SUPER BOWL MVP DREW BREES WITH THE BEST AWARD EVER

If you are a resident of planet Earth, then you know that the New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl last night.  I came across a link to this picture and was amazed when it came up.  I was dumbstruck by how much it said without uttering a single sound.  I think the Pulitzer Prize people should just give this photographer their prize right now; I don’t know that anyone else will be able to top it.  While I’m not a Saints fan, I am a Drew Brees fan.  He carries himself with a grace and humbleness that is hard to find in professional athletes today.  It’s obvious to me-and anyone looking at this picture-that the little boy in his hands means more than any MVP trophy or Super Bowl ring could ever mean.  I’ve gone back to look at this picture at least 10 times today.  I’m drawn to it.  It reminds me of the overwhelming rush of love and smallness that I felt when I first became a father.  In that moment, I knew that God had entrusted me with the care and well-being of his most important creation; and I was honored and humbled with the task.  It’s refreshing to see this man, reluctantly standing in the spotlight, reflect the brilliance of the moment onto those most important to him; and those most responsible.  (Additional Photos)

In past trips to the skating rink, I know I’ve heard some more modern music, but most of it has been “dance” or “skate” music, not pop music.  I can’t give you a good example right now because I don’t know the names of any of them, but by and large, the music they play is the same music that was popular when I was a kid going to the skating rink.  Yes, it happened once or twice, but I’ll deny it if pressured.  They play almost all late 70′s and early 80′s music; Styx, AC/DC, Chicago, Kansas, Boston; basically any band named after a geographical area is in heavy rotation.  I heard Benny Mardones screaming that he would take you into the night when I went back to pick up NukeBoy2.  While we were taking his skates off Cliff Richard was thinking how funny it was that we don’t talk anymore.  But he ain’t losin’ sleep, and he ain’t countin’ sheep, no no no.

As we headed out the door I could hear Meatloaf extolling the virtue of being correct two out of three times.  It’s good to have the odds in your favor, I guess.  Ah, to be a kid again.  Well, one that looks like a kid, anyway.

Left to right are: Dr. Isaid No, NukeDad, Mr. AP,  Mr. Torgo and their lovely daughters.  Mr. Irish Tenor and his daughter couldn’t make it due to a death in the family; we hope they can attend with us next year.  They were serving food at the dance, but who wants chicken nuggets when you can have Mexican food instead?  Crazy, you say?  Asking for trouble?  Not. A. Single. Spill.  Couldn’t believe it.  I knew NukeGirl would be fine with the red salsa and her white dress; I was more impressed that I didn’t spill anything on my white shirt or dangle my tie in the rice and beans.

The dance was from 6pm until 8pm, and we got there right at 6pm.  The ceiling was an ocean of balloons and the floor was flooded with confetti and hula hoops.  Great fun; hula hoops, until the dance floor starts filling up; after that they become swirling circles of death.  Close quarter hula hoop swirling isn’t an Olympic event yet, but I’ve no doubt it will be a demonstration event in 2012.  By my count there were 4 knocked over drinks, 3 head smacks and one racked Dad before the DJ recalled the hoops.  I was fine, by the way; I sat with a cup of ice between my legs and all was better.  I did sound like Mickey Mouse for a few minutes, though.

Having not been on a dance floor on purpose in over 14 years, I was a little apprehensive.  NukeGirl calmed my fears as she gently coaxed me to the floor with reassurances of; “C’mon, Dad! Let’s Dance!” and “Everybody’s doing it! C’mon, you’ll be popular! Everyone will like you!”  God I hate peer pressure.

It’s hard enough for a Dad not to look like he has WBD (White Boy Disease) while dancing with his daughter; it’s even harder when he’s dancing to Hannah Montana and The Jonas Brothers.  The Doc and Mr. AP give it the ole college try, though.  Mr. Torgo and his daughter waltzed the night away.  They stayed on the dance floor all night, and as we were leaving we mentioned it to him.  His reply?  “Yeah, I was out there all night and you didn’t see me dance once.”

