Another wonderful idea from Mr. Gaiman...and some other things

The big boy turned four this week.  There was a party, good food, laughs, and his hoard of action figures grew exponentially.  As difficult as his four-year-oldishness can be some days, I must say that I have never been more proud of anything in my life than I am of him (and someday his brother, I'm sure...he's just not old enough to know what the hell is going on).

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The Most Valuable Player awards for this season have yet to be handed out, but our Carlos Gonzalez just earned two of the most impressive awards possible in his first full season with the Rocks.  Earlier in the week, the players in the NL voted him the most outstanding player. Yesterday, his peers continued to recognize his excellence, and he was voted player of the year for the entire league.

The "major" awards for the 2010 MLB season, the MVP and Cy Young, are determined by sportswriters.  As a collective, I'm sure they've all forgotten more baseball than I'll ever know, and due to their breadth of statistical and comparative data, I'm sure they get it right when it comes time to cast their votes.  But for young CarGo to get such high praise from his peers...it's quite an accomplishment for a player who will be a huge name in baseball for years to come.

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The cold autumn has arrived.  The icy fall winds have eliminated most of the leaves, so the cold weather running begins.  I bundle and wrap myself in various colors and fabrics and look a bit absurd.  The tears cement at the corners of my eyes as I go.  Snot gets wiped on sleeves and cuffs and so they are crisp when I return home.  Sometimes, the snow and ice blow at my face and it all sticks to my hood and I look like a ragged gypsy popsicle.

And ordinarily, I'm not that tough.  I'm quite pitiful when I'm ill, or when the library doesn't have what I need.  But running in the cold...it's an hour that lets me feel like maybe a small part of me is made of tougher stuff than the other guy.

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My favorite modern author, Neil Gaiman, had another wonderful idea.  Read about it HERE!  I plan on participating in such things.  You should, too.

Please find a way to have a strange, frightening, and curious Halloween.  And, should you have a moment, raise a glass to the master of all things terrifying:

Some new information

I still can't believe this happened.  I swore to myself during my youth and early adulthood and now full-grown adultness that I wouldn't submit to it.  That it stunts my growth or something.  But now, nearly every morning, the dark call is irresistable and beautiful.

Coffee is amazing.

Years ago, the taste of the stuff was repellent and I thought it absurd that there was such a thing as coffee-flavored ice cream.  Who would allow such nonsense?  But, roughly a year and a half ago when my second boy was introduced to the world, I was damn tired.  Not the mind-warping, bone-aching exhaustion that my wife slogged through, but still.  I was sleepy.  One afternoon, I stumbled through the market for some random, but now somehow necessary item that we needed to maintain our sanity, and fell victim to the Red Bull display.  Caffeine sounded wonderful.

I did that a few more times, but started hearing the whispers from the one appliance in the kitchen that was still a complete mystery to me:

It: "Hey.  Try some."
Me: I curse at it.
The next morning it continued.
It:  "Really.  Get over yourself."
Me:  No reply.  I ate my cereal and turned the volume up to hear the oh-so-clever banter on SportsCenter. 
It:  "I can warm you up the morning.  Try it with some cream."
Me:  I looked over my shoulder at it.
It:  "Only crazy people drink it black.  And only pansies need sugar.  You need some.  You look sleepy."

That weekend, I learned my wife was in league with the thing when she asked me if I wanted some.  I was hopelessly outnumbered and had little choice but to yield.

And I'm so happy.

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An incredible local news story (as reported by CBS4 in Denver):

1.) A woman stops her car along a county road because she thinks she has a flat tire.
2.) As she checks the tire, she is knocked flat by something.
3.) She turns over and sees a mountain lion behind her, pacing.
4.) The thing moves towards her.
5.) The woman does nothing.  Just waits.
6.) The lion gets closer.
7.) And she kicks it in the head.
8.) Lion screams and runs away.

Holy crap.

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I love The Twilight Zone.  The original series, of course.  The expense of the complete collection on DVD always seemed too great to justify owning it, so I learned to live without.  Occasionally I was rescued when the Sci-Fi Network (now called SyFy for some ridiculous reason) would air a marathon.  I'd call my father and let him know, drag my wife in to watch, and everything would be swell.

Last weekend in a mad craving, I learned that the Great and Glorious Internet had somehow felt my despair.  A service of our cable provider has some forty episodes, spanning three seasons, all available on-line.  We watched several episodes, the classic "A Stop at Willoughby" among them.

And, if memory serves, I watched them with a hot cup of coffee at the ready.  Thank you, magical Internet.  Thank you.

Rockies, Research, and a Fireball.

Season over.

Cardinals manager Tony Larussa had it right when asked about the Rockies' hot and cold September.  We came within one and a half game of first place in the NL West, and the roof caved in.  Larussa suggested that in situations like that, teams can exhaust themselves in the mad rush to tie or reach the top of the division, and then find themselves worn out and beaten down when they have to maintain that same level of play for the final stretch.

Were the Rockies tired?  I doubt they were physically worn out...their bodies know what 162 games feels like.  However, I'm willing to bet that there were several members of the team who at the middle of September were, mentally, on empty.  But, as the saying goes...there's always next year.

Amidst the collapse, I was pissed.  And the illogical pathology of baseball fandom began:  whenever I tuned into a game and things turned south, I was convinced it was  all my fault, and turned the damn thing off.  Then, when it all ended in St. Louis I was a bit upset, but after a few days of some therapeutic sulking, I realized something.  This feeling is yet another reason to love the game.  Baseball fans hope for a postseason or World Series appearance each season, but in the dark, logical corners of our minds hides the very real possibility that this is not the year.  We're all connected in our misery, though some more than others.

And yes, I'm looking at you Cubs fans.  And this year's Padres fans.  It's over, and our boys aren't in it...but I suppose it isn't the end of the world.  Now, we wait for Spring and the chance to try again.
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I wonder if others find the term 'research' as ridiculous as I do.  Well, 'research' as it applies to headlining, loud, bold news stories.  Lately, it seems most frequently tied to food and eating and health: "Research shows that two cups of melted chocolate a day will prevent Armageddon...Research shows raw garlic is actually good for your breath...Research shows that eating five cheesecakes a day may prevent you from ever losing your keys again."

We see nonsense like this constantly!  Research shows thing 'A' is good for you.  Then, usually a year later, that thing 'A' has been shown to prevent back pain, but those tested now bleed continuously from both eyes.

I just don't get it.  I'm sure there are wonderful people conducting valuable research that benefits everyone, but I usually take it all with a massive grain of salt.  Although, research shows that salt is bad for you.  Or maybe it's good now.  I'm not really sure.
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In my never-ending quest to become Clark W. Griswold, there was a near-catastrophe at my house yesterday.  The 'ignite' button on the grill is fickle, and only works when it wants to.  It wasn't cooperating last night, so I went to the kitchen for the lighter, and put it in the small 'lighter-hole' at the grill's base.  Bear in mind I''ve done this many, many times before.

Don't laugh.  You've done it too, dammit.

So, imagine my surprise when an enormous yellow, blue, and orange fireball exploded from the thing at my face.  I froze to make sure I was still alive, smelled and tasted the propane burn in my nose, panicked and reached for my hair.  You know.  To make sure I wasn't on fire or anything.

I'm happy to relate that everything was in one piece (but a little singed), and dinner tasted wonderfully.

So there.