Mmmm, that's some good EPO...

I've wanted to write about this subject for a while now, however I wanted all the heat to die down before I did. Hopefully that way, someone with a different opinion on the matter would read my take and look at it subjectively rather than just dismissing it in a huff. The topic today will be doping and cycling and my view on the matter as a cat 6 racer.

Was Lance Armstrong the greatest cyclist ever? No. Was Lance Armstrong the greatest Tour de France cyclist ever? As of now yes. He admitted himself that he's not the greatest cyclists as he didn't ride all the classics and major tours. He concentrated solely on Le Tour, and trained exclusively for that discipline. That alone disqualifies him from the "greatest cyclist ever" award as one would have to tackle multiple disciplines to attain that title.

Did Lance Armstrong cheat? By the definition and rules of the governing body, yes he did. In my mind and probably many other minds, although he technically cheated he merely did what was needed to "level the field". As the doping crack down in a horribly broken sport continues, we are finding more and more that this type of activity (doping, performance enhancement, cheating, etc…) was and more than likely still is rampant. Over the past decade there is virtually no one in the general classification of cycling who hasn't had some sort of run in with doping accusations or associations.

Every. Single. One. There seriously is not one big name out there that hasn't been accused or linked somehow.

And more than likely, every single one of them has doped to some degree. You simply needed to if you wanted to survive in the sport.

Some people are going to look at all of this and say it's not fair to the ones that chose not to partake in the dark arts. I've heard people say that the dopers took the spot of someone up and coming who chose not to "cheat" and therefore they were blown away by the enhanced cyclists. I'll concede with you slightly on this one, but mainly this affects only the "domestiques". For those unfamiliar with the cycling terminology, domestiques are the helpers of the main riders. If you've watched bike races on TV, these are the guys and gals that drop back to the support car and load themselves up with water bottles and food and what not to bring back up to the rest of the team. They simply have the worst job in professional cycling, but an essential one nonetheless. If you have 2 cyclist of somewhat even ability and one pops a few pills and the other doesn't, and the pill popper gets a job and the other doesn't, then yes, I agree that's not fair.

But in the case of elite athletes, what does doping do exactly for them? I think a lot of the haters out there are crying foul because they give performance enhancers way too much credit. All the do is enhance what you already have. In other words, Barry Bonds would've been a fantastic contact hitter without the juice. All it did was make him stronger so that he went from hitting doubles and using incredible speed to get all the way around the bases to simply hitting them out of the park. His batting AVG. for the most part stayed the same for his ability. It's the same with Armstrong. Yes he juiced up some, but he was still partaking in 7-8 hour training rides in the off season. He was still sticking to a rigorous diet. He was still riding his bike in rain, wind, snow, hail, and whatever the elements were throwing at him that day. Lance Armstrong still put in the time and effort. The problem was everyone else was too, and to maintain his level he needed to keep doing the one thing he did in life at that time, he chose to pop a pill or inject a solution. Fact is and was, so was everyone else at that level. An old baseball saying is "if you ain't cheating you ain't trying".

Professional cycling is broken, and has been for a long long time. The old days of the TdF are riddled with stories of cyclist carrying vials of amphetamines and using other uppers to get through the grueling schedule. Tom Simpson was an English rider who infamously fell over dead on his bike while climbing Mount Ventoux. Vials of drugs were later found in his pocket and back in his suitcase at the teams hotel. It is a dark spot of the history of the sport, and will continue for a long time.

It's a tough subject, and like all of these issues of ethics there isn't a right answer either way. These guys and gals broke the written rule, but if you or I were in there position would we do it any different? Some people will say "absolutely not. No way would I risk my health for that." I've said the same thing, however again, we have no way of knowing cause we're not in there shoes. They made a choice, and they made a choice because they believed it was the only way to stay around. I can't say I blame these guys and gals in the sport for doing it. And also, a topic for a different day but the borders separating a supplement and dope are getting pretty damn hazy these days.

Whether or not these athletes are clean or not, it is still amazing to me what they can pull of on a bike. To race for an entire month straight at an average speed of 25mph for over a hundred miles a day is unreal. To climb 4 miles at an average grade of 7-8% while maintaining 100rpms or higher demonstrates just how phenomenal these guys are. I don't watch or follow cycling to see who wins or loses. I watch for the show. The lung busting climbs and heart stopping sprints. Dope doesn't factor into it one bit for me because as far as I'm concerned the field is even.