The DJ kept it lively all night, giving the girls plenty of squeal worthy samplings of the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus, among others.  The girls also learned how to do some new dances, and some old ones as well.  NukeGirl did the Chicken Dance for the first time ever.  The Macarena cleared the floor of Dads as they knew there were way too many cameras on hand to be out there on the floor.  Sensing this, the DJ launched into YMCA by the Village People and hilarity ensued.  The Doc and I pondered over the myriad meanings one can take from the lyrics, if they wish.  The guy in the Navy jacket in the foreground needs spell check, I think. (Dude, it’s FOUR letters!)

One Dad dressed his 3 daughters as Disney princesses and himself as Prince Charming.   NukeGirl decided that every stray balloon needed to come home with her, so she started rounding them up.  She was quite surprised when she noticed the Prince was so close.

The organizers did a great job, and thankfully they sold a limited number of tickets: just enough to cram the basement of the local library.  I just wish they had started the fans a little sooner; now I know how Papillon felt while he was in solitary in French Guiana.  The end of the night saw the bringing out of the limbo bar and NukeGirl was gone in a flash.  She was 3rd in line and went through about 20 times.  She fancies herself to be the limbo queen of the Nuke household.  Here she is in action.  The swimming pool noodle was no match for her skills.

All in all it was a great night.  The girls had a great time getting all dressed up, and I think all of us Dad’s did too.  NukeGirl was more into playing than actual dancing, which was probably a blessing for me.  Hopefully this will become a neighborhood tradition for years to come.  As the girls get older, the meaning will become more apparent.  Seeing Mr. Torgo and his daughter on the floor tells me that.  She was the oldest of the girls there and I think she (and he) got the most out of it.  It started me thinking that someone should write a song about Fathers and Daughters, and how no matter what occurs throughout our lives, they will always be Daddy’s little girl.  Then I remembered that somebody already had.

I had tried once or twice before to learn how to like coffee, but was unsuccessful.  I don’t know what came over me, but I tried again and this time it took.  Well; kind of.  Know what I discovered?  Being a coffee drinker is expensive.  Maybe I’ll collect Faberge eggs or try and corner the silver market instead.  To read the whole story, check out my post over at my other un-paid gig; Scrivel.

Penguins holding hands (fins, flippers, whatever).  I can deal with that. Why is this an issue for me?  Because for the last 12 months I had been subjected to some of the least appealing calendar pictures ever.  It’s hard to enjoy your dinner when you look up and see some of the images I saw.  I’ve included a few samples to state my case.  First up is Ms. January.  She’s an Orange Hairy Frogfish.  Ingesting anything with breading during this month was impossible.  Coconut shrimp?  Forget about it.  Chicken Fried Steak?  Not happening.  Every time the NukeKids get McNuggets now I think they are staring at me.

 Say hello to Mr. March.  Being a native Texan, I understand the underlying admiration I should feel for the State Speedbump, but I lived in West Texas.  The closest an Armadillo ever came to El Paso was on a Jerry Jeff Walker CD.  Spaghetti and Meatballs became Spaghetti and Marinara sauce during March.  The fact that he looked like he had impaled himself on a pine cone almost ruined Christmas, but I had 9 months to get over it and, thankfully; I did.

Ms. April.   Don’t have a whole lot of food analogies for this one, but just look at that; do I need any?  4 of her 8 eyes looking at my rice pilaf?  Tell me you wouldn’t be creeped out.  To top it off, she’s a jumping spider.  All the more reason to keep an eye on her while trying to eat my soup.

Mr. June was like the annoying kid/brother/sister/friend that used to sit in the lunchroom or at the dinner table with you and say; “Are you gonna eat that? Huh? Are you finished? Can I have it? Are you gonna eat it? Are ya? Are ya? Are ya?”  You’d finally give them some food just to shut them up.  That’s what Mr. Titicaca (no kiddin’) frog made me think of.  I’m not sure what’s going on behind his eyes.  Those are either 2 bumps on his back or the largest expanse of butt-cleavage ever recorded.

Next we have Mr. August.  This is what I looked like after a summer at the pool.  Notice the Robin Williams like arm/shoulder/back hair.  The Bruce Willis forehead.  The total disregard for sunscreen.  I’m not sure this is actually an animal; I think it’s Molly Hatchet’s old lead guitarist.  Who, or whatever it is (Uakari Monkey), it certainly makes the alfalfa sprouts on your Cobb salad taste a little more gamey.

