You Wanna Have A Catch?

I watched Field of Dreams again with my kids tonight. It's one of my favorite movies. It's a favorite movie of a lot of fathers.

A few years ago, my sons and I visited the site where they made the film. It's in the middle of nowhere, really. We went with my best friend and his three sons, the same ages as mine, more or less.

Driving along the Mississippi in the Midwest in July you see eagles and river towns and most of all corn. We stopped a few times to get gas or something to eat, but mostly we drove. We saw hills of corn and valleys of corn and fields of corn and more corn than you can imagine. Finally we reached Dubuque and our motel and concrete.

For dinner we went to Galena, Illinois and in the morning to the Mississippi River Aquarium. Both of them are nice as far as such things go. Then we went to Dyersville, the home of Field of Dreams.

There's a lot more corn in and around in Dyersville and we drove through most of it. We had lunch in a small café in town, meat loaf, pork chops, milk, potatoes. Then we drove to the field.

It is what it looks like on film. The house and the lights, the bleachers and the baseball diamond. There's no charge to get in, but there's a gift booth of course and we spent our money easily, buying hats and magnets and a copy of the brilliant book that is the basis for the movie.

Then we had a catch, two fathers and six kids. Had a catch, ran the bases, walked the outfield. There were only a few other visitors on this perfect summer day under a hot sun with the corn more than knee high. The boys ranged in age from six to eleven and they were happy just to be outside. So were my friend and I, and we stopped sometimes to watch them running across the grass, and we laughed with them even though it was sometimes hard to breathe as we saw our sons growing up and away from us.

All Day Long I'd Biddy Biddy Bum

A resolution for the New Year:

To sing this.

In public.

In front of my children.

More often than I already do.

It's All About Family

Holiday season aside, this past weekend was quite nice. I'm off work until next year, the Lovely Bride's got a bit of a break, and best of all, I had excuses to get out of the house and away from the children.

Saturday in particular was a lovely day. Electronics shopping in the morning, off to the meat market at lunchtime, then aimlessly wandering around a couple of big box retailers in the afternoon, accompanied only by my friend E., the father of my youngest's best friend.

By midafternoon we were hungry from a long day of avoiding our families and stopped in at a restaurant for nourishment. So there E. and I sat enjoying our snack when to our horror we heard, "Hi dad, hi dad, what are you doing here, what are you doing here?"

It was our two youngest boys, chattering in unison. My immediate suspicion was that my Lovely Bride had gotten tired of dealing with them and had somehow tracked us down. Around the corner came another one of their friends with his parents, however. It turned out our wives had dumped the kids on them and they'd decided to bring all the boys out for ice cream.

"Hey A., sit down," I said to the dad. "Make the kids go away first, though."

A. handed them some money and told them to go hang out in the restaurant's playroom for a while. He grinned madly at us.

"What are you so happy about?" asked E. "You get lucky this afternoon?"

A.'s wife rolled her eyes.

"Even better," said A. "I bought a new TV today."

We shook his hand and congratulated him.

"You were right," he said, turning to me. "I already like it more than my family."

Having recently purchased my own new television, I knew what I meant and told him so. "TVs are beautiful and they never talk back."

He described his new television's specifications to us in erotic detail until our kids finally reappeared. Apparently they'd finished mugging the younger children in the playroom and had decided we missed them, notwithstanding years of experience to the contrary.

"What are you guys talking about?" demanded my kid.

"Our TVs. Tell your friends how much I love my new television."

"My dad loves his television more than his kids," he said.

"That's right," I said, beaming proudly at how quickly he'd learned. "Next summer I'm going to take the TV on vacation."

"Where are we going?" asked my son.

"You're not going anywhere. TV and I are going to Chicago to see a Cubs game."

"That's stupid," he said.

"TV doesn't think so and neither do I," I said.

"I'm telling mom," he said.

"What else is new," I replied.

A.'s son looked at his dad. "You don't love our TV more than me, do you?"

A. paused for a moment until he saw his wife's expression. "Of course not. Whatever." None too convincingly.

"I'm glad we don't have a new TV," said E.'s son.

E. said, "I'm not. What the hell, I love their TVs more than I love you."

The boys put their heads down and trudged back to the playroom.