Lance Armstrong cheated. But in a world of cheaters he still stood out.

Urban Warfare...

Well over a year ago now, Elli and I thought we should move. We were hemming and hawing over this decision for a while, looking at other options, running some numbers, but not really committing. Then while reading to Daven and Hannah one night, a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling and hit me on the head.

Time to move.

But that falling plaster also pointed out that there was many many things that we needed to update and patch up with that old house to get it marketable and sell for an absurd amount of money. This involved endless hours of painting, scraping, fixing, correcting, polishing, scrubbing, rotating, and renting a storage garage to declutter, and then renting another one because you filled up the first one.

And endless mowing of the lawn.

Thankfully mother nature took over and blessed us with a drought thus stunting the growth of the grass. Here's what it looked like once it did it's scorching goodness:

But you'll notice that there's a shady spot of the lawn. That damn large tree blocked most of the sun all day. As such, that spot did still need to be mowed occasionally.

So, on one of those short outings to buzz down the lawn, I was right around the trunk of the large tree pictured above when I noticed a yellow jacket buzzing around. I flailed at it as per my usual knee jerk response when it comes to one of these cursed creatures and quickly moved along. I was then coming back on approach to roughly the same area when I noticed yet another f'ing yellow jacket buzzing around. But this time it had a friend...and another one. I noticed they were keeping low to the ground so I didn't think anything of it other than once again pass by quickly. On the 3rd approach I noticed what I was slowly suspecting over the last lap. There was a steady stream of yellow jackets going down to the ground and coming back up. But not just buzzing around the ground and then flying away, they were going into a hole in the ground and another one would come flying back out.

 I had a underground yellow jacket nest.

Shit.

At first I wanted to ignore it. "Maybe it's not really a hive. Maybe it was just a fluke thing and one or two or 17 of them were cruising on by and happened upon the hole and wanted to check things out but then decided this wasn't for them and moved on." At about the time I was staring out the big window you see in the pic above, probably pale and sweating profusely, Elli asked what I was doing.

"I think we have a yellow jacket nest in the ground." I said.

"How do we get rid of that?" she asked.

"Let's leave them alone and ignore the problem." I answered.

As usual she was the rationale one with things like this and said it would look bad to prospective buyers if while they were checking out the side yard they were swarmed by yellow jackets. Probably not conducive to selling.

But I had never tackled an underground nest before. My only experience with combating bees were nests up in trees or under roof awnings and with those you can blast the little bastards with a can of raid safely from 45 feet away. This was going to require a much closer hand to hand method. 

So, since the Internet knows some things other than weird sexual positions, I started researching DIY methods of ridding the planet of some yellow jackets. Some suggestions included setting up a shop vac next to the entrance and letting the bees get sucked into the canister with some insecticide solution waiting for them. Problem with this is that it takes a long time and after you think you're done hopefully all those damn things are dead when you pop the top of the canister off. Otherwise you have a pissed off stinging problem to deal with. Another solution was smoking them out and then burying the entrance. Problem with this one is that it was tough to tell if they all were left and if the queen was still around the little shits can dig their way back out and you'd be back to square one.

One of the most intriguing ideas I came across was the "Redneck Napalm attack", in which you pour a shit ton of gasoline down the hole, light it, and run away while the whole thing ignites and shoots flames out of the hole in spectacular glory. Obviously this idea was concocted by a group of people who were both related and married to one another and have a combined IQ of a water pitcher. However, I must admit I thought about this one long and hard, and it was repeated by several people. But the flaw in this one was that the fire it causes was so quick and sudden that although most of the yellow jackets would die fiery deaths (which gave me pause to smile) some of them would survive the blast and recolonize an again, you'd be at square one.

But then I came across an "avid hemp user" who claimed to be an expert in the massacring of yellow jackets with something like 40+ hives destroyed without a single sting. I settled on this one because it seemed the most logical and also something I'd be willing to do. So, armed with this Sensei of Cannabis' advice, I set out to the hardware store to acquire the only thing I needed that I didn't have on hand:

For sissies who want to kill shit from far far away.