OK, Ms. October was when I almost lost it.  The Spicewood Catepillar can “puff” up it’s head to make it look larger.  The fake eyes also help scare away predators.  It wasn’t the eyes that got me, it was the Hitler-esque mustache.  Whenever I would look up it seemed like it was saying: “Papers? Zyour papers ar en ordah?”  Mac and cheese was impossible.  So were oranges, but they’re no good in Ocotober anyway.  I did manage some orange juice, though; as long as I stood by the sink out of eyesight.

November 2nd is when I started eating dinner in the Den.  I just couldn’t take it anymore.  Mr. November made spaghetti, rice, noodles and all pork products about as appetizing as Indiana Jones’ Temple of Doom buffet.  I ate bread and crackers on the couch.  Oh, and I watched “Predator” about a million times.  Not sure why….

So, there you have it.  My year long descent into the bowels of gastro-intestinal upheavel.  It actually explains a lot about my trials and tribulations this year, really. It was a great educational calendar for the kids, but the kitchen/dining area wasn’t the place for it.  Too bad I got voted down 4-1 last January.  I look forward to a year full of hand (flipper) holding penguins, frolicking polar bears, hugging kittens and butterfly kissing Pandas. 

Character is doing what’s right when nobody is looking.

                                                                           -JC Watts-

My sister Laura is married to a professional golfer.  His name is JP Hayes.  He did something the other day that everyone is talking about.  He’s been interviewed on ESPN and the Golf Channel.  World News Tonight on ABC will talk about it this evening.  The story on ESPN dot com has over 583 comments.  The banter there is at a fever pitch with strong opinions on both sides of the issue.  What was the earth shattering, unbelievable thing that he did?  He told the truth.  An interactive poll taken by over 61,000 people asked if they would do what JP did.  About 49.8 % said they would; 50.1 % said they would not.  How sad is that? 

Everyone should be able to understand the concept of right and wrong.  Mom and Dad drilled it into your head from the time you could reach the cookie jar.  Well, at least it used to be that way.  Nowadays I guess it’s not such a big deal.  Words like honor, integrity, ethics, character, responsibility, accountability and courage don’t mean that much anymore.  A Lot of people look at them as old, out-dated cliches that you only find in black and white movies and retirement homes.  I mean, nobody expects you to live that way anymore, do they?  What does it say about society in general when someone can be looked down upon for doing the right thing? 

I read a few of the comments over there at ESPN and was amazed, quite frankly, at the level of ignorance some people possess.  Not for stating their opinion, mind you; everyone is entitled to that; but at their ignorance about the way life works.  One of the most colorful comments came from somebody who stated;

Wow.  I’m sure that guy breaks out his copy of ”The Book of Virtues” every night to share with his kids; and if he doesn’t have kids, I hope he never does.  The most glaring part of his comment is that he steals pens from work.  Unbelievable.  Why doesn’t he just take them from church like I do?  All kidding aside, the fact that this has become such a huge issue is what troubles me the most.  Is honesty and integrity in such short supply that we should be surprised when someone actually demonstrates it for us?  Pitiful, just plain pitiful.  In a sports world where Barry Bonds can break the most hallowed record in the sport while simultaneously taking steroids, positive role models are always welcome. 

It doesn’t matter if you like the game of Golf or not; JP’s actions have transcended that somehow and turned into a national discussion on honesty.  I watched the interview he gave on ESPN last night with the NukeBoys.  To see them react with such pride at his deed made me hold out a little more hope for the future.  We talked about it over dinner and I was thankful for the fact that they were the ones doing all the talking.  It wasn’t me giving them a lecture on honesty and integrity, it was them telling me about right and wrong and how they would react in certain situations.  I guess what it all comes down to is one question: Can you live with the dishonest actions of the person you see when you look in the mirror?  Regrettably, too many people today answer yes.  

