Greetings from sunny Chattanooga, Teneessee! The last time I was in this state, Jim, his Cherokee Territory wife (Christina), and me were ascending its highpoint, Clingmans Dome, along a snow-strewn access road under a bright midnight moon. Following this summit, Jim got really, really sick from gas station Cheetos and we hunkered down at a truck stop just outside of Pigeon Forge (home to Dollywood and all things super classy) and I had the pleasure of using a truck stop pay-by-the-hour shower stall. Over vending machine peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, while Jim might have been dying in the back of the van, Christina and I spent the evening watching Top Gun on a ridiculously huge television in the trucker rumpus room. The year was 1998 and it was the first time I saw that movie. I was a deprived child.

Speaking of deprived children, Hazel should not be counted among their swarthy lot. She spent Saturday Running Errands With Daddy and had a hoot, as did I. We went to the post office and the grocery store and still had enough time (and baby energy) left over for a quick trip to buy Mommy a brand new Red Sox hat. Hazel bought it with her allowance, which I bestowed upon her as we waited in line at the register and summarily suspended before we had crossed the parking lot to our car. While Hazel is very sensitive to the fact of our taking away tangible things (toys she insists on banging against each other, our cell phones she likes to chew upon, nigh swallowed cat food) intangibles like the concept of allowance can be turned on and off like a faucet without any tantrumic repercussions. Until she figures out that money is special paper, things should be just fine.

After Hazel was put to bed and the rain delay was lifted, Megan and I settled in for a nice night of televised Major League baseball. I am no august sports fan by far, but seeing as how I own a Red Sox hat, and had bought a second one for my wife (Hazel somehow has the king’s share of Red Sox paraphernalia in our house with two hats and one outgrown onesie), I make the effort to watch a game when it is on a channel our rabbit ears antenna picks up (ABC, PBS, or FOX - CBS should the atmosphere by particularly benevolent). Saturday’s game was pretty tense; both the Sox and their dread rivals the Yankees played excellently in the field and kept the score low and close. After a second rain delay, we arrived at the top of the 9th with 2 outs, Papelbon on the mound. Just as he was to throw what could have been a game ending strike, FOX cut the feed and switched to stupid NASCAR. With a pox cast on Bill France, Sr., I shook my fist angrily toward the heavens before realizing that I could just check the live feed of the game online. Technology fixes everything.

Since watching car racing on television is tantamount to torture in our house, we turned the channel to PBS out of desperation and the Saturday evening movie was just starting: Penny Serenade starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. The entire movie is couched as a series of tedious flashbacks sparked by different songs being played on the phonograph in deliberate succession by Dunne’s character. I can’t remember her name, as another character’s fictional moniker far outshone her, that of the “aw shucks” best friend of Grant, Applejack Carney. I’m not officially calling dibs on that name should we have a boy next, but consider this a penciled in dibs. Beyond his name, Applejack is a fantastic guy, capable of fixing printing presses with his fist (à la the Fonz), bathtubs using no tools, and marriages with adopted babies. All in all, the movie features loads of chauvinism, a miscarriage, purchased Japanese children, and that great clomping around sound effect made famous by the Three Stooges. You can watch Penny Serenade in its entirety online — consider it for your next rainy day distraction or betting device.

Anyway, by the length of this post, can you tell that I’ve been cooped up on three separate plane flights today? I’m off to see what Chattanooga has in store for a simple Mainer. If I make it to Rock City or a Lookouts game, I’ll let you know.

Building upon my successful enjoyment of the Word Series this year, I settled into the Superbowl with much interest. As usual, this interest quickly faded as thoughts turned to all the quests I wasn’t completing in the Pirates of the Caribbean Online game. I did manage to check out the halftime show. While musically identical to the studio versions, Tom Petty’s singing voice has taken on an alarming warble akin to a goat’s bleat mixed with the dithering voice of a very old lady. This mixed with his polka-dotted cravat only further confused me. I guess it’s only a matter of time before skinny ties step aside for flowing neckerchiefs.

