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.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. I attribute this to my love of mashed potatoes, a few days off from school/work, holiday television specials, and leftovers. Plus, this is a great lead-in to my birthday (November 30^th for all you last minute shoppers). Though I don’t really care for football, sitting around on comfy couches with family will most assuredly distract me from any substantial updates until next week. Plus, with freelance writing gigs coming in from Colorado James, I’ll have more than enough going on to keep myself busy.

But before any of the fun can begin, I need to make my grandmother’s recipe for stuffing. I’ve been coming to Megan’s family’s Thanksgiving meals since the turn of the century and I always weep inside because I won’t eat their stuffing. They put raisins in it for some wicked (meaning bad not good in this instance) reason. And as we can all agree, a Thanksgiving without stuffing is like a Christmas special without a forced celebrity cameo.

While I’m gone, have fun with the shop.mlb.com personalized jersey generator. Though I will never drop even $50.00 on a team jersey, the temptation to order one with a funny name on the back is tantalizing. And just so you know, while “BUTTCHEEK” and “PEE PEE” and deemed inappropriate, you can get “DOUCHE” or “FECES” blazoned across your shoulders. To quote the shopping program, both of these are a “great choice!”

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.

A fear that all dads must share is knowing that, before they know it, their kid will bring home that first boyfriend or girlfriend. Growing up is an odd time that dirves us to make similarly odd choices – in the bands we like, the clothes we wear, the things we will or will not eat, and the people we choose to enter with into social relationships. I still get a chill running down my spine when my mind wanders to Kris Kross, Zubaz pants, tubes of cookie dough, or any of the girls I dated in high school. And I know that eventually, Hazel will start hanging out with some “friend” in as little as a dozen years; a person that I am going to have to be nice to while knowing full well what teenagers do with each other. Yuck.

Hopefully, regardless of Hazel’s future sexual orientation, she never brings home anyone like Eric Byrnes. Last night, the Arizona D’backs left fielder provided what can be loosely categorized as commentary before Game 2 of the World Series. To be fair, he may have given some solid analysis of the game (doubtfully), but I was too distracted by his tousled appearance. As he let forth a slew of zingers and wacky one-liners, all I could contemplate was how extreme and bodacious he truly is because what else could he be with such a tousled hairstyle. Yes, much like how each hair on his steadily balding head goes its own way, omnidirectionally, so too does Byrnes live a lifestyle that can only be described as non-non-non-non-non-heinous.

Perhaps this is just petty jealousy talking, for I could never pull off the tousled look. Even when I muss my hair with wild abandon, it’s so thick and wiry that the hair reconstitutes like a dark brown T1000, collecting into a brunette helmet of puffy, unmanageable hair. The best I could do to rally against the world using my scalp would be an emulation of Che Guevara, but berets are so last season. Although, a dude walking down the street with a full beard and a beehive coif sprayed up a yard above his head could cause quite the stir.

The question is: where could I find cat eye spectacles with bedazzled accents deep in the heart of Midcoast Maine?

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!”