The coolest thing for me about all of this, is that he is getting a glimpse of some of the music I grew up with.  I’m obviously biased, but I think I grew up at the perfect time.  I had my older sister, who turned me on to all kinds of music.  Usually just by playing it in her room while I sat in the hallway outside her door; silently.  Listening.  Taking it all in.  I learned about Moody Blues, Gino Vanelli, Carole King, Boz Skaggs, Chicago, Todd Rundgren and so many more.  My brother got an 8 track stereo system for Christmas one year (Yes! I’m  THAT old!), and I learned about Bachman Turner Overdrive, Led Zepplin, ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Steve Miller, The Doobie Brothers and the list goes on and on.  Once I started my own collection, I soon left my older siblings in the dust as my collection grew and grew.  In 1981 I bought my first stereo system.  That same year my album collection grew to 300+ lp’s; much to my Father’s chagrin.  He thought I should save my money for a car.  I thought I needed to rock.  By 1984 I had amassed over 450 lp’s and put a stereo system in my VW Bug that once caused my Father to walk out of the house, knock on my window, and tell me to “TURN THAT CRAP DOWN!”  I had to smile after saying “Yes, sir”, and watching him walk back inside.  He heard my car stereo (windows closed, no less) inside the house?  Cool.

By the late 80′s my lp collection was north of 600 and my CD collection had blossomed to a little over 150.  There was some duplicity there but, hey, you can’t buy the brand new CD technology and NOT buy The Wall.  Sure, I had it on LP, but on CD it made me even more Comfortably Numb.  I had a nearly photographic grasp of all music released from 1972 to about 1994.  Albums, bands, who was in each band, what they played, what side a song was on, which number it was on that side, the year it was released, who wrote which song, on and on.  My friends used to call me “Shrevie” after the character from “Diner“.   I don’t think I was as fanatical as he was, but, then again….I could get lost for hours inside my favorite record store.  I’d look for deals and bands that I could “discover” in the cut-out section.  I’d scoff at those who only bought cassettes.  Fools.  I’d buy my own blank tapes and mix tape myself into a coma. 

Nukeboy1 doesn’t have that same opportunity.  The music he had been listening to before his “Rockband Epiphany” was the manufactured artists that all seem to sing on each others songs: T-Pain, Chris Brown, Rihanna, Timbaland, Flo Rida and many others.  I’m not dissing these artists, and I’m not turning into an old fuddy-duddy; it’s just not my cup of tea.  It pisses me off because kids today don’t have near the selection or choice that I had.  Sure, you could say that I’m no different; that I’m a “victim” of what was being forced down my throat when I was a kid, but the difference is; I had more avenues to explore than American Idol and itunes.  Record stores, bootleg tapes of up and coming bands, independent radio stations instead of “Clear Channel listen to what we tell you to listen to” stations.  I had a choice.

Music has been, and always will be, subjective.  Abortion, politics and music are three subjects that can garner the most emotion and fanaticism when debated.  Of the three, music is the only one where you can at least find some common ground with someone who doesn’t share your point of view.   You may think their Slim Whitman fetish is asinine, but they may scoff at your Black Sabbath affliction.  If you both can share a beer over side 2 of Back In Black; then it’s all good.  Sorry, I forgot we don’t have “sides” anymore.

Nukeboy1 has inundated me with questions the last week and a half on all things “Classic Rock”.  I’ve shared as much as I know with him.  His curiosity and quest for knowledge is mind numbing.  Why can’t he tackle fractions like this?  I already know the answer; for the same reasons I couldn’t.  He’s got the fever.  I did what any responsible parent should do; I dug out all of the CD’s and went through them with him.  He picked out a starter stack of about 25 CD’s that he is presently working his way through.  Little does he know that my list for him grows exponentially each day.  I encourage each of you to do the same.  Dig out the old albums, dust off the turntable, dig the cassettes out of the attic (if they haven’t melted) and let your kids discover the same way you discovered.  Make suggestions, let them know that there are plenty of choices out there.  The dialogue that it opens up may surprise you; and place you back on common ground.

In the old days laundry to me was like doing the yard; sometimes you have to pick the kids up by their pits and have them stomp on top to get it all in.  It doesn’t matter if it’s Bermuda Tiff, or 300 thread count sheets.  Even if the top layer never got “totally wet” during the wash cycle, I knew that we had spin, rinse and spin coming up!  When the water kicked back on, there would be no way the top layer could stay dry.  After further review, and a lesson in laundry etiquette from NukeMom, I’ve come to the realization that size really does matter.

