In The Land Of Peat And Honey

Tonight several of us are off to a tasting at a nearby restaurant, with twenty single malts available for comparison. Surprisingly, our wives are less enthusiastic about this than one would guess.

"You're going with H., and O. to a Scotch drinking contest?" my Lovely Bride asked skeptically.

"It's not a contest," I said. "It's a tasting."

"It'll turn into a contest," said O.'s wife.

"That's a hurtful comment," I said.

"You'll be hurting Saturday morning," said the Lovely Bride. "Make sure you have cab fare, okay?"

"Don't worry, E.'s driving." E. doesn't drink.

"Perfect," said O.'s wife. "The Three Stooges won't have any incentive to be responsible."

"Why is E. going to a Scotch tasting?" the Lovely Bride asked.

"Because we're so much fun to be with?" I suggested.

"More likely because he's afraid he'll have to help raise our kids if you get killed in a car accident," she replied.

Even I recognize the folly of an outing like this on an empty stomach. H. and I have therefore made plans to eat at a different restaurant beforehand.

"Let me get this straight," said the Lovely Bride. "You're going to gorge yourself on liver and onions and then dump Scotch on top of it."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," I said.

"Was my statement accurate?" she asked.

"It's your tone. You're being hurtful again. Why can't I have a hobby?"

"Most people don't consider cholesterol and liquor hobbies."

"Most people don't have my refined sensibilities."

"I have a lot to get done tomorrow," she said. "Do not come home and start singing if I'm asleep."

"I offer you the gift of music and this is the thanks I get," I said.

"The thanks you're going to get is a night on the couch."

"Our boys love me," I said.

"Maybe," she said. "Parental imprinting is genetic, though. Don't be too impressed with yourself."

I reached over and gave her a smooch on the cheek. "You're my snookums," I told her.

"I'll leave a blanket out for you," she said.

UPDATE: We tried: Clynelish 14 year, Glenkinchie 12 year, Cragganmore 12 year, Dalwhinnie 15 year, Oban 14 year, Talisker 1o year, Talisker Distillers, Caol Ila 12 year, Lagavulin 16 year, and Johnny Walker Green. The Glenkinchie, Dalwhinnie, and Lagavulin were my favorites but I don't like a ton of peat. The Talisker 10 year tasted like moose.

The evening began with prime rib and a side of lamb chops and ended with karaoke. Don't ask.

Field Of Nightmares

My youngest son's friend was over today after school.

"Want to go see the girl's basketball game tonight?" I asked. This year's team is better than any other high school basketball team I've ever seen, of either gender. Their style of play is what you'd expect if Dean Smith choreographed Stravinsky's Firebird.

"I can't," he said. "I've got a fantasy baseball draft tonight."

"No, that's not until a week from Sunday," I told him. Like last year, a group of fathers and sons are forming a fantasy league.

"This is a different one," he said.

"Who's running it?" I asked.

"Some guy," he said.

"Who?" I asked again, suddenly more curious.

"Some guy in North Carolina. I found out about it on the internet."

"A grown up?"

"Yeah. I think he's retarded though."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded. "You're playing fantasy baseball with a retarded adult from North Carolina you met online?"

"Yeah," he repeated.

"Do your parents know about this?"

"Not yet," he said. "Why?"

Just then his dad arrived to pick him up. "Are you going to the game with Snag?" he asked.

"He can't," I said. "He's got to get home for the fantasy league draft."

"What league?" his father asked.

"The one he's in with some guy he met in a chat room," I said.

"Huh? You make less sense than my kid." Turning to his son he asked, "What's he talking about?"

"Tell your dad," I encouraged.

"I'm going to join a league this guy's running. And it wasn't a chat room."

"Who?" asked his father. The conversation was starting to sound familiar.

"A retarded man in North Carolina," I offered helpfully.

"No," my friend said, glaring at his son.

"But. . . . "

"No. No. No. No. No."

"But. . . ."

"Don't you know anything about internet safety?" he asked. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"I don't know."

