Bittersweet. More Sweet Than Bitter.

Feeling a little bit romantic, in the literary sense, here on Cape Cod on what is quite likely to be the last time we come here as a full family. My oldest heads to college - at least for a little while - in three weeks, and if my history is any guide, we're out of the family vacation business. After I went away to college, we had a few family trips for holidays, but we never again traveled as a unit on what you might call a vacation. And so there are feels.

I started to write a post about it, but my thoughts kept arranging themselves in a way that feels more conducive to a prose poem. I know fuck all about meter, and I'm not here to rhyme, but I hope you enjoy what might be the first original poem (non-Greasetruck/Yojo version) published here.

I walked by myself on the Brewster Flats
Which are singular enough to be capitalized
Receding tide pulling water in channels
Towards the open bay

My feet sank in the oozing pinkpurple sand
As I passed hermit crabs, fiddlers, gulls and
The occasional periwinkle, their trails tracing 
A direct line from my childhood to my now

In front of me, the sweep of the Cape
From Orleans to Provincetown
The familiar bodybuilder's pose
Clear in the hot noontime air

In front of me, too, the moment
Three weeks from now when I drive
Home from Richmond
With one fewer passenger than before

Our house won't be seem as lively, 
Won't be as profanely silly after
We drop our little girl off at college
To start her life without us

She's going to find her people there
Just like I found mine
Hers will know more of the world around them
And they'll be hers forever, too

Dr. Seuss said 'Don't cry because it's over,
Smile because it happened'
I'm going to cry anyway, because I do that these days
Tears mean you're moved

And my little grown-up girl moves me every day

Something to Say

Apologies to Teej. I will need to revisit that comedic, simpler time in a minute, but I have something to say.  Just to dampen the mood.

This story is just horrible:

Customers Who Refused Masks Assault Trader Joe’s Workers, Send One to the Hospital

Read if you can stomach it. Jesus.  

My significant other is part of the general counsel team for a multibillion-dollar American chain of discount variety stores that sell items for $1 or less. Their company is now firmly wedged between the wretched rock and hard place of not protecting their employees from COVID (by enforcing mask wearing) versus not protecting their employees from violence. I guess you have to save your people from violence first, which makes you seem like an employer who doesn't care about the pandemic. It's acknowledged fully that there simply exist citizens of our country who, when told that they must wear a satisfactory facial covering to protect themselves and others from a virus that has recently claimed 670,000 human lives, will become enraged resort to physical harm, in some cases extreme.

This is a given.  I just can't process that very well.

Because this is Gheorghe: The Blog, I will try.

That's the best I can muster to lighten the mood. But no. It doesn't work.

One of the understated gross elements of a really gross story was this quote:

A Trader Joe’s crew member at the Murray Hill location who witnessed the events told Motherboard that upon entering the store, the men told an employee that masks would not be necessary after the upcoming election—seeming to suggest that Donald Trump would be reelected in November.

And here's what I have to say.

The cerebrally stunted, emotionally ruined boy posing as a man that was put into office has unleashed the least civilized, most dishonorable parts of many American citizens and has granted utter refuge and pedestal for the true sociopaths and unhinged, well-past-redeemable detriments to society that now run hideously amok among the general population.  The bravest, boldest, and strongest of the voting contingent that elected Donald Trump will be those that concede -- without any accompanying attempts at justification whatsoever -- that it was a grave, egregious mistake that has not garnered anything close to their intended result, and that the next four years must be a universally dedicated and concerted effort among all of upstanding society to undo the ills of 2016-2020 and restore civility and dignity and decency to a country that desperately needs it. And while aberrations from those principles happen everywhere, their orchestrated abandon cannot. Daily terror as status quo must be loudly and forcefully excoriated in unison, and those who propagate it should find and eventually fear starkly punitive consequential retribution for enacting any form of it.  

The likelihood of people mustering the courage to admit that they were very wrong but are now fully committed to rectifying the state of things not merely by casting a ballot but by demanding decency of some threshold . . . well, those chances may be up there with aeronautic swine, but I'd be satisfied with even one voice making such a proclamation.  Just one.  That would be a start.

That's all.

The Gheorghe Vhault

Listen, the world needs content, now more than ever. And here at GTB, I intend to provide you that content, even if it's something we've already posted before, by someone either than me. I've decided we'll call these flashback filler posts The Gheorghe Vault.

With baseball on our minds, at least until the season ends abruptly in a week because 69% of the players have the rona, a long ago post from Whitney came to mind. It was classic GTB - I had half an idea, did nothing with it in drafts for weeks, and then one day Whit unleashed the tour de force below. What I just realized in thinking I was cute with this "Gheorghe Vhault" idea is I resurfaced this post four years ago because I enjoyed it so much. Let's ignore that fact completely (much as Ronald Dion DeSantis ignores logic and science on an hourly basis) and enjoy GTB's Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster:

I think I promised this post to Rob a year ago, but with the sports world being a dead zone for the last few days, I finally got around to it (with some-- all the-- help from Whitney). After sifting through this, you all might agree I (Whit) should've kept it on the shelf for another year...

It's that time of year again. The dust has settled on another Major League Baseball All-Star Game, meaning the appropriate media outlets can swiftly turn their focus onto the next such endeavor. And year after year, that endeavor is this fan favorite. Get ready for . . .

G:TB's 2007 Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster

Lineup:

The Cookie Crook, Cookie Crisp, CF - Your light-hitting, speedy lead-off batter if there ever was one. The speed of Vince Coleman, but unfortunately the same degree of character as well. Much like we saw when Tyson lost Cus D'Amato, The Crook suffered greatly after the demise of Cookie Jarvis, but he's still a force to be reckoned with in centerfield. . . and anywhere near a bowl of cookies that somehow, beyond all comprehension, masquerades itself as cereal.