Smaller is better.  There, I said it.  Just because I can fit 37 pounds of laundry in the machine doesn’t mean I should.  Sure, I could knock out a week’s worth of laundry in 3 loads, but I know now that it is wrong.  Wrong on so many levels.  I have come full circle, and each morning I can be found in the laundry room gently and lovingly “placing” a load of laundry in the machine.  I don’t throw, cram, pack or smash anymore.  I can already see the benefits.  Today when I put towels away, I could only fit 4 towels where I could normally fit 6.  Fluffiness!  Who knew?  I knew that using 4 times the recommended amount of Downy would pay off.

The kids and I differ on these two definitions.  To clarify, lets recall the oft-told tale of the chicken, the pig and breakfast:  If you’re having  bacon, eggs and sausage for Breakfast, who made the contribution and who made the commitment?  Well, they both contributed, but I think the pig is definitely committed. 

This subject comes up during clean up time.  The picture above is of a “pillow house”.  They randomly appear in the den from time to time; sometimes with the knowledge and blessing of NukeDad and NukeMom, but usually not.  Their construction requires the use of pillows (obviously) of all sizes and shapes, and depending on their size and scope, may require a trip upstairs.  They need structure and support, so the use of “the little table” is often employed, as are end tables, rocking chairs, TV floor chairs and V-rockers.

Construction of these domiciles is generally fast and furious, much like Donald Trump’s development of the lower west side of Manhattan.  Once the structure is complete and the “roof” (whichever blanket is left) has been installed, the habitation begins.  There are secret doors, mailboxes, peek-a-boo floor level windows; you name it, it’s in there.  The euphoria of living in a self built abode lasts all the way till dinner time, or whenever Spongebob is over, whichever comes first.

After dinner, when it comes time to clean-up, the conflict begins.  They become squatters.  We’d have better luck clearing the Gaza Strip of rocket launchers than getting our pillows returned to their beds.  “Nukegirl!  I told you that after dinner you and Nukeboy2 would have to clean this up!”  “I know Daddy, but my legs hurt.”  She did it.  She played the ouchie card.   I’d seen this tactic before, and if I survived the Great Disco Scare Of The Late 70′s, then I could make it through this.  “Well, you can soak in the tub when you get done.”  “But Daddy”, she said “they hurt right now!  In real life!”  She wrongly assumed that my line between reality and fantasy was as blurred as hers was.  It wasn’t working.  “Just do it, Nukegirl.”  With a pouty lip and a feigned limp she hopped over to the couch and put one of the pillows back in it’s place.  That was her contribution.

Nukeboy2 was committed.  By the time Nukegirl and I had finished our verbal volley, he already had bed pillows returned upstairs, and most of the downstairs pillows and blankets in their proper places.  The only thing left was 1 couch pillow.  Nukegirl sauntered over, picked it up and with a look of disgust said to her brother: “How come I always have to do EVERYTHING?  You NEVER help.”  Nukeboy2 thought better of retaliation.  He’d rather be a pig than be called chicken any day.

For instance, I believe I would have asked a lot more questions.  How tall is the building?  Is there a pool at the bottom?  Will ESPN be there?  Who owns the building, and are they insured?  Actually, that probably would have been one of my Dad’s questions, but either way, we would’ve both benefited from the exercise.  Did my friend have a good reason for doing it?  Did he survive?  Did it get him a date?  Was it a screaming plunge, a graceful swan-dive or a double gainer with a 1/2 twist?  Suffice it to say that if my friends’ leap of faith had been off of his sisters playhouse into a pile of 100 dollar bills, I would have been there quicker than an asthmatic to his inhaler.  Save the hate mail, I’m sucking on mine as we speak.  I love the spring.  If, however, my friend went headlong off of the Sears Tower into a grove of honeylocust trees, then I believe I’ll pass.

The point is, when Dad was asking these hypotheticals, he already knew the answer, he was just looking for validation.  Answer wrong and he may be looking for the nearest bar, but I knew the answer as well.  And I still do.   I use a lot of my Father’s Dad-ism’s today, and if I do it correctly, then my kids will use them as well. 

I’m trying to modernize though.  “If your friend ran up an extra 30 dollars in text messages, would you?”, “That computer isn’t going to re-boot itself!”, “Get your i-pod’s off the table.”, “Credit cards don’t grow on trees, you know.”  I do have in my arsenal, though, the one Dad-ism that will always get you out of a jam.  The one that no child can refute, and no Dad should be without.  Use it sparingly and use it with caution. “Go ask your Mother.”