I woke up this morning feeling pretty good about this:

You know the story. For 86 years the Yankees got the girl and the Red Sox watched them dance. After experiencing nearly forty of those futile years as a fan, I still have a nagging sense of fear of the “Evil Empire,” but it’s waning. The Yankees have a $205M payroll and a barren farm. Last night they looked more like Pedro’s “granddaddies” in a loss fueled by ancient Bernie Williams dropping a routine fly ball. I can only hope their big “trump the Red Sox again” acquisition before the 2004 season becomes their “Curse of Arod.” It’s going pretty well so far.

So now I’m going to say it. The Yankees are done. The mental aspect of baseball is huge, and these guys are permanently damaged from their colossal collapse in the 2004 ALCS. They had the Red Sox buried and they let them up off the mat to get their asses kicked. The New York papers called it the BIGGEST COLLAPSE in the HISTORY OF SPORTS. So it lingers. They have doubts. Their fans have doubts. Roles have been reversed. It’s like the “Anti-George” Seinfeld episode… Hmmm… George… “The Boss.” I wonder how he’s feeling this morning?

Tomorrow is the first day of school vacation for Megan and Kyle. I can only hope they enjoy a summer like one of mine…

On the first day of summer vacation in 1969, a ten year old boy walked sheepishly from 10 Pine Street down to Mapleway Playground, his brown-reddish locks a memory, having been sheared off a couple days earlier by Russ the barber on Main Street, just a couple doors down from the Greenwood Pharmacy and across the street from the Post Office. Yes, his mother had sentenced him to a crew-cut before school got out for the summer, an indignity he no doubt remembers to this day. (He does…) After all, while the look might have been cool for punk kids in ’79, in ’69, a “skinner” got you numerous cuffs off the back of the head to “christen” the new do. Not to mention giggles from the ladies. Thanks, Mom.

The walk to Mapleway was a short one, just down Greenwood Ave and past the mysterious High Street that no one ever dared travel, either because it was too creepy or just too damn steep. Entering the stone gates of the park, he carried the only thing he needed: his prized baseball glove, a Yaz Triple Crown model, ready to track down anything hit to left field.

They played inning after inning that summer and the games blurred from one day to the next. No one ever went home for lunch, but they always stopped when they’d hear the familiar tones of Andy the Ice Cream Man arriving in his square Hood ice cream truck. He always got Italian Ice and made sure the last drippings substituted for pine tar to ensure an iron grip on his favorite wooden Mickey Mantle bat.

One day after break, some of the older kids asked him to pitch in a game on the Little-League sized field. What an honor! These were Little League all-stars or kids already in Babe Ruth. As he toed the rubber, he wondered whether to throw the nasty new deuce or just bring the heat. They didn’t use catchers, so he wasn’t getting any suggestions. After a perfect Jim Lonborg windup, he unleashed the fury. His next act was to grab his mouth and feel for teeth after the batter smoked a line drive right back to his kisser. Incredibly, the chicklets were intact and there was no blood, just a huge blood blister under his upper lip. Welcome to The Show, kid.

He loved to hit, and like the Mick, went up to bat looking to homer “every time.” Unfortunately, there were no outfield fences at Mapleway except for the one shielding the tennis courts in right field of the big field, but it was 350’ away and no ten year old right handed hitters were getting near it. Besides, there usually weren’t enough kids for all positions, so there was a “no hitting to right” rule for the rightys. They hit. They ran. They argued close calls. They climbed the backstop fence to retrieve stuck popups because it was their only good ball. It was an endless summer when every day was Saturday.

Then one day it was Monday, but after that summer of love, his hair had grown back and he could safely return to school for 6th grade.

The American Film Institute has released their “100 Greatest Movie Quotes of all Time.” At #78 is a simple request from the 1968 Stanley Kubrick classic, “2001: A Space Odyssey.” While it didn’t make the list, the dispassionate response of HAL9000 is still priceless, and maybe even more memorable.

For me, it’s a perfect film, blending thoughtful images, words and symbols. In the greatest film transition in the history of the medium, Kubrick brilliantly flashes us forward a million years by throwing us a bone. 2001 isn’t for everyone. It’s slowly paced and does require an investment of some gray matter, not a requirement of the majority of celluloid reels these days.

I still don’t know what happened to Dave at the end, but I still think about it. Isn’t that what art is for?

About a dozen tee-shirts are currently in my wardrobe rotation, primarily adorned at the gym, but some face public scrutiny. Every time I put one on, I sub-consciously pause to consider its source and meaning. My South by Southwest Music Conference tee from ’99 means a lot to me, but why? It is because it symbolizes some indie-music cool I want to convey? Probably.