L.C. "Lucky" Leprechaun, Lucky Charms, RF - Not as legendary as the MLB version of "The Mick," Lucky's nonetheless a Cereal League force with the lumber and the amber, roaming right field and pub floors of Dorchester with equal frequency. (And it's rarely milk in that bowl.) He loves to play up the Irish thing with the fans, though insiders know his last name is actually Kowalczyk. From the Charms' 2007 Media Guide: "Turn-ons include green clovers and the hit-and run; turn-offs include the designated hitter and 'those f%#@ing brats who're always after me lucky charms'." Fast fact: Lucky's been ejected from three All-Star Games in his career.

Sugar Bear (a.k.a. Super Bear), Super Sugar Crisp (a.k.a. Golden Crisp), LF - The beefy slugger has long been accused of illegal supplements, and his oft-uttered motto "Can't get enough of that Super Sugar Crisp" may speak to his addiction to the stuff. Palling around with Starsky & Hutch's guy Huggy Bear and Fletch's buddy Gummy Bear doesn't help his image any. The power this All-Star brings to the table does impress, of course, but the Rock Raines-like name changes only serve to confuse and cast Sugar Bear in a shadier light. True Fact: "Sugar Bear has been voiced by Gerry Matthews since 1963." True Fact 2: "Last winter Gary Matthews Jr. was accused of ordering/using Human Growth Hormone." Coincidence?

Tony the Tiger, Frosted Flakes, 1B - The big-bat, fading glove Tony is a first-ballot Hall of Famer, make no mistake. Though his bellowing voice and rah-rah "gr-r-r-reat" attitude has earned him something of a reputation as a clubhouse blowhard over the years, he's still beloved by his legion of fans. He's a DH-in-training, but for now Tony's the cornerstone of the franchise and even the league. His club the Frosted Flakes (or as they're known in the UK, the Frosties) has fallen into mid-major status, but he'll be remembered long after they bury that red bandanna behind Kellogg's HQ.

Dig'em, Kellogg's Smacks (formerly Sugar Smacks, Honey Smacks, etc.), SS - What a great little guy. The heart and soul of any team he plays on, including the All-Star team. The Smacks' franchise (another, like the Anaheim/Los Angeles, California Angels of Anaheim/Los Angeles, California, whose owners have felt the need to repeatedly change names with the times), was in turmoil for a very long time at this position. It's not unlike the New York Yankees of the 80's and 90's, who suffered through Opening Day shortstops Roy Smalley, Tim Foli, Bobby Meacham, Wayne Tolleson, Rafael Santana, Alvaro Espinoza, Randy Velarde, Spike Owen (Big Stein was so jealous of the '86 Series, he nabbed both batless shortstops), Mike Gallego, and Tony Fernandez to finally get to Derek Jeter. The Smacks club waded through the following dreck as mascots before Dig 'Em came on the scene in 1972: various clowns, including Cliffy the Clown; a seal named Smaxey dressed in a sailor suit; Quick Draw McGraw; The Smackin' Bandit, a half-mule, half-kangaroo who kissed everyone in sight; The Smackin' Brothers, two boys dressed in boxing shorts and boxing gloves; an American Indian Chief on a horse. Dig 'Em put them on the map with his power stroke, slick fielding, base-stealing, and enormous sneakers. He's the coolest of the mascots -- perhaps the anti-Tony -- and we dig 'im.

Cap'n Crunch, 3B - Ah, the old Cap'n. Came on the scene in 1963 and is still ranked the fans' #1 favorite. Horatio Magellan Crunch, Jr. (real name) has enjoyed a Ripken-like streak of consistency, not to be undone by his advanced age, that Crunchberry Beast sidetrack, or by kids scraping the roofs of their mouths with his unsogged cereal. If his bat has slowed, we can't tell. His is a storied career with many ups (World Series of Cereal rings, promoted to Admiral briefly) and a few downs (disappeared in 1985 & 1999; Crunch franchise held "Where's the Cap'n?" promo but actually couldn't find him -- he was in a closet on his ship). The Cap'n has a dedicated fan base, almost creepily so. But he's a cornerstone of this roster, to be sure. (Am I the only idiot who didn't realize the cereal is little treasure chests? I never got that.)

Toucan Sam, Fruit Loops, C - Sam's another All-Star stalwart, and he'll be manning the dish for the Cerealites this year in the Midbreakfast Classic. He can wing it, so baserunners will certainly be taking heed as they have all season. Meanwhile, his solid if unspectacular bat complements his veteran approach to the game, the "follow your nose" method. (Sam was also reputed to be in the Cocoa Puff crowd for such a slogan, but it was later dismissed as rumor.) Did You Know?: Toucan Sam originally had a much larger beak and a Carmen Miranda-esque fruit-hat. His subsequent beak-job and ditching of the hat were presumably to be so he could don the catcher's mask.

BuzzBee, Honey Nut Cheerios, 2B - A little younger than some of his peers on this All-Star roster, but he's become a star in his own right. Many "Cheerios Classic" fans were reluctant to adopt the little slap hitter and glove man, but Buzz somehow managed to bridge the gap between the sugared franchises with their animated mascots and the health cereals with beaming parents and grinning adolescents. Is he fun to party with? Hell, no. Does he belong on this team? You bet.


Pitchers:

Sonny, Cocoa Puffs, SP - It's easy to sit back and marvel about what a career Sonny might've had if it weren't for his troubles with sugary substance abuse, but just as with Steve Howe, all that powder derailed a promising future. Such a fireballer being drafted by the "Coca Puffs" was the kiss of death, but Sonny has persevered tirelessly, as evidenced by his All-Star selection. Beloved by the fans, everyone wants to give him that 50th "second chance." Here's hoping he can hold it together and not go cuckoo this time.

Trix Rabbit, Trix, SP - The classic junk cereal pitcher in the style of Gaylord Perry, Eddie Harris, and Boo-Berry. Much like Cocoa Puff Sonny, Joaquin Andujar, and the Quik Bunny, the silly rabbit has had trouble keeping his composure on the field over the years, but his deceptive style leaves many swinging at air. Another in a long line of rabid animals who steal sugared cereals from children, the Trix rabbit franchised himself with arguably the catchiest of catch phrases, one quipped by dorky execs and pirated by Deadheads.

