. And really, what's more American than football, gambling, and talking trash? Its gonna be a good 17 weeks!

Why I Watch

2008-08-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker for the Olympics.

Always have been.

I remember the original Dream Team in '92 blowing out their opponents by an average of 40 points on their way to gold. I remember Michael Johnson and his gold shoes burning up the track in Atlanta in '96. I'd get so pumped up after watching him run, I'd lace up my own shoes and head out the door for a 5 mile run, often after 10 PM.

Sunday morning I blinked off the haze of my oldest sister's 40th birthday party and settled into the couch to watch the Redeem Team start their quest to restore USA Basketball to its rightful place of prominence. (In 116 years, basketball has gone from being played in a Massachusetts YMCA using peach-crates to yesterday's game, which was watched by over a billion people!) During the course of that game the commentators hyped up the men's 4 x 100 meter freestyle relay, which would take place later that night. Apparently one of the members of the French team had been boasting that they would "smash the Americans" and that the U.S. team was afraid of the French.

#1- Has anyone "feared" the French since the 1800's?

#2- Don't they know that we have the greatest swimmer EVER on our team?

I'd already planned on watching all of Phelp's medal events, but this twist added extra incentive to make sure I saw this race. (Even if it meant staying up past my bed time and enduring the seeding portion of the women's gymnastics competition.

They spent all night competing just to determine the order in which they would compete once the real competition begins.)

Fast forward to 10:45PM. Phelps had to swim in the 200M freestyle semifinals. Knowing that he'd be swimming in the relay finals in another hour, Phelps wisely conserved his energy, swimming just fast enough to qualify for the finals.

An hour and 9 minutes later, he was back on the pool deck ready to take on the French. Rowdy Gaines, the NBC swimming expert, explained that he'd played through the possible scenarios for that night's race, "a hundred times" and that he just couldn't envision a favorable outcome for the United States. France was blessed with three of the best sprinters in the world, including their anchor man, Alain Bernard, who started the day as the world record holder in the 100 M freestyle. According to Gaines, for Phelps to stay on track for 8 gold medals, each American swimmer would have to swim a perfect race.

Phelps started off and swam the fastest 100 of his life (an American record 47.51), but we were in second place... to the Australians (setting a World record with 47.24). Andrew Weber-Gale swam as if there was an outboard attached to his butt, catching the Australian and giving the U.S. a one-head lead going into the final 200M. Next into the pool was Cullen Jones, who, like Phelps, was also chasing history, hoping to become just the second African-American swimmer to win a gold medal. Jones was described as the weakest link on the U.S. relay team and it showed. After his leg, the French had an almost half-body lead.

Jason Lezak, the 31 year old relay veteran, was left to swim the anchor. He is regarded as one of the best relay swimmer in the world, although the smudge on his resume is that he's been a member of the only two U.S. teams NOT to win gold in this event (in 2000 and 2004). Knowing that this would most likely be his final Olympic relay, Lezak hoped to inspire his teammates telling them beforehand, "This is not a 4 x 100. This is a 400 meter race; we are a team."

He surged the first 50 meters, extending a tremendous amount of energy to try to catch the world's top sprinter, Frenchman Alain Bernard. That one length explosion halved the gap, but Bernard got a better kick off the wall, and with 50 meters to go, Bernard was ahead by .18 of a second. As the finish line drew nearer, the outcome seemed settled.

Rowdy Gaines was explaining to the television audience that the U.S. wouldn't be able to close the gap, but that they should be able to hold on to second place.

BAM

Literally, the second Gaines finished that conciliatory analysis something switched. Hold on. This race isn't over yet. Somehow Lezak had found another gear. Bernard could accelerate no more and, if anything, he was starting to slow down. Lezak could catch him, the only question was whether he had enough water left. Lezak was now swimming against the lane marker surfing the crest of Bernard's wake. With 20 meters he was on his shoulder. At 10 meters he was even with his head. Was there enough room to catch him? He never pulled even until the final meter. The announcers, the crowd, their teammates merged into one tribal roar. Both men strained for the wall and?...

I shot up out of my bed. I was sure we'd gotten it. A split second later the American flag logo filled lane 4 with a "1" next to it. I clapped my hands and yelled as if I was right there next to Phelps. It was the most incredible comeback I've ever witnessed in a sporting event. Lezak's final 50M seemed beyond human.

He swam the 100M in 46.06, faster than any human being has ever gone before, and out-touched Bernard by .08 seconds, less than the time it takes to blink.

"I'm not going to lie," Lezak said. "When I flipped at the 50 and I still saw how far ahead he was, and he was the world-record holder 'til about two minutes before that, when Sullivan led off with the world record, I thought, it really crossed my mind for a split second, there's no way.

"Then I changed. I said, you know what, that's ridiculous. This is the Olympics. I'm here for these guys. I'm here for the United States of America. It's more than-- I don't care how bad it hurts, or whatever, I'm just going to go out there and hit it.

"Honestly, in like 5 seconds, I was thinking all these things-- you know, just like a super charge and took it from there. It was unreal."

If this was the script of a movie, the cynics would bash it for being too fairytale-like for real life. But every now and then, real life is better than fiction. And sometimes, when life's got you beaten down, you've got to have the courage to look deep inside yourself and find a super charge.

It was 12:01 AM and I had the urge to strap on my running shoes.

This is why I watch.