The other items I would need would be a bucket full of sand, a little bit of gasoline or motor oil, a tamper, and some courage. I also made a case for the following:

Something tells me any or all of these would've attracted unwanted attention, so they were begrudgingly scrubbed from the plan.

Under the cover of darkness, I launched my assault. First step of the plan was to take out the scout. This was a yellow jacket that stayed at the entrance of the hole during the night time hours and would alert the rest of the clan if danger arose. I was assured by my pot smoking guru that even though the scout would be awake he would be exceedingly sluggish and easy to take out. This is where the bottle of raid came in. I was to sneak up, douse the scout with raid and continue spraying into the hole for a few additional seconds to eliminate any other bees slightly farther down. After all, accordingly to this guy sometimes there are multiple scouts and any one of them could sound the alarm. So, very nervously and carefully, while wearing all black and armed with a green light (which would allow me to maintain my night vision should I have to dash away in a panic), I approached the entrance to hell itself, i.e. the hole in the ground. Circling it very carefully I did not see any scout. All was quite. I even waiting a heartbeat or two before proceeding. But right when I was about to pull the trigger I wimped out and ran back to the garage. "This is stupid. It's me we're talking about so something is going to go wrong with this plane and I'm going to be stung to hell and back and not be any better off." But the guy gene got the best of me, and I couldn't go cowering back into the house with business undone. 

So I marched back out with the intent of getting things done.

Once again I ninja stalked up to the hole, saw no scout, and positioned myself so that the stream would go down the straightest path. Pulling the safety on the can of bee killer I pressed the button and released it's toxic components. Pot guy said to spray for around 15 seconds. I emptied the hole damn can.

But that's just the start. That takes out only the first line of defense. That does nothing to the collective hive writhing about under foot. To get those shitheads, pot guy suggested pouring gas or motor oil down the hole. Once you get some of that down there you seal it off with a pile of dirt thus locking in all the choking fumes and killing off all living things down the hole. And yes you hippies I realize this is damaging to the environment but that's something I'm ok with doing in this situation. If I had to choose eliminating a hive of bees at the cost of 15 puppies there would be less Sparkies running around that year. 

So, with the can of toxic bee sauce down the way I ran back to where my small gas can was. I then sprinted back to the hole fully expecting a swarm of raid-resistant yellow jackets waiting for me. Thankfully there was none and I poured a healthy dose down the way. Next I sprinted back to where I had a play bucket full of sand waiting. Running back with that in one hand and my tamper in the next, I unloaded the sand and swatted it down a few times to pack it all in tight. However, I added my own stamp to the process and sprinkled a bunch of carpenter ant killer all over the dirt. I read on multiple postings these guys are great diggers, so I figured any that survived the gas deluge and tried to crawl out would choke on the ant killer. I then ran back into the safety of the garage and waited 15 minutes. Then, again ninja stealth like, went back out with the light to see if anything was making it's way out.

Nothing. Perhaps I won this fight after all.

The next day I checked the area multiple times from the safety of the window and even ventured out from time to time to make sure nothing was making it's way out. And at around noon I declared victory. Sadly no one in my house acknowledged this decisive win.

Where are you going, my little one...

Dav was born in March of 2008.

                                                 (Dav in Dec. of 2009)

That will make him 5 1/2 years old in just a little over a week.

                                                (Dav in August of 2013)

Our little baby is turning into a boy. He no longer needs help with much, and he is proving to be more and more intelligent each day. He challenges you with appropriate questions to the situation at hand, and demonstrates rather impressive problem solving skills. For instance, we were building up a new Lego set yesterday and there was a part which required two builds of basically the same piece but made into mirror images of the other. Rather than line up the pieces with the picture, Daven took the piece to be built, held it next the other one and made it up opposite of the one already built. I was impressed by this as it struck me how far he has come in his short time around. 

Which now leads us to the big milestone that many parents dread: On September 3rd of this year, Daven starts Kindergarten. We've seen it coming for a while now, and when most people ask how Elli and I are doing with that fact I always deflect the question in that Elli is having a hard time with it.

But I'm confessing to you all now: I'm excited for him; yet terrified as well.