Count Chocula, RP - Every ballclub has one these days, the reliever from a foreign land with a wicked slider and a few cultural quirks. They just don't happen to have one as effective as the Count. He also has the heart-touching story: he passed up an opportunity back home for a solid career of achieving supernatural powers by sinking his fangs into the jugulars of his fellow citizens, consuming their blood, and turning them into similarly undead and horrific creatures, giving it all up to play baseball in the Cereal Leagues. He still gets teased for his accent and lumped in with those stiffs Boo-Berry and Yummy Mummy, but he presses on, having turned into a more-than-reliable closer. He still gets mocked by his peers back home for "going the breakfast route" when he's supposed to shy away from sunrises. And he still gets threatened by the religious right for his habit of pointing at the ground and thanking Satan every time he strikes out a batter, but he's just happy to be doing what he loves night in and night out. And playing baseball.

Bench:

Snap, Crackle, & Pop, Rice Krispies, IF/OF - These jacks of all trades, masters of none, weren't voted in, they were selected by the manager. The fans have never truly responded to this trio, but their peers seem to have even less respect. "The Hanson Brothers they ain't," quipped one All-Star who asked to remain anonymous. Another added, "Snap has no arm and Pop has no power -- they should be called the Misnomers." A third chimed in: "And Crackle . . . I mean, who the hell is Crackle, anyway?" They remind a few onlookers of the 2007 New York Yankees bench, and the word "light" seems to go hand in hand with any mention of them. But . . . the manager wanted them on the club. Crackle just left rehab (again), so they'll be reunited again at General Mills Park for the All-Star Game. Get fired up.Manager:

Wendell, Cinnamon Toast Crunch - The skipper of Cereal Cup champs CTC, Wendell's kindly old man exterior belies an irascible curmudgeon in the clubhouse. A few ground rules when interviewing Wendell: 1.) Don't ask him about his penchant for the quick hook. 2.) Don't say anything even hinting at Cinnamon Toast Crunch being an "expansion franchise." 3.) And by God, do not ask him about including Snap, Crackle & Pop on this roster. There's a reason the other bakers don't speak in the commercials. Wendell's an old school manager on a new school club. You saw how well that worked in Tampa with Lou, right?

So there you have your 2007 Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster. Enjoy the festivities, all the hoop-la, and be content in the knowledge that world today is a better place than it was 20 or 30 years ago, if only for the fact that the rash of thievish, insane animals, badly-dressed, freakish creatures, and/or B-grade horror movie clichés burglarizing our kitchens and stealing our children's breakfasts seems to have passed. Pleasant dreams, and a very happy tomorrow morning.

Know Your Rights?

Neil Young is just one of many, many musicians who have taken issue with the Commanchild-in Chief playing their songs at his stirring political rallies and campaign events. Everyone from Axl Rose to Prince's estate to Luciano Pavarotti have registered complaints, either formally or via social media. There's a frickin' Wikipedia (Frickipedia) page dedicated to "Musicians who oppose Donald Trump's use of their music."

A number of these have sent Cease and Desist letters. This year, Mike Mills of R.E.M. "threatened legal action over using 'Everybody Hurts' and 'Losing My Religion,'" perhaps because Trump was highlighting two of the weakest chart-toppers the band recorded, or maybe just because anything the band members believe in is being urinated upon by DJT on a daily basis.

A question for Gheorghe: The Barristers... is there any merit to such action?

(A question for me: have we already covered this before at G:TB and my memory is shot dead?)

I know that because of ASCAP, you have to pay a fee to play any copyrighted songs in public. Or

however you legal types would word that restriction. There's a reason the YouTube videos for our ORF Rock broadcasts (and the kick-ass licensed rock and roll we played) kept getting blocked. But Trump or any other candidate can get that out of the way with a simple payment. What happens when the people who own licensed material explicitly say "Don't play it"?

It's debatable whether it's a savvy move to play songs to inspire an arena of already-swallowed-the-cyanide-Kool-Aid sycophants and then get publicly lambasted by famous artists later. (That Wikipedia page is a humorous run-through of some of the responses, but not the most cutting.) Then again, I suppose it's just one more liberal elite artist about whom you can fallaciously wax indignant and victimized.  I don't know. The musicians are generally more clever than most candidates and are capable of jabbing with superior linguistic dexterity. But I also suppose that that's not always a draw.

This recent article on Neil Young's latest complaint makes reference to instances that sound like they have teeth. But I don't know. The Glimmer Twins, who sue people daily, are set to take aim. 

But here's where my eyebrows elevated in that article. It says:

Young, exasperated by Trump’s continued usage of “Rockin’ in the Free World,” “Like a Hurricane” and “Cowgirl in the Sand,” took to his official website last week to pen an open letter expressing his disdain.

Cowgirl in the Sand???  I obviously get Rockin' in the Free World for its falling-down-a-mountain-hilarious irony and Like a Hurricane to acknowledge Trump's response to Puerto Rico. But Cowgirl in the Sand?  What in Sam Hill?

Look, I need to be enlisted by every campaign to come up with the songs to play at these rah-rah gang-fellatio gatherings.  If you're going to piss off Neil Young, try: 

• Heart of Gold
• Tonight's the Night
• Comes a Time
• Don't Let It Bring You Down
• Don't Be Denied
• Long May You Run
• I Believe in You

Of course, what Trump should really play is:

• I Am a Child
• Helpless
• Old Man
• A Man Needs a Maid
• The Needle and the Damage Done
• Ohio
• Campaigner
• Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere

Eh. He'll probably just play "Cortez the Killer" down in the border states and tell them how tremendous it was.

TR is Getting a Tesla

Autoblow is real. I think it's also a real bad idea.



You'll clearly be too distracted to avoid an accident. If you get in an accident will you have a "World According to Garp" situation?

Doesn't this make a mess? How do you clean it? How do you get out of it without soiling your car?