E. smiled. "Wait until they find out I bought your TV a Christmas present."

Which he personally delivered yesterday morning.

The Greatest Gift Of All

My Lovely Bride got up early today to go to work. She is a hardworking woman, a dedicated employee, a model for all who have worked with and for her over the years.

I, on the other hand, had the day off, and was disturbed only by her preparations for the day. And then, as I lay there in that perfect moment at the intersection of sleep, wakefulness, and the knowledge of more sleep to come, I felt a pillow cover my face. Oh, I thought, my wife is going to suffocate me. This must be what a dog feels like when it's being put to sleep.

I didn't struggle or resist. I gazed up at the pillow in acceptance. Finally I realized she'd simply been trying to block my eyes from the light.

Easy come, easy go, I thought and drifted back to sleep.

Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer!

Happy Holidays!

Home For The Holidays

Not being much for holiday celebrations, it's usually just the immediate family on Christmas. While my mother comes over for dinner and the boys open the presents the grandparents and aunts and uncles send, that's the extent of it.

This year my best friend invited us to his house. The holiday there is more traditional, with crowds and feasting and all the rest of it. He's been my best friend since seventh grade, more years than I like to count, so I know his relatives and his wife's relatives, and his kids who I think of as my own. Who could refuse?

My oldest son. He likes my friend, he likes my friend's kids, he likes going to my friend's house. Crowds, he doesn't like so much. I understand. They suck the life out of me too.

Even I can't leave my child home alone on a holiday, though. I told him that. He understood, but he still didn't want to go. So he decided to ask his grandmother if she'd like him to make dinner for her that evening.

My mother is not a sentimentalist. She's given me far more detail on the disposal of her organs and ashes than I ever needed or wanted. I'm not sure she's cried since the day Bobby Kennedy was shot. She's got a soft spot for our kids, though, and when she heard her grandson wanted to cook for her, just the two of them, she got a little misty.

And that's what they'll do, have dinner together. My kid's got the menu planned already, and he'll do a nice job, he always does, and they'll talk tennis and discuss my shortcomings and do the other things that grandparents and grandchildren should do. The rest of us will get home from my best friend's about the time they finish cleaning up, and God willing, my son and my mother will exchange a glance and share a last laugh. That will be the best present I could have.

All Hail The Snaggerdoodle

Judges, prepare to swoon.



















"Can these possibly be as good as they look?" you ask yourself.

They're better. Better, stronger, faster. They are no longer mere cookies. They are über treats, designed to maximize tastiness while retaining full caloric power.

Top cookie scientists from the Snag Family Test Kitchen labored for months over these chocolate sirens. Was theirs a simple task? Of course not. Greatness never is. We lost six of our best men in a gruesome cocoa accident. Another two suffered crippling injuries when an improperly designed arc welder caused a fire in a half-empty bag of almonds. We persevered, however, because the Bake-Off is more than just the sum of its entrants. The Bake-Off is Life.

And that is what we have created. "I give you life!" is not merely the roar of a maddened doctor in a bloody lab coat, it is our cry of victory, the exhortation we used to send these cookies on their way, through snow, sleet, and rain, by rail, air, land, even space if need be.

Judges, Life will soon be in your hands.

Note to DEA: The "Magical Cookies" reference on the plate does not mean what Billy Pilgrim thinks it does.

A Christmas Letter

Wow! It's hard to believe a whole 'nother year's flown by already. Time never passed this fast in the joint, that's for sure.

Say what you will about 2007, it's been an exciting year for the Snag family. You may have seen the wire service reports about the unfortunate misunderstanding with the elk, the feng shui instructor, and the tanker of food grade vegetable oil, but there was so much more than that.

Our oldest son continues to thrive at "school" and his blissful ignorance of child labor laws keeps us well supplied with bourbon. His favorite sport remains extreme mumblety peg and he's begun to excel at it now that the training wounds have scabbed over.

Our middle child is turning into quite the instrumentalist and recently soloed on the Zamboni at our neighborhood Bastille Day festivities. He's been recommended for an Advanced Placement therapy regimen and we have high hopes he'll find his happy place again sometime soon.