Like most parents I struggle with letting your child go into the world. Elli and I know he's ready. He's been done with naps since a little after 3 years old, he routinely helps out in the classroom at daycare, he's starting to understand basic reading, and has a memory of a computer. As eluded to before, he understands situations and can problem solve and understand the "why" behind things. And if he doesn't, he's not going to move forward until he does. He's very literal that way. He's routinely been scored high on assessments and teachers starting a year ago said that he just outright is bored where he is now in his curriculum.

I'm not bragging about my child. That's all leads into the following: Dav is a little different than most kids his age. He loves running with the pack, and will happily follow along with others. With both good and bad behavior. But he's also very content doing his own thing, and sometimes thinks differently than other kids around him. This of course leads us parents to worry about bullying issues. Of course Elli pointed out that he probably wouldn't even realize he's getting picked on. But it leads me to want to be there with him in class, to hold his hand while we walk to the lunchroom, help him punch in his lunch code, watch him on the playground during recess, and remind him which paper to bring home from school. Obviously I can't do that, and it's proving very hard to not baby him as much these days. He'll get very upset if you help him without him asking (a trait he shares with me) and will get offended if you pester him with baby like attitudes. 

 (How do I give my son the world without robbing him of the experience?)

I see myself as his map of sorts, in that I can show him the way if he wants but I'm not going to necessarily bring him there. I can show him many paths, however he has to choose the one he wants. I feel this is the role of a parent. Elli and I have done what we can to get him to this point. It's now time to see what he can do with a little bit of freedom. We know he can succeed, and he's proven that he's ready. But I'm sure all parents worry that their child will take the wrong path. While I believe there is truth in the philosophy that you are a product of your upbringing, I also whole heartily believe that you are ultimately responsible for how you turn out. You and you alone make the choices. 

It's now time for Daven to start making some of his own choices. Elli and I will just have to watch and try to be the best maps we can.

Ode to softball

This season marks the 28th year I've played ball. Perhaps that's why my left shoulder hurts. My left elbow also gives me trouble.

So does my back. And my right wrist.

And both knees.

28 years ago did I think I would be a full time softball player? No way. I was 4 years old running across the grass to the infield where my other red shirt clad teammates were playing catch. Like the rest, I'm sure I loved batting more than fielding. Something must've clicked though, because from that summer day so very long ago and every summer yet I've been apart of a ball team. After tball came coach pitch little league (where my Dad helped coach and pitch, and yes he did bean me. A few times), after that came kids pitch, babe ruth, legion ball, and then highschool ball. As I grew up in baseball however I realized early on that I wasn't going to be donning Yankee pinstripes. Politics started early in the sport, and if Daddy didn't know that Daddy or your family didn't live here or there, you weren't drafted into the upper leagues. And if you weren't there, you didn't get noticed. I actually remember at one of the tryouts I was throwing from the mound and looked over to see that not a single one of the coaches was watching. They were mingling around with each other and what not. So I fired the ball over in their direction, it banged off one of the fold up chairs, everyone whirled around and other players in line had mouths agape, and I walked off. It was kind of like that scene from the hunger games.

I was bitter about it then. I'm not anymore.

But then high school ball came around and it was the same story. But I loved playing. I actually love everything about ball. I love the smell of glove oil while you're breaking in a new mitt. I love taping up the end of my bats grip and getting the taper just right. I love the feel of diamond dust crunching under my cleats. I love the look of a field right after it's dragged and the lines are freshly painted. I love all the rituals I religiously adhere to, like never ever touching the foul lines while running onto the field and off it or drawing an "X" in the dirt and then hitting the center of it when I'm on deck. I love how it feels when you crush the ball just right in the sweet zone of the bat and the ball launches out over the fence (you actually don't even feel the hit when this happens).

But I wasn't so naive to think that baseball was really going to take me much farther than high school. It was about this time (at 15 years old) I was asked to help out by playing on my uncles softball team.

And instantly discovered a new love. And haven't looked back.

Is slowpitch softball a sport? Yes. Is it an incredibly athletic endeavor for the elites? No. Does it take a lot of skill to play well? Yes. Can anyone play it? Yes. Can anyone play it well? No. Like all things, it does take practice to get good at. I do commit quite a few swings before the season starts and I do, when no ones looking, practice my foot work drills whenever I think about it. I visualize scenarios and what I'd do in them, I do one arm hitting drills, and yes, I enjoy watching youtube videos of majors level softball.