Doesn't everyone know what's going on when they see you carrying it in and out of the car? You obviously can't keep it in the car for everyone to see.

This explains TR's sudden interest in getting a Tesla though. Also in TR's wheelhouse, the same company sells prostate massagers.

R.I.P. Dave Fairbank (Not Really. Don't Be Alarmed. You'll Understand When You Read the Post. Jesus, Lighten Up.)

I confess that I was torn when I read this entry from our man in the OBX. On the one hand, it's predictably droll, self-deprecating, and entertaining. On the other, the topic is, well, morbid. And we've got our share of that right now. But it's also the kind of thing that could lead to a recurring bit, and we rarely let that kind of thing pass without pouncing. So please enjoy Dave Fairbank's autoeulogy.

I’ve been thinking about death lately. Not a cheery topic, but it’s tough to avoid with the official U.S. COVID death toll tracking like one of Elon Musk’s rocket launches, and with George Floyd and other victims sparking national and international protests and demonstrations.

Discouraging, yes, but not entirely gloomy. I took the opportunity to write my own obituary. I presently feel fine and don’t think my demise is imminent. But you never know. As I told the site’s Pocket Sultan at the most recent OBFT, if I get infected by the coronavirus, I have no idea if I would be asymptomatic, dead in a week, or somewhere in between. Or, I could go the traditional route and drop dead of a heart attack. Might as well prepare a little. (I do enjoy Pocket Sultan. Please feel free to use it.)

One could argue that writing your own obituary is a mite macabre and self-absorbed. But I submit that it’s compassionate. It relieves grieving loved ones of the added chore of adequately recapping a life, and it affords time to assign booze delivery for the wake or to devise tactics that screw relatives in the event of estate squabbles.

It also provides the deceased an element of control about their existence. We read obits all the time that say Jimmy loved gardening or Angela cherished time skiing with her family, when in fact Jimmy just wanted out of the house and away from the missus, and Angela was scared shitless of skiing but her family never asked her and kept booking ski trips.

Writing your own obit is hardly an original idea. Lots of people have done it. I found it to be a pleasant diversion. You could write it straight, but what’s the point in that? Let’s put the “fun” back in “funeral.”

I plan to leave this with my loved ones and hope they see fit to print it somewhere. If not, I may require legal assistance. As always, suggestions are welcome.

After overstaying his welcome by several years, Dave Fairbank of Kill Devil Hills finally departed this world on (FILL IN THE BLANK), leaving an open bar stool in establishments on the Outer Banks and beyond.

He is survived by his wife of XX years, Suzanne, whose love and support are matched only by her tolerance for her husband’s goofballery and myriad shortcomings. He is also survived by a sister, Sandy Chambers, and her husband (Bill) and sons (Michael and Alex), all of whom had the good sense to live hundreds of miles away so as to limit direct contact with the deceased. He fathered no children, sparing potential offspring a questionable upbringing.

Dave was preceded in death by his parents, Bob and Ruth Fairbank, loving, wonderful role models who deftly masked their disappointment in their oldest child and now have the opportunity to ask him why he didn’t amount to more.

Dave spent most of his professional life as a sportswriter, which permitted him to Peter Pan his way through adulthood, telling stories about games and kids and coaches, and avoiding real work. He wrote thousands of stories in almost 40 years as a newspaperman and freelance writer, many of which were competent.

He possessed no useful skills, was a disaster with technology, understood little about regular jobs, and squandered too much money on alcohol, for which his parents are almost certainly giving him a disappointed side-eye in the hereafter. He tried to listen to people and to read broadly. He enjoyed movies and music and was partial to blues, old jazz and 1970s era funk and soul. He never saw “Hamilton,” yet somehow endured. He was sociable, yet rarely dominated a room. Rumor had it that on occasion he was good company.

Dave was born on Sept. 24, 1958 in Baltimore before his parents whisked him away to the wilderness of Edgewater, Md., south of Annapolis. He attended Southern High School and then Washington (Md.) College and the University of Maryland-College Park, where he graduated with a General Studies degree, which meant that he was qualified to do nothing. He had the opportunity to work with his father, who helped run and later owned a small business, but he was determined to do something less lucrative that required excessive and unusual hours and peculiar work habits.

He spent the bulk of his career at the Newport News (Va.) Daily Press, covering mostly college and prep sports, along with the occasional professional golf tournament, NFL game and NASCAR race. He saw, in their youth, Allen Iverson, Michael Vick, Alonzo Mourning, Pernell Whitaker, Ronald Curry, Terry Kirby, J.R. Reid, Percy Harvin, Olympic sprinters Francena McCorory and LaShawn Merritt, CFL legend Michael Clemons, and future NFL head coaches Mike Tomlin and Sean McDermott, among an almost embarrassingly rich list of talent. Crossing paths with those athletes didn’t buy groceries, but they provided stories. He was humbly surprised and grateful that subjects returned his phone calls and willingly spoke to him.

Dave fortunately avoided the staff cuts and purges that became de rigueur under the soulless, corporate jackals that increasingly ran newspapers. He left the newspaper business in 2015, and he and Suzanne relocated to the Outer Banks, where he swept sand and dodged hurricanes and sampled fish tacos. He did some freelance writing for various publications and was a periodic contributor to a friend’s blog, a gig that somehow was even less profitable than newspaper work – re-confirming his financial acumen.

In short, Dave was blessed beyond all reason and explanation. In other countries and circumstances, someone of his limitations might have been homeless or institutionalized. Instead, he managed to carve out a niche and function among the public. Wonders never cease.

In lieu of flowers, retire to a tavern, have a few drinks, and over-tip your server.

A Face in the Crowdsource

Crowdsourcing -- it's the new panhandling. Or the new Tupperware, Avon, Amway, Mary Kay, Cutco, or more recent ones like LuLaRoe, cabi, or Rodan + Fields . . . all stuff one of my wives called "peddling shit to your friends." (Her apologies if you or yours are part of these obeliscal entities.)