Anyway, the last half of the game was pretty good. I still don’t know how Eli Manning managed to finagle his way into the NFL. As far as I could tell, his standard modus operandi is to screw around for the first two or three downs of each drive, then let dumb luck spirit the football from his ham hands to the waiting grasp of a Giants receiver. I don’t think anybody thinks he’s actually a good player, but time and again, he bumbles his way forward, this time winning the Superbowl and getting christened MVP to boot!

But enough about Eli “Inspector Clouseau” Manning, what I really want to point out is a new link over in my blogroll. The latest barnstormer is none other than my wife, Megan. Much like me, she used to maintain a personal blog that bit the dust during our pregnancy/move to Maine. Well she’s back with 5/15—a look at our parenting lives from her perspective rather than from this dork’s. So hit her up and enjoy her take on life with Hazel.

And with the mighty whiff of Seth Smith, the Red Sox have won their second World Series ring in less than half a decade. Boston fans (including in their ranks an overwhelming percentage of Mainers) can now breathe a sign of relief, a yip of hooray, and a snore of sleep – staying up well past midnight has definitely taken its toll on us Eastern Standard Timers.

Does this victory mean that the Red Sox are the new Yankees? I certainly hope not – although with talk of A-Rod dyeing his stockings red, could a ban on facial hair and Coco Crisp’s ‘fro be far off? Their performance in the Series gives me hope though, some of Lugo’s fielding almost derailed Boston and the bullpen definitely needs a couple of months off to rest. Still, like a pissing contest gone horribly awry, any mistake the Sox made was trumped by the Rockies. You could just about hear the collective hearts of Colorado’s longtime and brand new fans shatter when Holliday misplayed that mid-game shot to left field. Just like watching Superman not beat a speeding bullet in a race or your favorite housecat nimbly misjudge a leap to the windowsill and wind up landing squarely on its feline rump, that one error may have spelled catastrophe that no late game homers could fully squelch.

I loved seeing Boston win again, but I really wanted the Rockies to put them through their paces rather than just lie down on the railroad tracks like a damsel while Terry Francona twirled his mustache cackling. I have to wonder if the twists of fate that put a team with a so-so record up against a solid ball club was like putting a hamster in a death match with a hungry polar bear. Mostly likely, if the Series was the best 6 out of 11, we’d have seen wins on both sides, but that’d be a hell of a lot of baseball, half the televised games of which would inundate me with Coors commercial after Coors commercial. No, it’s time to move on past the autumnal tradition of baseball and start right into the Maine winter tradition of freezing our thermal-clad butts clean off.

Thanks to Hazel’s rabid support, Boston is on their way to their second World Series in this century. While their “meh” attitude mid-ALCS left me cold, last night saw the heart come back into the Red Sox ball club. Dustin Pedroia especially stood out - his 3 RBI double came immediately after I dismissingly said, “Pedroia never does anything; I’m going to bed.” Not only was I proven wrong, but I also wound up staying awake for the whole game. Similarly, when they put Coco “My Nickname is Better Than Yours” Crisp in right field, I spoke nothing but doom and gloom. Not only did he produce two of the three final outs of the game, but the last was an over-the-shoulder, smash-into-the-wall catch. My apathy was put at bay.

Not to say that I am a Boston Booster through and through. Like I have said in the past, I’m not a sports fan. I watch the Championship and World Series each year not out of a love for a team or the game of baseball. Watching all those people experience high elation or cavernous despair as one huge being is why I tune in – the human emotion permeates the atmosphere like salt in the ocean. Unlike football or even hockey, when you watch a baseball game, you see the face of every player, on and off the field. Plus, the crowd is so integral; they may as well be on the field along with their team.