We began home schooling our youngest son as his restraints were making it difficult for him to maneuver in the classroom. He seems to enjoy the extra attention and the doctors are cautiously optimistic that we'll soon be able to reintroduce paste into his curriculum.

My Lovely Bride has returned to school with the dream of becoming an independent pistolero. She has taken to gun play like a streptococcus to a Petri dish and is already wanted in six western states. We're still as crazy in love as the day UPS delivered her to my door and many are the nights I drift asleep to the gentle sound of her quiet whimpers.

As for me, well I hate to brag, but it's been a banner year for Ye Olde Patriarch. Our family grackle polishing business continues to flourish and my depleted uranium collection was featured on the local news after it caught the attention of a congressional oversight committee. In my spare time I've taken up fluoridation and I'm planning a run next year for a spot on our sanitary district board with the support of the pro-sewage lobby.

Best of all, we added a new member to the clan in June, Siegfried the Talking Moose. While Siggy is still pre-verbal, his breeder assures us he comes from a long line of loquacious cervidae. We've printed up our own flash cards and can't wait for the conversation to begin.

From our family to yours, Merry Christmas and Happy Hunting!

Love,

The Snags

For Want Of A Chili Dog

My two youngest boys had a basketball tournament this weekend, different brackets at the same location. Between Saturday and Sunday I spent 20 1/2 hours creating this particular childhood memory for my beloved offspring. That's 1,230 minutes or 73,800 seconds, in case you're wondering.

As one might guess, I'm not a particularly fussy eater and I can usually cram just about anything down my gullet with a fair amount of satisfaction. The choices were pretty slim here, though. The best of the bad lot were the chili dogs and they weren't much to write home about. God knows I love a chili dog as much as anyone, but these weren't much more than a tube of snout covered with ground cow in ketchup sauce. Still, better than the alternative offered here, the "walking taco." Notwithstanding my youngest's enthusiasm for them, a bag of Doritos doused in the aforementioned dual purpose sauce tastes even worse than it sounds.

So chili dogs it was. At least until Sunday, when, about to place my order, my phone rang. "Oh," I said to the person behind the counter, "it's my oldest son. He's spending the day at a friend's house. Excuse me for a second." Reception being what it is in an old brick school building, I went outside to take the call.

Surprisingly, he had not called to express his affection for me. By the time he'd worked through my shortcomings and allowed me to return to the concession stand, there were at least thirty people ahead of me. The volunteers who run these stands are lovely people, bless their souls, but speed is not their hallmark. Twenty minutes later I was back to the front of the line.

"I'd like a chili dog," I said.

"Sorry, we just ran out," was the reply. "We have walking tacos though."

Thank you Lord for once again smiling upon me.

By midafternoon I was starving. There was some time between games so the boys and I went to a nearby IHOP with my youngest's teammates and his teammate's father, who happens to be a friend of mine. The waitress brought each of the boys a children's menu with crayons and then left to take another table's order.

My middle child was outraged. "I'm not a freaking baby. I want a real menu."

"Technically you're still young enough to order off the children's menu. And stop saying 'freaking' all the time or I'll freaking kill you."

"I'm ordering from the adult menu."

"Why, what do you want?"

"Chicken strips."

"Chicken strips are four dollars less on the children's menu. Get those."

"No. I want the adult ones."

"They're the same thing for God's sake. I'm not paying an extra four dollars for the same thing just so you can use a different menu."

"I'll pay for it myself," he said.

"No you won't," I said. "I'm not letting you waste your money for the benefit of IHOP shareholders."

"You waste money all the time," he said. "Like that wine you bought yesterday."

"That's not a waste," I replied. "You'll understand if you're ever unlucky enough to have kids. Besides, the kid's menu includes a soda."

The offer of a completely nutrition free food group quieted him a little. Meanwhile, my youngest and his friend were drawing violent battle scenes on their menus. "Watch out with those crayons," I said to my kid. "You almost put your eye out the last time you tried to color."

He pretended to ignore me. Suddenly he clutched my arm, burying his head in it.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," he whimpered.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"My eye. Ow, ow, ow."

"Sit up and stop screwing around," I said.

"No, really, I poked myself."