Zach Braff famously used Kickstarter when he said that the brilliant script he'd written could never get made unless his fans paid for it.  The sympathetic public acquiesced, contributing $2.6 million to the cause.  After which, or course, the traditional film-financing engines did what they do and funded Braff with the $10 million he wanted. (Wish I Was Here has a Rotten Tomatoes score of 47% and a Metacritic score of 43%. Maybe it was the ignorance of the subjunctive mood in the title.)

Carbon Leaf's Barry with fans

More recently, and with less public snark, one of the two bands featured in a February G:TB double-bill two-night musical mini-summit (Carbon Leaf) launched a Kickstarter campaign to help fund their new album. With concerts a thing of the past (sigh), they needed an influx of cash to get them where they wanted to be. They asked their fans to help out with a collective $21,000 by this Saturday, July 25, to make that happen. Looks like the band and its fans, eager to hear new music, will be just fine. If they get just $200 more, they will reach a total of . . . $200,000. Holy crap.

So, uh, Random Idiots will be following suit next month to support our new record, A Fool and His Money. Link to the Kickstarter site coming soon.

Much, much, much more importantly, there's a crowd-sourcing site doing well right now that brings a bit of a tear to me eye, to quote Dean Ween.  Here's the story . . .

* * * * * * * *

Flash back to 1976.  The Bicentennial celebration has come and gone, the fireworks and fanfare for a nation have given way to back-to-school time. (You know, what families east, west, north, and south are praying for as we speak.)  A new school for me, one where I'd stay -- by the skin of my teeth -- for a dozen years. Also, a new sport. Football.  The European kind.

On the west side of Norfolk, our youth soccer leagues were the simplest they could be in structure. Your neighborhood was a team, and someone's mom or dad was the coach. Larchmont, Lochhaven, Ghent, West Ghent, and so on. It was co-ed for the first few years, then gender-divided.  It was an absolute ton of fun. I was mediocre at best, but I kept playing. Practices for my Larchmont squad were once or twice a week after school at "Brick Field" next to Old Dominion University, three blocks from my house. Games on Saturday in the home team's neighborhood.  Simple.

In a year or so, after we grew out of the "bumblebees" age for soccer and actually started to play the game a shade closer to how it was designed, we were assigned positions. Our scheme was incredibly complex. Forwards, halfbacks, fullbacks, goalie. In my later years (6th grade), the concept of "sweeper" was introduced. Blew our frickin' minds. So simple.

I moved around a bit, jacking up all the trades and mastering none.  I was mostly a halfback, which is where Coach Smith put the kids who couldn't score but also couldn't be relied upon on for defense. Also, my age 9 penchant for running around all game was the diametric opposite of that at age 49. But it was fun wherever they put me.

I made good buddies on that team. Strangely, I didn't have any school friends on that team. I think maybe it was because I was young for my grade, a September birthday, and a handful of kids I was pals with in school were on the older teams. I didn't love that everyone always questioned me about that, but as I got older, it mattered less.  Also, a number of kids from other schools were on my squad, and we bonded as we played together year after year. Years later, when I stopped playing community league soccer and played school sports, my circle of friends became nearly exclusively confined to kids at my school.  The situation was way better for me when I had my soccer friends.

One of those was a guy named Michael Cutter. He was our goalie, and like me, he was tall with rugged good looks for a 4th grader.  He went to our rival, Norfolk Collegiate School. (Our other crosstown rival, Norfolk Christian, was where Barry from the aforementioned Carbon Leaf was in school.)  Anyway, Cutter was a very good player and a friend. He'd go on to be a great high school goalie. But like I said, we mostly lost touch in high school because of my/our dipshit xenophobic insular ways.  We'd see each other at church or a hoops game 'twixt our schools and nod hey with a smile.  Sup, Whitney.  Sup, Mike.

I got better at soccer in those years on the Larchmont team. Years of dedicated practice will sometimes do that. I became a forward at some point, and one Saturday in 6th grade, I scored four (4) goals in an 8-0 drubbing of West Ghent. That was our last game of the season. Man, I loved the revelry and the congratulations I received that day. Not what I was used to.

The very next season, I left the Larchmont squad. Contract negotiations had stalled. Well, actually, it came to this: my school offered football in 7th grade. That was that, much to the chagrin of my old coach and a few of the nice parents who said I should stick with soccer.  The allure of the gridiron and playing sports with my best buddies was too much. Naturally, that proved to be a wise decision, as I turned into the tight end who managed to lead the Tidewater Conference of Independent Schools in receptions my senior year. (Ahem... that conference numbered exactly four (4) schools with football programs.)  It was a wise decision because I had a ton of fun playing football. I dated a cheerleader or two, I have plenty of old stories from those years, and my friends from those teams (a juggernaut who won 2 games in my final 2 seasons) are among my great comrades today.

Anyway, when I made the transition, I quickly became incommunicado with the old Larchmont team.  Great memories of simpler days, fading by the day but never leaving.

* * * * * *

Fast-forward to December 2005. My family and I have relocated to Norfolk, Virginia from the nation's capital and surrounding suburbs. My re-entry to the old hometown was nothing short of heart-warmingly revelatory to me: You can go home again.

The poker league welcomed me, the book club welcomed my wife, and everyone helped us assimilate into the circle of friends.  It was remarkable. There were dozens of new-new friends I met, people who'd transplanted here at some point before my return or folks I simply hadn't know growing up. Beyond the new-new people I met were the old friends that became new friends. There are a number of people that I just barely knew that are now my good buddies. Chums. Mates, as KT would say.

I have continued to meet great people in the 15 years I've been back, and I have sincerely appreciated that part of the experience.  Norfolk/Virginia Beach can play like a very small town. Some people dislike that aspect of the community greatly -- like seeing people you know wherever you go -- but I love it. Going through a pair of divorces in what can feel like a tiny hamlet (despite being an MSA of 1.8 mil) ain't no picnic, to quote D. Boon, but beyond that, I dig it.

