A Championship Season

Summer officially arrived in the opening minutes of this fine Monday morning.

So I am taking the day off work in remembrance.

Although I must say it has felt like summer here where I live for the last month or so.

The barbecue has been going full blast since the last week of May.

The pool has been opened and in full use since the last week of May.

The baseball has been fast and furious now for several months.

And yesterday was the last day of Turtle Club little league t-ball baseball.

I guess they never heard the expression "boys of summer".

And yesterday – my little girls of summer – along with their other ten team mates – won their league championship.

The "Speedy Pinkies" win the 2010 Turtle Club League Championship for Senior Girls T-Ball
bottom (left to right) Kayla, Avery, Alannah, and Olivia
top (left to right)  Ashley-Rae, Breanna, Jordan, Kaitlin and Emily.

Both my daughters – Alannah and Ashley-Rae – played for the pink team – sponsored by a local Doctor Mary Buchanan – her name taking up two lines on the back of their shirts above the number. The classic Turtle Club logo across the front in black.

And the Brill Girls contributed their share of offense and defense in route to this championship. Of course I am a proud papa – so take my praise of their play with a grain of salt if you wish to.

I wouldn't blame you.

Who knew T-ball could be so exciting?

I guess you had to be there.

But there is a thrill to watching a child stand at the plate – bat in hand – lining it up with the ball – the bat a bit to heavy – the ball a bit to high – and the first couple of attempts resulting in a teeth tingling clank as the metal tee is knocked out from under the ball by the aluminum bat – only on the third try to see the youngster connect with the ball and send a line drive through the gap that results in the runner on second coming home to score the go-ahead run.

And there is a thrill to watching young children just learning how to field a ground ball cleanly and throw it on an arch to first – then to see the young first baseman extend their glove in a self defense motion – head leaned back out of the way with eyes half shut in anticipation of the ensuing pain they are expecting – only to see the surprise and victory on their faces when they realize the ball trapped itself neatly inside their little glove – with secondary care as to whether the little batter beat the throw to first base or not – the play was successfully completed!

It's surprisingly exciting – and even more so rewarding when it's your own child now catching and throwing with proficiency – after spending hours in the back yard tossing pop flies and ground balls to them – helping them learn the right way to hold their glove when a ball is above their shoulders or below – and insisting their throws be aimed at your chest.

The hardest part of the skill of catching a baseball to teach a young child – younger than the age of ten – is to not catch every ball with the glove pointing at the ground – how the glove is really an extension of their hand – and is something you wear – not that you hold onto in hopes that a ball will fall into it – you have to reach out to the ball flying in the air and snag it in your webbing – instead of hoping it will merely hit the mitt's webbing and lodge itself there for you.

Then there are the rules of the game – not all of which are learned in t-ball.

Rules like you have to tag the runner when there is no force at the base you are playing – and what scenarios constitutes a force out. Try explaining to a little catcher that they have to tag the runner at home because while there are runners at second and third – first base sits empty because the last play got the runner at first.

Rules like the batter is automatically out if you catch their batted ball in the air – before it touches the ground – and if the runners on base go to the next base, you can throw to the base they just ran from and force them out because the runner never tagged up.

In yesterday's game such a play did occur – the ball hit on a line at the pitcher – who in self defense held up their glove in protection – only to find it lodged in the gloves webbing – and the stands full of over-anxious parents screaming "throw it to first!" – which she did – and the first baseman indeed caught her throw – doubling up the little runner who did not understand she could not run.

In the dugout my youngest daughter said to the coach "my daddy says that's called a dubba play", to which the motherly coach smiled and said "your daddy's right, Ashley-Rae".

That made my day.

My Father's Day.

The little team of twelve little girls ages seven and eight – sporting pink jerseys and black shorts – sang chants from the dugout like "fans fans in the stands, when you gonna clap your hands?" and other sing song works of poetry worthy of a boot camp marching cadence caller.

Every parent in the stands rooting for every little girl on the field. But rooting just a little louder for their own little girl – and hollering instructions from behind the backstop as each comes to the plate.

"back up a bit"

"watch the ball"

"swing hard"

"straight through"

All while the coach at first or third base is pantomiming a swing – pretending to hold an imaginary bat – showing the movement they want the youngster to mimic at the plate.

Clink – as the tee falls to the ground and the ball falling as well.

Swoosh – as the bat swings over the ball – over compensating for the previously missed attempt – the young batters body uncoiling to the point near falling down.

Crack – as the bat meets the ball

Hooray! - as the fans explode in the celebration of the youngster's success

"Throw it to second!" – as the other team's fans instruct the little fielder where to throw the ball

And the resulting mix of cheers and groans as the play is either successfully completed with the runner out or the play fumbled and the runner found to be safe.

It's really quite magical.