"Knock it off. I'm not in the mood for this kind of idiocy," I said.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow," he said, his face still in my shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"I picked up the menu and it cut my eye."

Maybe he wasn't kidding after all.

"Are you okay?"

"No, it hurts, ow, ow, ow, ow."

I led him to the men's room where I gradually coaxed his hand away from his eye. After applying some wet towels to it, pretty much the extent of my medical expertise, I asked him how it felt.

"It's still blurry," he said, but I didn't see any dangling nerves and he could count the fingers I held up. I led him back to the table.

Sitting down, I noticed my friend snickering and my middle son glowering at the soda he'd been brought while I'd been gone. It had been served in a four ounce foam cup decorated with Petie the Plucky Pancake or some damn thing.

The boy shot daggers across the room at the waitress. "I think she's trying to piss me off," he said.

"Probably," said my friend. "Want me to see if I can get you a sippy cup instead?"

I could see my son weighing how much trouble he'd get into if he told my friend to shut up. Making a wise decision, he instead turned to me and said, "I hate this place."

"I'm none too fond of it myself," I said, stirring the cup of brackish chicken soup I'd been served. Four hours to go, I thought. Two hundred forty minutes. Fourteen thousand four hundred and forty seconds.

ABC

The way he looks at her is the way I look at my Lovely Bride when she's not watching.

Game On

The baking has commenced. I'm making my special Creole bourbon-soaked black bean corn cookies. They have a creamy soy and gefilte fish filling and a mustard Cheez icing. Topped with mussel sprinkles, ibuprofen, and cardomom pods and served on a Milk-Bone, these babies always go fast.

Hope the judges are hungry!

Farther Down The Rabbit Hole

A phone call with my Lovely Bride:

Lovely Bride: "Guess what?"

Me, half working, half paying attention: "What?"

Lovely Bride: "I got to hold a human brain today."

Me, fully paying attention: "What?"

Lovely Bride: "A human brain."

Me: "Oh. Huh. Really?"

Lovely Bride: "Do you need anything at the store?"

Me: "No."

Lovely Bride: "Okay. I have to go. Bye."

Me: "Bye."

Jackpot

A conversation with my best friend.

R.: "Did you win the lottery last night?"

Me: "No. I didn't have a ticket."

R.: "You didn't have a ticket? I thought you were desperate. You profane the word."

The Candy Man

Creepy? What's creepy about this?

Who can take menudo, sprinkle it with corn
Cover it with liver and make you sad that you were born
The Snaggy Man, oh the Snaggy Man can
The Snaggy Man can 'cause he mixes it with moose and makes the world taste good.

Who can take a sheep's lung, wrap it in a sigh
Soak it in oatmeal and make a groovy haggis pie
The Snaggy Man, the Snaggy Man can
The Snaggy Man can 'cause he mixes it with moose and makes the world taste good.

The Snaggy Man makes everything he bakes, horrifying and appalling
Now you talk about your childhood dreaming, you can hear your dinner screaming.

Oh, who can take an emu, wash the feathers down the drain
Separate the offal and collect up all the brains
The Snaggy Man, oh the Snaggy Man can
The Snaggy Man can 'cause he mixes it with moose and makes the world taste good.

The Snaggy Man makes everything he bakes, horrifying and appalling
Now you talk about your childhood dreaming, you can hear your dinner screaming.

Yeah, yeah, yeah
Who can take an emu, wash the feathers down the drain
Separate the offal and collect up all the brains
The Snaggy Man, the Snaggy Man can
The Snaggy Man can 'cause he mixes it with moose and makes the world taste good
Yes, the Snaggy Man can 'cause he mixes it with moose and makes the world taste good.

Scarlet Billows Start To Spread

A little music to get me in the mood. Bake-Off time is here - gotta get butchering.

Sunday School

As my comrades in blog are the first to acknowledge, this time of year is fraught with religious symbolism and significance. Imagine my disappointment, then, that my own mother continues her personal War on God.

During this week's visit from Grandma, the topic turned to religion, prompted, I think, by my youngest's complaints that he's the only kid in school who doesn't get presents at this time of year. Neither part of that statement is true; our kids do get presents (just not from us) and there are kids at school who don't get any. My son's not one to let facts get in the way of blame, however, which will be helpful if he ever runs for office.