Anyway, I digress mightily, but among the masses of those with whom I reconnected after coming home was one Mike Cutter. What a great dude. He'd gone off to Hampden-Sydney College and come home to work in the City's Economic Development office. For fifteen years now, we have seen each other at neighborhood cookouts, sporting events, birthday shindigs, our kids' school, church (on rare occasion), keggers (less rare), and work events. (You know, the things that evaporated into the virus-contaminated air.) We aren't best buds, but we're well past "Sup, Whitney. Sup, Mike." He kept up with the Larchmont team peeps a mite better than I did -- enough to know we lost a couple along the way, including the coach's son, sadly by his own hand. It's a long way from the old days at Brick Field, even as I drive by there all the time.

There's simply something about having known someone since you were 6. We catch up when we can, asking what's good and what's not so good in each other's worlds.

What's not so good in Mike's world is amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. ALS. Motherfucker.

Five years ago he was diagnosed with the disease formerly and then again known as Lou Gehrig's.  For several years, you would only have known Mike had the condition if you were looking for it. He was blessed in that regard, and there were a number of people who were diagnosed later than he was who have suffered much more rapidly and succumbed to it. That was a very polished silver lining.

The rest is more than a touch of grey.

At first, it was little stuff. A straw in a beer.  A noticeable effort to raise an arm to shake your hand. The Norfolk ED office is in my building, so I'd see him in the halls -- handshakes became me giving him a quick hug or a gentle pat on the back. He fell last year and broke his collarbone. The struggle has accelerated.

A GoFundMe page was launched last weekend. It says:

If you know Mike and his circumstances, then you have likely observed his life dramatically change in the last few years - particularly in the last 12 months.
While other options were seriously contemplated, Mike and Amy have decided that it’s best for their family to remain in their home - and the time has come where they need help in turning their home into one that is suitable for someone with his limited mobility. It is the intention of this GoFundMe Campaign to raise at least $150,000 to make some of the necessary additions and renovations to the Cutter home in order to accommodate Mike's disabilities. This will include, but not limited to, modification to home entrances, renovation of a downstairs room into a master bedroom, the addition of a downstairs bathroom with disability fixtures, a motorized wheelchair, a motor vehicle with disability accommodation, and any other ADA modifications.

There are also words from Mike himself:

In 2015, after months of testing on my right hand, I was shockingly diagnosed with ALS. For a while I lived without great complication due to the slow progression of my form of ALS; I have only in the last year or so felt its increasing debilitating effects. My arms are very weak - I’m no longer able to drive and I usually need help eating and getting dressed - and I am now having trouble with walking. I miss helping others, playing ball with my boys, and walking our dog. Other than mental anguish I am in no physical pain (unless I fall and bust my head open or break a collar bone - yep that’s happened). I am confounded with my current position, more easily angered and often frustrated; but despite my physical and mental battle each and every day with this beast, I’m still in good spirits and try to laugh at myself while remaining positive, faithful and hopeful. I’m most proud of my family; my 24-year marriage to my wife Amy, and being blessed with our sons Stanton (2005) and Archer (2009). We very much appreciate your willingness to help make possible this transition in our lives and in our home. With much love, thanks and humility, Mike

As of this writing, the GoFundMe page has generated $64,027 in a handful of days. 282 people have contributed thus far.  It's made me feel good that a good man is getting good help from good friends of his.

This is not a plea to give. At our ages (esp Rob, Dave, KT, and other fiftysomethings), we all know someone in need, and I am quite sure you all contribute to friends of yours in dire circumstances.

No, this is just a chance for me to open up about a sad scenario that won't end any happier, but to also appreciate some joy and human kindness in an era where it's underreported.  I feel better for having written it, so thanks if you took a few minutes to read it.  It's that . . . simple.

Be well, live well, do it now, not later.  Cheers, mates.

An NFL Jersey for a Boy

My 12 y/o son will enter the 7th grade this fall. He is an eclectic kid. He has a gift with animals (I'm hoping for a future vet). He loves all things sports (I explained he needs to work hard if he wants more reps as a CB on his football team). And he reads Stephen King (some, but not all, books have been approved).

He also has a big heart. Not so much on a day-to-day basis with his younger brother, or with us when we bark about his XBox activity, but with bigger issues in life. As an example, he asked Santa for a Pat Tillman jersey two years ago. Santa was happy to bring that. My kid wore that jersey to "Jersey Day" at our high school's basketball camp two years ago and won a prize. The varsity basketball coach gave a speech to the whole camp about that Tillman jersey. My son came home with a huge smile and we all shared in that happy memory.

In the last couple months, my son has absorbed all the news about social unrest/protests and has developed some firm opinions. This is tough because he's 12 and does not have much depth of experience to help frame his views. But that's the beauty of fervent youthful idealism. He's prone to having very big views without being able to give much context to them. But sometimes context doesn't matter. And what's right is what's right.

My son just asked us for a Colin Kaepernick jersey for his 13th birthday. I asked him why he wants that jersey and he gave a factual and lucid argument about Colin's rights to protest, and his belief in the cause Colin is/was supporting. I tested his rationale, and he had an appropriate response. And it really is that simple. He is aware of Colin's courage and strength of character and wants to support it.

My wife is a bit nervous about the purchase. She thinks it might invite unwanted comments. But we live in a very understanding town and he has a (relatively) charmed life in an upper middle class suburb with a ~99% white population. We are not south of the Mason-Dixon line and Trump signs are few and far between by us. The odds of an uncomfortable confrontation are low. But they are not zero. He may face verbal abuse from a bigot. He knows that, yet he still wants that jersey.

My son is no hero. But he wants one of his birthday gifts to relay a social justice statement to his community. And I'll accept that as an earnest first step forward towards adulthood.

Vote

Rest in Power, John Lewis. We owe it to his memory to vote these scumbags all the way out.

Absurd Filler Tricks

Because sometimes stupid and brilliant are two sides of the same coin.