"Obviously. Does he know who you are?"

"No," said my son's friend. "I told him I'm twenty-three."

"What?" his father asked.

"You know. Twenty-three years old."

"Great plan. Does he know where you live?"

"I told him I was in China," said the boy, getting nervous.

"Get your damn jacket," said his dad. "We're going home."

"Does this mean I can't be in the league?"

"No. No. No. No. No. You're spending the night working on an essay about staying away from freaks."

"Oh man," he sighed, reaching for his jacket. He and his dad left.

"You," I said, looking at my son.

"I didn't do anything," he protested.

"Good. Don't."

"Jeez, you guys make a big deal out of stuff."

"When we have to," I said.

Animals Behaving Badly

Friend of Befouled Pinko Punko raises the important question of unbridled moose libido. Regrettably, that is not the only instance of throwing caution to the wind.

A review of recent scandals:

Muskrat Love
















Sam and Suzie Muskrat with a little public display of affection. Looks sweet, doesn't it? After all, they're married, right?

Sure they are, but not to each other. See you in court, Romeo and Jezebel!

Got My Eye On You



















Here we see superstar Fly macking some barely legal post pupa. Can you say child support for 800?


Foxy Lady


















Hey there Honey, thought you'd burned these old cheesecakes? You can't escape the internet!


Hollyweird


















Typical movie star wallowing in liberalism. Try loving America for a change, traitor!

We Would Blast It All Day

It's All About Teamwork

I am not a morning person, to put it mildly. Waking up before 7:30 a.m. puts me out. Imagine the glee when my middle son had a basketball game across town at 8 o'clock this morning. That meant a 6:00 a.m. alarm.

"You're freaking kidding me," I said to my Lovely Bride last night, except I didn't say "freaking."

"I've got a class," she responded. "What am I supposed to do?"

"How about drop out of school?" I answered, not unreasonably.

"Boys, avoid your father tomorrow," she told the kids.

When one isn't used to waking up early the fear of sleeping through the alarm leads to overcompensation. By 4:00 a.m. I was awake and no mind games or prayer were going to put me back to sleep. By our 7:00 a.m. departure a hot drill bit was working its way through my head.

Fortunately the team my son was facing had mothers who'd developed cheers, loud cheers. As God is my witness, they started chanting before the game started.

"There's going to be an incident here," I warned our coach.

"It happens," he replied, not without sympathy.

We lost the game, barely, after climbing back from almost a twenty point deficit. With ten seconds left we missed two free throws and a rebound to lose by one point. My kid was almost in tears but he made a point of shaking hands with the other team and then walking across the court to thank the referee.

"Good man," I told him afterward. In the middle of things it's hard not to hope for a win but in the end I don't really care. I love to watch them play.

"Whatever," he said.

"Good man," I repeated, making sure he was looking at me and knew I meant it.

We got home and I told the boys I needed a nap before the next game. Upstairs, I pulled a pillow over my head and tried to sleep. Soon I heard the unmistakable sound of a punch, followed by a scream, followed by one kid chasing another. I got out of bed.

"Children," I said. "I love the pitter patter of your feet on the stairs and your voices are music to my ears. I'm almost embarrassed to ask you, but could you be just a little quieter so I can rest before we spend the rest of this delightful day together?"

"Of course, Father," they said in unison. "Anything for you."

More or less.

When I got up again it was off to middle son's second game. His team has a remarkable ability to play up or down to the opponent's level. This afternoon it was down. Behind almost immediately, that's where they stayed until my kid jacked a three pointer to get within reach and then, with nine seconds left, one of his teammates made a twisting, improbable layup to go ahead by two points, pulling off a come from behind victory for a team not exactly known for come from behind victories.

From there it was off to my youngest's tournament. All I wanted was a one easy game to watch, win or lose. Four periods later it was overtime, two minutes of brawling, on the floor basketball, until my boy got up to the free throw line, hit one of two, and his team held on to squeeze out a victory.