But their favorite part is after the game – when they gather in a corner of the outfield – each team in their own corner – and the coolers containing the after game snacks come out – juice boxes or freezy pops and granola bars passed out – and they sit in the corner and share the experience of the game – and how fun it was – and how good they played – like a bunch of adults playing beer league softball sitting around a pitcher of draft beer in a pub after the Tuesday night league game.

But yesterday's game also included trophies – each little team lined up along the first and third baselines – names announced over the loudspeaker – and the awards distributed proudly to each little girl who ran up to take theirs – holding them up for the world to see – for the world to acknowledge them.

Acknowledge them as champions.

And then they had freezy pops.

Getting Under My Skin

I got a little rash on my ankle.

Okay, both ankles, and it's not really all that little.

I have had it for some time, but as summer grew closer and closer, I started getting nervous about what these ankles would look like with a pair flip flops on.

That and it itches like hell.

So I went to see the Good Doctor to get a referral to a dermatologist.

A month later, the Good Dermatologist gave me an appointment. Yet another month after that I found myself sitting in the Good Dermatologist's office waiting room.

I filled out the forms you must fill out on your first visit. I put down my name and address and checked the NO box beside each terrible disease they were curious about.

Then I sat. I sat and I sat and I sat. The room full of patients dwindled to a few in the matter of an hour.

On the wall read a sign:

OFFICE POLICY

You will be billed a $50.00 charge for not giving 24 hours notice before cancelling an appointment – or for simply not showing up for your appointment.

Office Policy.

Right.

On the other wall , another sign was posted.

OFFICE POLICY

If you are in a grouchy or irritable mood, we will charge you a $10.00 fee just for putting up with you.

I think it was supposed to be a joke. But the first sign dispelled the humor in the second sign.

"Be nice, be nice, be nice be nice…", I repeated to myself. My patience eroded after the first hour had passed.

I walked over to the magazine rack on picked a periodical from last summer – and an article about how historians portray the historic aspects of his life. It was very interesting discussing how the historians have so much trouble finding other credible historic references to the life of Jesus of Nazareth other than the New Testament.

The article went on to discuss the observations of one historian actually found Jesus' name on a tax roll, from a village he was in that was not a part of the stories of his life recorded in The Holy Bible. It really became interesting as he was being interviewed in by another historian who claimed the Bible was indeed the only reference needed to document this mans life and pointed to other historic figures that had been credibly certified to have lived based on the writings in other books and so to close his point he ….

"Mr Brill?", said a nice feminine voice – awaking me from my thought and contemplation.

Finally a nice nurse lady came and apologized for my wait.

As I tried to clear my thoughts to remember why I was there, it became clear to me that my right leg had fallen asleep. I limped on the tingly extremety – dragging it across the floor until it finally came back to life again.

The nice nurse lady led me into an examination room, told me the Good Dermatologist would see me shortly, and closed the door behind her.

And in this room I sat and sat and sat. And I sat some more.

I left the magazine out in the waiting room.

My patience was clearly at its bottom line on the gauge.

Finally, the door opened and in came the Good Dermatologist.

He was a shorter sized man, squatty but athletically built. He was wearing a golf shirt most likely bought in a pro shop earlier that morning. His forearms were strong and very tan, but his left hand was pasty white –

most likely because of the golf glove he was wearing.

"Mr. Brill?", he smiled and stuck out his hand.

"Nice to meet you", I said through a forced smile.

The pleasantries dispensed, I took off my shoes and socks to show him my wretched ankles. He looked at them.

"That's nothing but a little eczema", he said, and he spun around to write on a prescription pad.

"I assume you have a drug plan", he asked. Somehow he knew I worked for a health benefits company in town. I didn't tell him.

"Yes, yes I do…", I answered but was interrupted.

The good doctor then started complaining about my employer and all the forms we make him fill out to get new topical crèmes accepted as benefits, and it was turning into a rant on his part.

"Excuse me …" I tried to interrupt – but he just kept on going …

"Excuse me!", I said a little louder, my complete absence of patience now apparent in my voice.

"Our policies are in place to ensure that only proven and tested procedures are used in the treatment of our plan members", I said, taking the simple script for an eczema curing cream from the Good Dermatologists hands.

And he started in again….

"I must let you know that I have a policy!", I stopped him again. "My policy – much like those you posted in your waiting room, is that I will send you a bill for $25.00 for making me sit here and listen to you bitch about my employer."

He smiled at my joke.

But I wasn't really joking.

As he sat there smiling, I simply looked into his eyes and I raised my eyebrows high.

"Uh … oh … well, you use this crème three times a day, and remember to wrap it up …"

And I thanked the Good Dermatologist and left his office.

I have been using the crème for the last two weeks now. And its working a little bit.

But I still have the rash.

And it still itches like hell.

And I never did collect my twenty-five dollars.

Dreaming Of Baseball Past And Watching Baseball’s Future

I had a birthday this last week.

I'm not one much for birthdays, especially now that I am drawing so close to the age of fifty.

Nearly half a century.