It's Different in Alabama

On Tuesday, former Auburn University football coach and Trump-backed political neophyte Tommy Tuberville defeated living Confederate statue Jeffrey Beauregard Sessions in the Alabama Republican Senate primary. Tuberville will face incumbent Senator Doug Jones in the general election in November.

Yesterday, the Alabama Democrats Twitter feed (@aldemocrats) gave a little taste of how the game's gonna be played:

Shots. Fucking. Fired. And popcorn grabbed. Jones faces an uphill climb in one of the country's most regressive states, but Alabama Dems know how to hit a man where it's painful.

OBFT XXVII in Pictures

They're all gone, I'm still here. The 27th edition of the Outer Banks Fishing Trip was pulled off despite a COVID scare (my daughter's friend had it) and forecasts that looked awfully wet.

like fine wine...

14 aging W and M chums plus OBX Dave and a few of my delinquent Norfolk friends came down on Saturday after the group had mostly depleted.  Kudos to everyone for making it, especially those who traveled long distances and those who made all 4 days.

Here's Friday night:

We usually log many hours at Tortuga's Lie, but the pandemic meant we had beach days instead. Not a bad Plan B.  But we did manage a quick meal there on Saturday.

Gheorghies in attendance included OBX Dave and regular Dave, rob, Wheelhouse Jerry, and a surprise appearance from Marls and family.

One of the nights, the moon and lightning did some tandem illumination.

I'm back to reality Thursday. Can't Can wait.

The Thrill of Victory, The Agony of Defeat, Janie Jones and John Randle

Joy and pain, those paired gut-level responses, were on full display over 90-plus minutes yesterday at fabled Wembley Stadium in London. 

Oxford United and Wycombe Wanderers played in the English Football League (EFL) League One playoff final, hoping to join auto-promoted Coventry City and Rotherham United in the English League Championship, the second tier of professional football in the UK.

Despite being on the wrong side of the possession statistics and chasing the game for the better part of

the 90, Wycombe rode left back and captain Joe Jacobson's 79th-minute penalty conversion to a 2-1 win and promotion to the Championship. Despite having been in continuous existence since the club's founding in 1887, Wycombe has never before risen this high in the EFL professional pyramid.

And that's barely half the story. Wycombe's got character, for sure, but they've got characters, as well. Manager Gareth Ainsworth looks for all the world like an aging rocker. Because he is. Ainsworth is the frontman for The Cold Blooded Hearts, and rescheduled several practices this season in order to make room in his schedule for gigs. On the sideline at Wembley yesterday, he sported a monochromatic jeans/shirt combo, unbuttoned insouciantly, over a pair of deep red boots covered in some kind of exotic animal skin. You'll dig this cover from the Hearts, recorded in 2016:

While Ainsworth cuts a unique figure in the modern professional coaching ranks, he barely ranks as Wycombe's most interesting cat. 38 year-old striker Adebayo Akinfenwa is known as the strongest footballer in the world. The veteran can play - he's scored 226 goals over 717 appearances in all competitions, toiling mostly at the lower levels of the English game. In that respect, he's a little like Crash Davis. Physically, though, he's nothing of the sort. Akinfenwa carries roughly 300 pounds on his 6'1" frame. He bears a resemblance - facially and physically - to former Viking John Randle. And he's still effective, scoring 10 goals in 36 games this season. He enjoyed the win:

Must-Watch Bolt of Joy: Adebayo Akinfenwa 38-year old cult hero wins promotion to the Championship (tier below Premier League) with miracle minnows Wycombe. Akinfenwa has been rejected and derided throughout his career. His words tonight will give you Life pic.twitter.com/OZ2xgEhlnA

— roger bennett (@rogbennett) July 13, 2020

At the final whistle, players from both teams fell to the ground, Wycombe in joyous relief and Oxford in gutted despair. In such moments we find humanity in its flawed, grasping range. That's gonna have to carry us through for a while, it seems.

Sunday Morning Grooves

Hope you all are enjoying the weather today. A monsoon has finally left the Northeast, leaving us a sunny, mid/high 80's day. I will hit the pool club early and then finally get a baseball game in for my 10 y/o tonight. I am his head coach and will work to avoid being ejected, while hoping I don't run across that crusty old ump (throw me a solid, karma gods).

I whipped up another good pork chop dinner on the grill last night. The pork chops were fresh and super thick-cut from the local slaughterhouse, so I decided to brine them. I had never brined pork chops before, and oh my goodness, it made for some juicy, tender chops.

As I was grilling last night, the sun was emerging and the humidity was fading. I had a homemade margarita with me while I was sitting near the grill. Things were looking up, if only for a minute, and I needed a tune to accompany the mood. I settled on Khruangbin. I came to them through the song below a few months ago. The song and the video are amazing. I love this band's sound for so many reasons. Hard to believe they are contemporary band from the Houston suburbs.

So yeah, the music fit. It was a stone groove, my man. I advise you to check them out if you like any combination of pop, funk, soul, Afrobeat or retro R&B. The NY Times had a nice deep dive on them a few weeks ago. Worth a read. Looks like it's available outside the pay wall here.

Look to Fat to Stay Safe (Education Friday)

Meat. Fuck yeah. I'm gonna raise Rob's blood pressure a bit by pasting a Wall Street Journal op-ed piece below. No, it's not prose that extols President Trump's South Dakota performance. It is a very different piece. It's nutritional research showing why a low-carb diet is more important than ever in the Age of Corona. The piece was originally published on May 30th. The author, Nina Teicholz, is an investigative journalist who has been an early, loud and mostly accurate advocate for a full reset on what we think we know about heart health, obesity and nutrition. She corrects and addresses much of the misinformation Americans receive from the FDA, the HHS, the AHA (American Heart Association) and other lobbyist-influenced government agencies tasked with keeping Americans healthy. She's a badass.

Her comments are extremely important now, given the federal government is finalizing its nutritional guidelines for the next five years. The legacy guidelines are, in my view, a travesty, and significant changes appear unlikely for citizens of the United States of Diabetes. The guidelines are formulated within the HHS, so yeah, we have Alex Azar ultimately making these decisions. Suboptimal.