"Thanks, Dad," he sneered. "Way to ruin my life."

"Tell you what," I said. "Get up every week and go to church or temple and we'll talk about it. In the meantime, my gift to you is skepticism."

My mother attempted to change the subject by turning to my oldest son and asking, "What religion do you put down when you have to fill out forms at school?"

"He's a Scientologist," I interjected. "Or a Presbyterian. I can never remember. It's one of those new ones."

This earned a glare from my Lovely Bride, while my mother and child simply ignored me.

"I don't know," said my son. "I've never had to fill out that kind of form."

"I hope the school asks him that," I said. "I'll be able to retire."

"It's interesting," said my mother, still pretending I wasn't there. "Some religions are as much about culture as belief. I still refer to myself by my childhood religion even though I haven't practiced or believed in years."

"I wouldn't do that on the next trip you've got planned," I said. "Many people in that part of the world aren't particularly interested in the distinction you're making. You're going to end up as a hostage, aren't you?"

My mother turned to my wife. "What do you consider yourself?"

"I'm not sure," said my wife. "If I had to say which organized system holds the most attraction for me, I suppose it would be Unitarian Universalism."

"Commie," I muttered.

My youngest looked up excitedly. "I'm a Unitarian too!"

I patted him on the head. "Buddy, you're not a unicorn. We'll get that horn removed as soon as we can afford it."

My mother finally acknowledged me. "He said he's a Unitarian."

"I know. He stutters."

The youngest looked at my Lovely Bride. "Mom, can I be a Unitarian?"

"If you want to," she said.

He whooped and high-fived her before turning to me. "In your face, old man!" he yelled. "Now you have to buy me presents."

The motivation for his spiritual journey finally surfaces.

"You still don't get presents," I said.

"That's not fair!" he said.

"No it's not," I said.

Which is enough spiritual education for any day.

Deal Or No Deal

I took some time off yesterday, a rare vacation day without the kids. It was great. A friend of mine came over, we drank some coffee, shampooed the carpets. I even cleaned the downstairs refrigerator, which had suffered the explosion of a can of diet Coke long enough ago I'm ashamed to admit it.

After we finished cleaning, we set about to bothering other people. The high point of that part of the day was the email to another friend who happens to be a city official, warning him about the rat infestation taking place in local recycling bins. It generated several panicked emails in response, along with a promise to look into it. At some point we may tell him we made it up. Or we may not.

About 4 p.m., my youngest got home from school. My friend's kid had walked home with my son and they both immediately started yammering at us. Quiet time was over.

We shooed them upstairs to do their homework, which bought us ten or twenty minutes. Then my friend's kid came back downstairs.

"Want to see me do a back flip?" he asked.

"No. You'll kill yourself," I said.

"How much insurance do you have?" his father asked me.

"We've got a $2 million umbrella policy," I answered.

"That'll work. We'll split it seventy/thirty."

His son looked up, puzzled. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"How we're going to divide the money when you die," his father said.

"What?!" the boy yowled.

"Fifty/fifty," I said. "I'm the one who'll have to shampoo the carpet again."

"Sixty/forty, and I'll shampoo it for you," said my friend.

"They're going to kill me!" yelled his kid.

"No, you're going to kill yourself when you do the back flip. Fifty-five/forty-five and I'll pay for the funeral," I said.

"NO!!" shrieked the boy.

"Deal," said his dad.

"Done," I said.

We shook hands as his son ran upstairs to hide.

It was a good day all around.

Hanukkah Sameach!

"Dad?

"Yes, son?"

"Do you know what a menorah is?"

"Of course. Why?"

"My teacher was talking about it at school today."

"What did she say?"

"She told us how it has candles for every day of Hanukkah."

"What? That's crazy."

"Really, that's what she said."

"Nonsense. That's not a menorah."

"What's a menorah then?"

"It's a sculpture. Made out of ham."

"Shut up."

"Menorah is Hebrew for Hanukkah ham."

"Shut up."

"You know how observant Jews keep kosher, right? The Hanukkah ham is a reminder of that ancient tradition."

