Moonlight and time.

My oldest, Joe, went for a sleepover to his Grandmother's house.  Things transpired, as things usually do, and the phone rang at 10pm with a little voice on the other side telling us he wanted to come home.  He had that little tremble in his voice, so we didn't press him much and told him that I'd be there shortly.

The sky was clear, and he was quiet in the back seat until he looked up at the moon.

HIM:  Papa.  Why is the moon so bright?
ME:  (Trying to be as honest as possible, and thinking it would all make sense.) Because the sun is shining on it, man.
HIM:  (Immediately irritated.) No.  The sun is asleep, papa.
ME:  Not on the other side of the world.
HIM:  No.  That's not right.
ME:  (I've given up on giving him any truthful information, and consider my next move.)
HIM:  So?  Why is it so bright?  Really.
ME:  Well.  It's a kind of magic.  (He lets me continue.) The Man in the Moon needs to see what's going on down here, so the magic light shines from his face on nights like this.
HIM:  Whaaaat?  A Man in the Moon?  That's not right, either, papa.
ME:  Yes huh.  Look up there.  Don't you see the eyes and nose and mouth?  And anyway, what if there was no light?  We couldn't see anything at night.  (I look in the mirror and see him smashing his face into the glass to look at the moon.)
HIM:  Hm.  A face.  Okay.

You see it too, don't you?

 

(from L. Frank Baum's "The Woggle-Bug Book" at Gutenberg.org)

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A writer whose work I was quite familiar with died suddenly last week.  During the days that followed many of his peers offered their condolences, and one in particular had an impact.

"We made another of our long-standing pledges to 'get dinner soon,' and of course we never did because we always assumed there'd be more time later. Let that be your takeaway from today, as it is mine: if there's someone you admire or respect, someone whose laugh you'd miss if it were suddenly gone, someone who inspires you, pick up the phone right now and let them know. Don't wait. Time is the enemy of all living things. Use yours well..." 

-Mark Waid, as taken from Comicbookresources.com   

So I wrote a few simple notes this week to people telling them various things I should tell them more often.

Well, hello there.

The Denver Nuggets are irrelevant, and have been since 1994.

Yes, 1994.  The year they beat the top-seeded Seattle Supersonics in the first round of the playoffs.  Don't get me wrong:  we've had good teams.  Hell, they've been in the playoffs for the past seven years.  Imagine being a basketball fan in Minnesota, Memphis, Washington, or Toronto.  Things have been bleak for many other clubs for many, many years.  But, does the likelihood of a playoff appearance imbue a team with relevance?  Not really.  The only thing that should matter, in a market like Denver, is whether they can contend for a championship.

And sadly, since Mr. Anthony was drafted, this team has never had a chance.  They've had one glaring weakness that no championship-caliber team can do without:  Dominance in the paint.  (No, the playoff run of 2009 doesn't amount to much, either.  They finished without a title.)

Hard workers, brilliant scorers, and great leaders have all helped to bring some luster back to the franchise and fill seats in the Pepsi Center.  However, they've only been pieces to a puzzle that won't be complete any time soon.  I'm not doubting the ability, character, or intelligence (well...there's one guy on the roster who still doesn't get it), of any of our current or recently-removed Nuggets.  I'm just stating the obvious.  The current iteration of Nuggets are relevant only for news sidebars and personal interest stories. The last big man to make a difference in the paint for the Nuggets was born in Kinshasa in 1966.

Until we have another beast like him in the middle, consider me unimpressed.
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The next one has been much tougher to answer.  Should the St. Louis Cardinals pay The Machine the money he's asking?

Cons
-It's $300 million dollars.  Honestly, I have no idea what that much money would even look like.
-He (reportedly) wants a 10-year contract.  That would put him at 42 when the contract expires.  For a baseball player, that's "getting the early-bird dinner at 3:00pm" old.
-It (along with one other severely bloated contract) could ruin the Cardinals payroll structure and prohibit them from doing virtually anything to build for Pujols' future seasons.
-It is fiscally irresponsible.

Pros
-From a numbers standpoint, he's established himself as the best offensive player in the game for the past ten seasons.
-Barring injury, he will continue to produce.
-He is a draw for attendance.
-The big What If:  What if he can stay healthy and be a dangerous hitter into his late thirties and early forties?  Wouldn't that be worth it?

I'm sure I've left out some more elegant elements of the entire saga, but I think I've finally come to an opinion.  They have to let him go.  As good as he is, I'll stand by the time-honored baseball cliche:  Pitching wins championships.  With Pujols and Holliday being paid what they would be, there would be little left to form a long-term, stellar pitching staff.

In short, Matt Holliday's contract hosed this entire thing up.
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I'm quite happy with the progress I'm making on my current story about two men who hate one another but are forced to travel to the same place to tend to something important.  Yes, there's a supernatural element to it, and I imagine it will be done and sent out within the month.

Then, I have one more short story to wrap up before I get to work on the book.
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I wonder if this would be updated on a more regular basis if I thought of it like a newspaper column.  Dedicate myself to writing something once a week.  The problem is, I usually don't have much to say.  And those columnists all get paid for thinking of things to say, so there's that.

A book, a goal, and a temper.

I was in the mood for a good Western.

It might have been some kind of personal record, reading 850 pages or so in a week.  I would have finished in a matter of days, had that pesky work not intruded on Lonesome Dove.  I'd heard my father speak fondly of the television mini-series, was familiar with Larry McMurtry's name, but was rather ignorant of the novel.  This should be required reading for anyone who fancies themselves 'a reader.' 

And it's not a subjective thing.  You'll finish and agree.  It's size is intimidating, but once you're in, you'll be surprised at how quickly everything moves.  Dove is original, heroic, tragic, and devoid of any Western-Gunslinging-Male'centric' cliches.  McMurtry's women are independent, intelligent; the men, young and old, are immature and flawed.  The players are incomplete and therefore completely believable; there wasn't a landscape I couldn't imagine in my mind or a loss that didn't hurt.

Please read this book.  However, skip the author's introduction.  McMurtry includes a sentence or two about the book's conclusion which dampens one of several surprises.

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Several beginning-of-the-year writing goals include finishing three new stories by mid-year and spending the second half of the year working on one long story, that will, most likely, turn into a novel.  Should any of the stories (unwritten or those three currently waiting with fingers crossed) be accepted anywhere, I thought that might be a reasonable occasion to create a damned Facebook page already.

But, then again...I might not.

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Lastly, there's been an interesting development with my youngest son, Jack, which I'm certain I haven't detailed.

Little ones get frustrated quite easily.  Either us foolish adults can't understand what they want, they don't understand our rules and regulations, they don't like the way our food tastes, don't feel like being tickled at such a serious time, or there are times they would just rather be difficult.  They'll cry, collapse on the floor, throw things, attack, slam doors, etc.  But not our little Jack.

He growls.

No, I'm not kidding.  He throttles whatever action figure he's holding, and you can hear the anger build in his chest and burn up to his throat.  Then, he'll stare us dead in the face and growl.  Like a wolverine.  Here's a sample:

US: What, Jack?
HIM: mumble, mumble, mamapapajoejoe.
US: Buddy.  Do you want a snack?
HIM: Face turns red, and he looks cross.  No words.
US: Milk?
HIM: Grinds his teeth and the growl bursts loose.  He is trying to rip the action figure in two for no apparent reason.
US: We look at each other and wonder if we should laugh or be afraid.  And from another part of the room, the older brother jumps in to help.
JOE: Jaaaack.  What's your problem? A giggle.

Jack turns on his brother and the fighting begins.

Fun times!