Her website is here. Her NY Times/Lamestream Media best-selling book can be found here. Go put a big fat steak on the grill tonight in honor of Ms. Teicholz. Throw some olive oil-coated brussel sprouts in the oven. And wash it down with a dry red wine because, fuck it, it's Friday.

A Low-Carb Strategy for Fighting the Pandemic’s Toll

Federal dietary guidelines don’t reflect the evidence that eating fewer carbohydrates can help to reduce obesity, diabetes and heart disease

The coronavirus has added a brutal exclamation point to America’s pervasive ill health. Americans with obesity, diabetes, heart disease and other diet-related diseases are about three times more likely to suffer worsened outcomes from Covid-19, including death. Had we flattened the still-rising curves of these conditions, it’s quite possible that our fight against the virus would today look very different.

To combat this and future pandemics, we need to talk about not only the masks that go over our mouths but the food that goes into them. Next month, an expert committee will issue its advisory report on the federal government’s official dietary guidelines for the next five years. First published in 1980, the guidelines are meant to encourage healthy eating, but they have self-evidently failed to stem the ever-rising rates of obesity, diabetes and other chronic diseases in the U.S.

Pills and surgery can treat the symptoms of such conditions, but diet-related problems require diet-related solutions. The good news is that changes in diet can start to reverse these conditions in a matter of weeks. In one controlled trial at the University of Indiana involving 262 adults with Type 2 diabetes, 56% were able to reverse their diagnosis by following a very low-carbohydrate diet, with support from a mobile app, in just 10 weeks. The results of this continuing study have been sustained for two years, with more than half the study population remaining free of a diabetes diagnosis.

Other studies have found that dietary changes can rapidly and substantially improve cardiovascular risk factors, including conditions like hypertension that are major risk factors for worsened Covid-19 outcomes. A 2011 study in the journal Obesity on 300 clinic patients eating a very low-carbohydrate diet saw blood pressure quickly drop and remain low for years. And a 2014 trial on 148 subjects, funded by the National Institutes of Health, found a low-carb diet to be “more effective for weight loss and cardiovascular risk factor reduction” than a low-fat control diet at the end of the 1-year experiment.

Since 2018, the American Diabetes Association (ADA) and its European counterpart have considered a low-carb diet as one standard of care for people with Type 2 diabetes, in part because it lowers blood pressure and improves HDL, the “good” cholesterol. A 2019 ADA report stated that a low-carbohydrate diet “has demonstrated the most evidence for improving glycemia,” that is, for keeping blood sugars in check. This could be a crucial factor for avoiding Covid-19’s worst outcomes: In a paper just published in the journal Cell Metabolism, researchers found that among 7,337 Chinese patients diagnosed with Covid-19, well-controlled blood sugar was correlated with “markedly lower mortality” among those with Type 2 diabetes.

Yet the federal government’s dietary guidelines themselves stand in the way of making low-carb diets a viable option for the 60% of Americans with at least one chronic disease. That’s because the guidelines call for a diet high in grains, with more than 50% of calories coming from carbohydrates. The guidelines aren’t mere advice: They drive the National School Lunch Program, feeding programs for the elderly and the poor, and military food. Many patients learn about the guidelines from their doctors and dietitians.

To date, government experts overseeing the dietary guidelines have refused to publicly consider low-carbohydrate alternatives. The expert committee that drafted the current guidelines in 2015 conducted a formal review of the science on low-carbohydrate diets but didn’t publish their findings, as revealed by emails obtained through the Freedom of Information Act. By not publishing the low-carb analysis alongside the other diet reviews in the principal part of the report, low-carb diets were effectively excluded.

Harvard professor Frank Hu, a committee member, questioned this approach: “Given the popularity of [a low-carb] pattern and enormous amount of research that has been generated in the past several years, I was wondering if we should have a separate section on low-carb diets rather than burying it in the Methodology section.” He added, “People who are familiar with the field may complain that we gloss over recent evidence and don’t give low-carb diets…sufficient attention that they deserve.”

Looking back at the committee’s work, chair Barbara Millen says that it reported on an outside paper listing 15 dietary approaches “as options for effective weight loss,” including low-fat, Mediterranean-style and low-carb regimes. But “none of these dietary approaches was shown to be superior in terms of effective long-term weight loss and none was elaborated upon in specific detail in our 2015 report.”

Five years later, there has been far more research about low-carb diets, yet the current committee, whose report is due in June, stated recently that it couldn't find a single study with carbohydrates below 25% of calories. In response, an advocacy group called the Low-Carb Action Network published a list of 52 such trials. One reason that the committee missed these studies is that it decided to exclude all trials on weight loss, even though two-thirds of Americans are overweight or obese.

The reason is that the dietary guidelines focus solely on disease prevention in healthy people. Congress mandated in 1990 that the guidelines should address the “general public,” and in that year, most Americans did not have diet-related conditions. Now a majority of them do, yet federal officials have stated their reluctance to expand the scope of the guidelines.

The National Academies of Sciences, Engineering and Medicine (NASEM) warned, in a 2017 report mandated by Congress, that “it will…be essential for the [dietary guidelines]…to include all Americans whose health can benefit by improving their diet…. Without these changes, present and future dietary guidance will not be applicable to a large majority of the general population.”

I direct a nonprofit group that advocates for our national guidelines to be based on a rigorous scientific process—one that does not exclude evidence and employs a recognized methodology for reviewing the science, a system to manage bias and greater transparency. These are all reforms urged by the NASEM, yet so far they have not been adopted by the agencies overseeing our dietary guidelines.

In 2010, a group of retired generals published “Too Fat to Fight,” a report sounding the alarm on how diet-related conditions threaten America’s fitness on the battlefield. As we search for treatments and a vaccine for the coronavirus, we should also be talking about making Americans more fit to fight this and future pandemics at home.