"Shut up."

"Ask your teacher about it tomorrow."

"Shut up."

"Or I could come to school and talk to her. Maybe give a presentation to the class."

"Don't. Please."

"This is all because the Supreme Court kicked God out of our schools."

"Shut up."

"It's getting late. You better get to bed."

"Good night, dad."

"Good night, buddy."

Let It Snow

What a lovely weekend it was in this winter goddamned wonderland. It started when my alter ego, TechnoSnag, deleted all of the comments left by the loyal Friends of Befouled. Thanks to Jennifer and fish, that little SNAFU's been rectified.

From there, it was an easy transition to Saturday's Death Storm '07. Based on the weather forecasts I was expecting it to start snowing lava and poisonous snakes. It wasn't quite that bad, and in fact would have been quite nice to watch from the comfort of my home. Needless to say, I was not in the comfort of my home. I was at a basketball tournament with my two youngest boys, across town in a neighborhood that can be charitably described as struggling.

Which prompted two lectures before we left.

"First, do not start talking about how you're 'gangstas.' You're not. You're a couple kids from the suburbs."

"Hey pops, I am a gangsta," said my middle son.

"We gonna do some street ballin' today," said my youngest son.

"Don't be morons," I said. "Just go play basketball and be respectful."

They rolled their eyes but I wasn't too worried. They're pretty good at acting human in public.

I continued. "Second, the drive is going to suck. A lot. It's going to be slow and irritating and I'll be insane the whole time. If you nag or whine I'll just get madder."

Again they rolled their eyes. This one worried me.

With good reason, it turned out. Six minutes into the drive, the middle one started.

"How come you're going so slow?"

"So I don't end up in the ditch like that fool," I answered, pointing at the fool in question.

"But you're a fool," said my son. "You'd like it in a ditch."

"We should have four-wheel drive," the youngest interjected. "Why weren't you smart enough to buy a car like that?"

"Duh. Because he's a fool, stupid," said the middle one.

"Don't call me 'stupid,' you idiot," said the youngest.

They commenced to punching each other while I tried to drive, scream, and cry all at once.

The tournament was fine. The games were great and all, but more important, I got to sneak out between games to a taqueria down the block where I had, not surprisingly, tacos, which were, also not surprisingly, very good.

Sunday was even better than tacos. With my Lovely Bride at class, the middle and youngest sons went to a friend's house for the day, while the friend's dad, E., came over to watch football on the new TV. My oldest son was still around, but he's a teenager and doesn't make much noise beyond the occasional sneer. The three of us watched the game, had a few laughs, and generally marveled at the solitude.

"See dad," said my kid. "If you didn't have my brothers it would always be like this."

"Yes, but I love them," I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. "Parenthood fulfills me."

"Whatever," he answered, not believing me any more than I did.

"You know what we should do?" said E. "Get an apartment. You, me, a couple other dads. We wouldn't live in it but on weekends we could go there to watch football. Or just stare at the wall and think how quiet it is."

"Can I come?" asked my son.

"No," said E.

"I can't wait until I'm a grown-up," said the boy.

It's funny the lessons we learn.

I'd Like To Teach The World To Punch

A Snag family tradition is to spend some time in meditation during the holiday season. It is a chance to reflect upon who we are and what we have. A chance to contemplate how to make this a better world. With that, I give you my list of those who need a good punching.

1. Director of Comments, Blogger Division. I don't know why you hosed me, but you did. Bastard.

2. Not the Woman in the Cadillac Commercial, the one who says, "When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?" I don't want my sons to hear me encourage violence against women. That's why I wish the person in this commercial was a man, so I could express myself.

2a. Everyone Else Connected to Cadillac Commercials, Going Back At Least to the Weasel Who First Used Led Zeppelin to Sell These Rolling Crapboxes. Including the guy who says, "And you can believe in the philosophy that the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. Or you can be the hammer." Or you can be the dumbass. Give him two punches.

3. The Unnamed Clown in the Black Suburban. Why did you cut me off in an ice storm? If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you are punched, am I not happy?

4. Hank Steinbrenner. Bite me.

5. You know who you are.

'Tis The Season