So while I’ll root for Boston in the WS, I may secretly want the Rockies to win. It’s their first time in the Series and they seem like a bunch of solid guys without a loudmouthed oaf in their midst. Plus, given the choice between a magnificent natural landscape of our continent or a pair of rouge hosiery, symbolically speaking, the choice is obvious. It’s much like when we played seasons of Tecmo Bowl in college. I always picked my team based on whose uniforms enjoyed the sharpest design. And yes, I can sap the manliness from televised sports faster than you can say, “Go Banana!”

Megan would make an excellent MLB coach. While watching the NLCS with me this past week, whenever a hit is not immediately caught or secured for a tag out by the professional baseballers, Megan would comment, “Those guys should try harder; it’s their job.” Likewise, if an at-bat did not result in a homerun (or at the very least a double), Megan would again chastise the player, stating that, instead of getting out, he should hit better and not do so since he’s paid to win at baseball. In short, I feel that Megan could quickly whip any team, even the Shelbyville Shelbyvillians, into World Series winners through concise tips like these.

During last night’s game, Megan quickly lost interest due to the 0-0 score. But, when she came back out and saw the Indians were winning 7-0 about halfway through the game, she rolled up her sleeves to craft the perfect game plan for Boston’s comeback. You could almost see the beaming light bulb ignite above her head as she said, “What the Red Sox should do now is hit a bunch of homeruns.” And wouldn’t you know it, despite being hundreds of miles away from their dugout, Megan’s advice was heard and followed by Youkilis, Ortiz, and Ramirez – in a row! Three homers to nearly halve Cleveland’s lead. Of course, Boston still lost, but at least it wasn’t a shutout.

What I’m wondering is, if the Sox can afford to use a time machine once to travel back to the dawn of man and bring back a Neanderthal like Kevin Youkilis¹, why couldn’t they just make a second trip and take Wakefield out of yesterday’s game a few pitches earlier than they did?

¹Youkilis had the unfortunate task of introducing Boston’s starting lineup before last night’s game and really came off like a shaved caveman – and not one of those Geico commercial cultured ones.

So here we are, over a third of the way through National Facial Hair Month. Not only is NFHM a celebration of slovenly follicular upkeep, but it’s also a testament to all things manly. Being that this is my first NFHM as a dad, I feel especially tapped into that testosterone spirit which grants me profuse body hair and enough daily flatulence to keep a dirigible afloat across several time zones. Upon moving to Maine, I was struck at how damned macho the local guys are here¹ (or at least in my blue collar town). Pickup trucks abound, filled to the rusted brim with swarthy men off to build houses, do landscaping, or brave the Gulf of Maine in search of briny lobsters. Not wanting Hazel to realize that her dad is a dandy puff, I know I needed to step up my machismo game.

To keep up appearances, over the Columbus Day holiday, my father-in-law and I cut down some troublesome trees in my yard. You see, fathers care about their yards and manly fathers do so in gas-powered operandi. The main culprit was a 50+ foot Poplar tree that was suffering from a fungal problem. Still solid on top but rotting from its roots, the right wind gust could have sent it easterly to pulverize our kitchen. Instead, with a little counter tension and a chainsaw, we sent it pummeling into my neighbor’s yard. In fact, it fell with such force that branches several inches thick were driven over a foot into the ground. Luckily, no one was home next-door and we were able to clear all the logs, leaves, branches, and brush from their property. Of course, it doesn’t take too much deduction to follow the path of the fallen tree by way of the grounded trunk bits and crushed undergrowth to figure out that something happened on their yard, but we don’t really talk, so I guess all’s cool.

 

So now, like a true man, I have a big pile of timber on my land, just begging to be split and burned. For what would NFHM be without copious amounts of wood (and immature innuendoes)?
¹Did I just negate any manliness by admitting that the dudes around here are ruggedly macho? Isn’t having enough confidence in your own sexuality to be able to discuss which Hollywood super hunk would be better at pillow talk a sure sign of virile masculinity?