Of course that clashes badly with my KISS tourshirt from the 2002 tour I saw with Megan, but I had to have it, OK? It’s strictly worn to bed, but not when I have company, if you get my meaning. (Note: Wearing the KISS shirt to bed is currently on a Ripken-like streak…) So, tee-shirts do give us meaning by associating us with things, places, times, accomplishments, institutions or movements. After Massachusetts was the only state to vote McGovern in ’72, I imagine a tee-shirt proclaimed, “Don’t Blame Us.”

Needless to say, if it’s not 100% cotton, throw it away. One of my favorite tee’s is a faux-vintage Red Sox shirt. It’s really getting old and soft and it was purchased long before the historic 2004 season. It says I’m a long suffering fan, well-deserving of the world championship. Some t’s are like Reeses Pieces, gently dropped in time to mark where we’ve been. Even then, I buy in Martha’s Vineyard, but pass in Cleveland. I don’t care if the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame is there. It’s Cleveland.

I have quite a few old teez from my days with NEC. They came in those pressure compressed packages that take about 3 washes to become unwrinkled. They symbolize a job I was really proud of. My contributions to the AFIS division helped “put assholes in jail,” as one of our former customers put so eloquently in front of 1,200 peers…

Finally, always beware of t-shirt gifts. One I received is a personal favorite for its symbolism, but it misses the cotton test by 2% polyester… The gifter obviously believed the image conveyed something about my personality. I think she nailed it if not for that stupid happy face…

What’s your favorite T?

My kids went out for a photo shoot with their Mom yesterday and then Megan got creative with MS Photo Editor. The result was four very cool framed images that really capture their personalities, even for just a moment in time… So here’s Jessica, Megan and Kyle along with some words from Megan… Thank you. I love you.

“So it’s Father’s Day, and we’re supposed to like, worship the ground you walk on and be thankful for all of the awesome stuff you do for us. But I think that’s gay to just say thanks on one day of the year. So, Happy Father’s Day Dad, and thank you for all the times we forget to say thanks and remember how much you really do for us without even thinking.

We love you. Happy Father’s Day ’05”

Just like my my father and his father, I share the human trait of imperfection in the job. I have regrets of deeds and words that my children will either forgive or not. I’ve read the best way to love your children is to love their mother. Unfortunately, that feeling left me a decade ago. Is that an unforgivable sin? Should it be? Maybe it will pass with time, but in 2005 it still manifests as a weight holding a child under water from the air of success.

When she was small, say 3 or 4, she’d spring to action at the words, “Daddy’s home.” No matter where she was or what she was doing, she would dash to the “starting line” at the back door of the old bungalow, and race forward the 20 yards to leap into my arms. Father’s Day was joyous back then when I could do no wrong… Then one day I stopped coming home… Recently the house she grew up in was sold by her mom and step-father, but she didn’t get a final walk-through. “I just wanted to see the view from the back door one last time.”

Back then things finally came to a head with my father and me. We’d been in some conflict over pretty silly things that resulted in me writing “the letter” that unloaded some 30 years of grievances. It was harsh and cruel. I hope I never receive one like it. Maybe I was angry that the day came when I stopped hearing, “Daddy’s home.” The next few years were filled with silence for us. Finally, in the summer of 2003 the ice began to melt for good. We took Kyle to a Sox game. Three generations. The way it should be.

Baseball and the Red Sox was always the common ground we had. When we could talk about nothing else, we could still talk about the Sox. He took me to my first Sox game and also scored us tickets to see Vida Blue and high-school phenom David Clyde back in ’75. We suffered through the World Series that year, then the ’78 debacle, followed by the ’86 meltdown. Any relationship that could survive those was going to last… On October 27th of last year, I took a shuttle out to Dad’s place at “The Villages.” A work conference had ended that day in Orlando. We went out to dinner with my step-mom Caroline, then watched the Sox in game 4 of the World Series under a blood-moon. It was a good night.

Music is a tenuous strand that holds my daughter and I together. She loves Sloan and some of the other music I listen to. I like some of what she listens to, but not that stuff of “nigga’s, hoe’s and bitches.” I don’t get that. At times it seems the gap between us spans galaxies. The anger is raw and vocal, but what doesn’t need to be said is, “Dad, please help me.” At times, I feel I’ve failed her completely, but I won’t quit on her. She has limitless potential. She’s smart, has a wonderful personality (when her head isn’t spinning “Exorcist style”), and is so beautiful. All of these qualities she shares with her sister.

As for the relationship with my own son, it’s a work in progress. I got some feedback recently that I baby him too much and am not preparing him for the “real world.” There’s some truth to that, but the protective instinct is a strong one. He’s a happy child and says, “I love you Daddy” alot. I’ll work on the “real world” stuff.