In short, I'm obsessed with the sport. Just ask my wife.

I've toned down my temper with softball the last handful of years. No longer do I throw my glove violently, or spike the bat into the ground when I pop the ball up. I don't kick fences as often, and I haven't whipped my bat bag into the grass after a loss in a while. I still get frustrated with myself and still don't take losses well. But I've matured and also want to set a good example with my kids watching. It is only a game, and I play on competitive yet laid back fun teams. But there is still pride involved, and when I don't do what I'm supposed to I do get upset. I've just learned to express it a little better.

As bragging rights, the only time I haven't played a game is if I'm out of town. The only time I've missed because of injury is 2 seasons ago when I dislocated my left knee cap. And even then, I came back for the last 5 weeks of the fall campaign. I've played the last 8 seasons with a torn up left shoulder, I have tendinitis in both my throwing elbow and right wrist. I've played with bone bruises, dislocated fingers, sore muscles, nasty colds, run down exhaustion, etc. etc...

I remember back in the day when my old man was in the twilight of his own slowpitch career. He said the reason he stopped playing is because it took him 45 minutes to get his pants on with all the tape and braces he had to put on first. I understand, however I think I'll play until the point, if ever, I just truly can't.

But for now I'm not thinking about that. For now, I'm just focused on when my next game is, obsessively checking the weather reports for that day, and trying to figure out why my swing isn't working like it should.

The powerful "I have a dream speech"...

I present to you Martin Luther King Jr's famous "I have a dream speech". It's long, but if you've never read or heard it, you really should take the time to. It's awesome.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

                Free at last! Free at last!

                Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

                                                                                                           -MLK Jr.

Making sense of nonsense...

Like many of you, I'm still struggling to wrap my head around what happened last week at Sandy Hook. I think it's still too much to process as it just doesn't seem real. The fact that such a person existed is the stuff of Hollywood, or at least so we all thought.

Like many of you, I have strong opinions on the matter. For starters, I have extreme anger towards the responsible thing that did this (I am calling it "thing" since I do not regard it as human so I will apply no gender or identity to it). I am not ashamed to say I hate it, and would've rather seen it caught, arrested, and then thrown into general population of some prison somewhere. That way, the hardened criminals would've had a field day with it using rope and dull kitchen utensils to do the job. And some people have said hate is not a appropriate response. Good for you for thinking that. You're a better person than I. Think about what it did one more time, think about the 6 and 7 year olds who looked up to see what was happening, and then really honestly tell me whether or not you don't hate this thing.

Hate is a recognized emotion. It exists and has a purpose. To say it's not appropriate to hate makes about as much sense as saying it's not appropriate to love. It's a ying yang thing.

Like many of you, I seek answers to not only why, but to how to stop this from happening again. There was a Facebook posting going around attributing some speech to Morgan Freeman saying how sensationalist media is partly to blame. While this narrative turned out to not be given by Mr. Freeman, I still agree with it's message. Perhaps the people who blew up the building in Oklahoma, or the kid that shot up Virginia Tech, or this loser responsible for this post wouldn't have taken it to such extreme had they not been convinced we would be talking about it today. I believe there is truth to the fact that the way these monsters are portrayed and glorified in a way gives rise to another individual looking to be remembered. Like the post said, if we all paid them no mind, perhaps they would indeed go away a sad nobody. Instead, we plaster there face all over the news, headlines, we make movies about their story, we write books for generations to read.

Like many of you, I fear what lurks outside these walls of my home. But to truly put my children in a bubble would rob them. You can't protect them from everything, and you would go insane trying. The world is still full of good, experiences still need to be experienced (good and bad). For the most part, the world is still a decent place. Dark corners exist, but denying them freedom to go and explore would prevent them from finding the light switch.