Three games, a total point spread of four. It pretty much killed me. Except, getting home I found my oldest had cleaned the house and started making dinner.

"Dad, I need you to get me to tennis next weekend," he said as his brothers tore upstairs to shower and change. I looked around the house, sinks polished, dishes put away, floors mopped.

Not a problem. Not a problem at all.

Seventy-Two Days And Counting

Hard as it is to imagine in this bleak and cold landscape, baseball is in the air. My youngest son is in a clinic put on by a former major leaguer and once a week we make our way to the workout facility with a handful of other kids. Hitting, pitching, the theory of baseball; it's as interesting to the parents as it is to the children.

The only downside so far has been the need to buy the boy a new bat. To put it more accurately, another new bat. The guy running the clinic watched my kid swing a few times and said, "I hate to tell you this, but it's a couple inches too long."

After considering and rejecting any number of sarcastic and wildly inappropriate replies, I resigned myself to yet another expenditure. My consolation is that Coach P. found himself in the same predicament. Misery loves company. I guess that's why I hate to be alone.

It's going to be different year. P. and I are coaching together again this year. My son's best friend's dad, E., is coaching this year too, with M., the college-age sister of yet another kid from the neighborhood. So there you have it. For the first time since they started playing sports my son and his buddy are going to be on different teams. At first I thought they were going to cry but they've gotten past that to the trash talking stage.

Trash talking isn't confined to the boys, of course. E. threatens to draft a kid we're hoping to pick up. P. tells him in return we're going to draft M.'s brother. E. replies, "If you guys screw me, I'll kill you." We all laugh.

Much of this conversation takes place at the clinic while our boys are running through their drills. At one of these M.'s mother was there too, as well as the mother of the boy we hope to get. They sat next to us, talking about books and trying to ignore us until P. started a long story about a potential coach in a soundproofed panel van with a lost puppy and a pocket full of Kit-Kat bars.

"If we could pass our background checks, so could this guy," I said.

P. started giggling and so did E. and so did I and finally one of the women turned to us in disgust. "I couldn't stand boys like you in high school and you're not any better now," she said.

We snickered some more and turned back to watch the clinic. Our players, they're a year older, a year bigger, a year more coordinated, a year more serious. They're still kids, though, and when it was my son's turn in the batting cage he started to skip across the floor, stopped for a moment when he realized we were watching, then grinned and skipped the rest of the way while I thought, God, I love this game.

North By Northwest

I met a new woman this weekend. I love her madly. When I ask for advice, she gives it. When I ask for quiet, she is. She doesn't criticize me. We never argue. If we disagree, she's the one who changes. I expect our relationship to last a long, long time. The only drawback is she's a machine.

Did I need a new GPS? No, I suppose not, if you're talking about "need" in the sense of food or oxygen or shelter. If need, however, means what my children say it does, then yes, I needed it in the worst way, the way it is when money is burning a hole in your pocket and you're itching to blow it on a bender that can only end in sorrow and regret. For some people this feeling leads to criminal charges and a head full of pain. For others, to ill-advised wars. In my case, a GPS.

Fortunately, I had gift cards, the result of a trade with my two youngest kids for an old iPod and the promise of a new baseball glove and shoes. After dropping my oldest at tennis it was off to the big box, the two younger ones in tow. We strolled around nonchalantly, acting as if we had nothing particular in mind, but I knew what I wanted. Pressing my face against the glass case, I grunted and hooted until the salesperson unlocked it and handed me my future.

And that's what I have. I program in a destination and that's where it tries to take me. It's a metaphor for my life, really. If I give it my work address, that's where I end up. If I program in the beach, I go in circles, never getting any closer. It's not my new friend's fault. "Turn right in 90 yards," she says, notwithstanding that's just a dream. She's doing her best, trying to take me where I say I want to be.

The other day my middle son asked me, "Do you love your GPS as much as your TV?"

I told him, "A man doesn't love anything as much as his first big screen."

We'll see.