There are times I wish I could wash it all away… The mistakes, the regrets… but that wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t be life. My reality on this Father’s Day is that the shattered dreams of a child can become a very strong force for the dark side of hate. I can’t change the past, but I will continue to use love and patience and respect to positively influence the future.

Photo By: Johnny Arguedas www.motion-blur.net

Now fully recovered from Sloan-induced sleep deprivation, I’m still glowing with memories of the show Wednesday night. These guys just ooze with talent and professionalism. Early in the show, drummer Andrew Scott’s drums had a big problem, but the band forged ahead and began “Coax Me” sans drums until about halfway through the song when Andrew slammed back in for a jolting finish. No attitudes or pouting, just bringing what’s good about rock music night after night after night.

Recently, paintings by Congo the Chimpanzee were auctioned on the open market in London. In art circles, Congo was known as the “Cézanne of the Simian World.” Picasso owned a Congo.

Can you tell which of the pieces below was crafted by the chimp, and which by a descendant of chimps?

After you guess, find out which piece was produced from Congo’s pallette…

The soggy heat hung in heavy layers like grains of colored sand in a clear, long-necked bottle from the local fair. Each layer weighing on the one below and smothering all air. Silent. Stifling. Motionless. It’s presence makes everything more difficult. Mowing the lawn becomes an epic struggle for survival, like climbing a mountain. I made it.

It seeped into the gym to assist those seeking to work up a sweat. I was soaking in perspiration only ten minutes into a 30 minute climb on the Stairmaster. It was hard to hold the handles as they were slippery with sweat, and there was nary a dry inch of clothing to wipe my soaked hands.

The heat whispered sweetly, “just quit. A nice cool shower is waiting…” No. I was determined to complete 150 floors, or 150 reps of “the 12-step club.” The music helped. It doesn’t feel the heat. Green Day rocked. The E-Street Band plowed through the sweat. I wanted to wring out my shirt like the Boss, but thought, “now that’s just gross.”

The numbers of the timer read 24.59. Five minutes to go. Ryan Adams shrieked, “note to self: don’t dieeeeeeeeeeee.” The five minutes blew by. As I stepped off the descending pedals, I staggered a bit, just like Mike Tyson last night before he quit what should be his last fight. But won’t be.

In New England, whether it’s the heat, humidity, rain, cold or snow, we bitch. Megan just walked in the door and said, “It’s disgusting out. It’s heavy and wet. You can feel it.” Yeah, but what about the beach and the grill and the Drive-In (yep, we still have one) and golf and baseball? Baseball… Gotta go. Sox at Wrigley in 42 minutes…

A couple weeks ago, I began experiencing numbness in the tips of my pinky and ring finger of my right hand. I had been spending many hours manipulating a mouse on several Powerpoint presentations, and the repetitive motions had caused a flare-up of a long lived spasm in the rhumboid muscle on my right side. I thought that was the cause; that somehow the tension in my upper back was now affecting my right hand. It wasn’t painful, so I pressed on. As it got worse, spreading up the two fingers and into the outside of my wrist and forearm, I joked that if it began to affect my sex life, I’d go see a doctor… That was the joke that masked the fear. What the hell was this? Some had speculated arthritis in my spine was closing down on the nerve. MRI’s were discussed… Cortisone shots… Epidurals to the spine… Surgery??? I thought about how Lou Gehrig’s demise began with mild symptoms… ALS? I got a little freaked. What would happen to my children? I hadn’t gotten around to getting that Will done… I made a doctor’s appointment.

As I sat in the examination room, I reflected on the options again. The nurse broke a cuff on my arm, then said my blood pressure was “very good” at 118/86. I waited. It was hot and humid and the air conditioner must have called in sick. I could hear the roofers outside applying an new coat of grey shingles. The doctor entered the room and greeted each other with a traditional grasping of hands. I’ve now known George for almost 20 years. He is a decent man. Very much a “country doctor,” one of a shrinking tribe facing extinction. He checked my neck, arms and fingers. He said, “You have two options.” I cringed. “One,” he continued, “is that I can spend a bunch of your insurance company’s money and do more tests to confirm my thinking, or you can buy and wear an elbow pad for about a month.” “Hmmm… an elbow pad” I mused. “I’ll get one just like Big Papi.”

Constant pressure on my elbow from working the mouse and striking “The Thinker” pose had compressed the ulnar nerve and caused the numbness. The “nervis ulnaris,” as we say in the Latin Club, runs from the spinal cord down the arm all the way to the fingers. When you hit your “funny bone” and find how not funny it is, that’s Mr. Ulnar saying hello.

I’m relieved and trying to think a little less…