Like ALL of us, I don't have the answer as to how to go about preventing this. To think banning the sale of all guns will work is absurd, and just won't ever happen. Now, I will be the first to voice out and say no civilian, for any reason, needs a fully automatic weapon. No civilian, for any reason, needs a clip that holds 25 rounds of ammunition. No civilian, for any reason, needs a .50 caliber weapon of any action type. You just don't. And don't quote the 2nd amendment bullshit. If you're someone saying you need any of the things I listed and are saying it's our right, you are skewing what the founding fathers had in mind when they wrote that magnificent document. I also wouldn't personally mind waiting a couple weeks, or even a few months to get a gun. I'm in no hurry. Furthermore, I've heard a few people now with regard to this event and the shooting at the theatre a few months back saying they wish someone was carrying during the incident so they could "end it". To those people I ask, "Are you truly retarded?" Unless you are a licensed active police officer, you DO NOT have the necessary skills to effectively act in either of these two situations. Chances are you'll injure or kill more people engaging the shooter. Sorry, but your 3 day conceal and carry class taken at your local gun store does not give you the skills that these officers practice for months. If you believe otherwise, you're part of the problem mentality.

There is no good answer, so here's what I'm going to do. I vow that this will be the last time I mention the thing that did this cowardly act. I vow that I will always remember the young ones who were taken all too soon from this world. I vow to never take any day for granted as you just don't know what you're going to get that day. I vow to never hold my children back cause I'm scared of the unknown. I vow to keep plugging forward in an ever chaotically changing world.

Evil exists. However I refuse to let it paralyze me.

This Old House...

I'm typing this to you all with a computer atop 2 cardboard boxes while sitting on a lone dining room chair. The rest of our belongings are scattered about in various areas, piled in the garage waiting to be loaded onto a moving truck, or patiently waiting their turn in one of 2 storage garages.

In case you haven't heard, we're on the move.

We're all excited. The plain truth is simple: We've outgrown our current home. And with the market as such, it was the right time for us to pick up and move to greener pastures. So, we'll be going from a house with 2 bedrooms and just around 1200 square feet to a house with 4 bedrooms and just under 2300 square feet. It will provide ample space for our current needs and also if we need additional room we won't be so limited.

Plus it has a brand new kitchen. It's the focal point of the whole house.

But it's kind of bittersweet. As I sit here and pack and prep and move stuff out of our current house, I'm reminded of just what this house means to Elli and I. I was newly hired at the VA and not even a week into work when we signed off and moved into this house. We were excited to be homeowners and looking back we did rush into this and had we taken a year or two we would've been better off. Regardless, we had our first home. It was a tiny starter home on a corner lot and had an old school charm to it (it was built in the early 30's). But that old school charm meant plaster walls, old electrical wiring, somewhat dated plumbing, and a concrete slabbed cinder block basement pretty much only good to house appliances such as the furnace and water heater and be used as storage and a laundry room.

So throughout the years I grumbled about patching yet another crack in the plaster, I grumbled about the 2 pronged outlets. I grumbled when it took me 5 hours to replace an electrical outlet. I grumbled when we had to replace the roof, I grumbled when we had to replace the drafty large window in our playroom, and I grumbled about the confining space as we attained more stuff yet didn't attain more square footage.

But for all the grumbling, I sit here today and I simply can't forget that this will forever be our first house. This will be the thing we nervously set foot in that day so long ago in 2005. It will be the site of our first mortgage payment, our first utility upgrade, our first home improvement project. It will be the site of our first run in with the law (someone stole stuff out of our garage), and it will be the site of, shall we say, practice for my handy man skills.

And it will be in our memory as the place where we brought home our two children; Dav in 2008 and HM in 2011. I will always remember pacing these scuffed up and faded wood floors at 3am rocking a fussy infant back to sleep. I will remember placing a sick toddler up on the counter next to the sink as I measure out ear infection medicine. And I will remember all the early mornings spent gathered around the island in the kitchen as we all got ready to go to work and daycare while eating peanut butter toast.

In the past 7+ years, I've repeatedly said how much I hated this house. It was a lie every time.

I love this house. And I'm going to miss it something fierce. I'm excited for our new house and look forward to making many new memories there, and I'm glad this house is going to a couple with a younger child as well. This house is a great one to start off in, and I couldn't have asked for a better one.

To our Maplewood neighbors reading this, thanks for the years of friendship. Thru the miracle of social media I'm sure we'll keep in touch. And Mounds View isn't all that far away. Know that this area will still be a training ground for our biking needs and you'll see us cruising on thru I'm sure plenty of times in the future. Thanks for helping making this a home!