How the hell did that happen?

I can still find comfort in the fact that I am not fifty yet.

I still feel like I am twenty six.

At least my mind thinks my body is still twenty six.

Last night I had a dream that I was playing baseball.

I was the shortstop.

With a man on third and only one out in a tied game - a pop fly was hit over my head.

A Texas leaguer. A high blooper destined to fall in that no man zone in left center field - too shallow for the outfielder to catch. A dying quail.

It was up to me.

I turned my body to sprint out under the ball – my eyes never losing sight of that red threaded white orb that hung in the air for what seemed like minutes as I stayed underneath it in full sprint.

A smooth gaited sprint as I floated over the ground.

It was going to fall just out of reach, but I extended my glove as far back as I could reach … and nabbed it in the webbing of the mitt.

"Got it!"

The man on third took off for home – tagging up to score the winning run. But my body was still moving to the outfield.

I ducked my shoulder and rolled on the ground to stop – the momentum of the roll brought me back to my feet, my back foot planted as I threw the ball on a rope to the catcher poised at the plate waiting for my throw – and I hit the center of that catcher's mitt – just in time for him to tag the barreling runner out – as the runner slammed into the catcher they both went flying.

The umpire waited for the dust to clear – the catcher had the ball – raised in the air in his mitt.

"OUT!" screamed the imaginary man in black. His fist pumped back with his thumb extended into the air.

I woke up just as my imaginary team mates were high fiving me and patting me on the back for the highlight reel worthy play.

A wonderful dream. A great game. "When was I up? I bet I can hit this imaginary pitcher I haven't seen yet".

"Maybe I'm on deck?"

One voice in the stands was louder than the others. A familiar voice that sounded as excited as I was at that moment … "who is that?"

"Daddy!", screamed Ashley-Rae – quite real and standing in the middle of our bedroom. "You gotta get up, we got our first game this morning!"

Now it's my girl's turn to make the plays I can only dream about making again.

And this year both my daughters are on the same team, much to my eldest – Alannah's – chagrin. Ashley-Rae moved up to Alannah's league this year.

And after three years playing Turtle Club softball, they love it even more.

What more could I ask for?

Yesterday was opening day at the Turtle Club. A big parade marched all the teams that the Turtle Club fields through our little town of Lasalle. Fire trucks and sirens – people lining the streets to wave at the kids marching in their various uniforms of greens and yellows – marching behind the banners of their leagues – with the Turtle Club mascot "Sam" (I think) a huge green turtle version of the San Diego Chicken marching along waving to everyone and holding the hands of various little players along the way.

The Turtle Club is a great organization.

At the club, all the teams gathered on the center showcase diamond - # 1 – lining the infield base bath. Select players held the flags of our country, our province, our city and our club. There were banners showing the major accomplishments of last season proudly carried by the players who earned them.

Provincial, and federal representatives of government were all there for face time … "I bring greetings from our honorable Prime Minister …" said our local Member of Parliament Jeff Watson.

But after all that nonsense was done – the leaders of Turtle Club turned their attention to the great awards of the teams from last year.

The most notable was the award to one of the boy's baseball teams – who won the Ontario Championships last year, and made it to the final game of the Canadian championships … three outs away from going to the Little League World Series in Williamsport Pennsylvania.

So close.

So great.

And the signs around the Turtle Club line the buildings and fences – listing the numerous teams of each season – for decades past – fifty two years of legacy – denoting the players on teams who won district, provincial, and national championships. So many of these placards of honors that finding a place for this year's addition will be difficult.

And there with their team at the short stop position on the infield – stood my little girls – watching but not completely understanding the immenseness of this legacy being presented before them. But looking poised – waiting for their turn to achieve great things for the Turtle Club … when their turn comes.

Ashley-Rae's shout brought me out of my dream and back into that half-wake understanding of reality.

"Okay", I said almost cheerily.

I lifted my knees in the air – rolled to the edge of the bed and sprang out on my feet with a perfect landing that even a Russian gymnastics judge would have given me a perfect ten.

"I still got it", I thought to myself.

When we arrived at the ball park – the grounds were empty. Not a soul was there.

And it was wet.

I hadn't noticed until that moment that there must have been a big rainstorm last night.

I pulled out my iPhone and looked at the Turtle Club web page. There in big green print sat our answer to the question "where is everybody?"

"PARK IS CLOSED – DUE TO RAIN"

The girls were looking over my shoulder from the back seat of the jeep.

"That sucks", said Ashley-Rae.

"Don't say that", I corrected her.

Alannah sobbed: "But I was really looking forward to this game".

I turned the jeep around and headed back around the corner to our house.

Ashley-Rae was right.

That sucked.

And it makes me feel so proud that they both wanted to play so badly.

The Masters … Tiger’s First Shot At Redemption

Augusta National

It's Masters week again.

This is truly my favorite sporting event of the year.

Augusta National Golf Course is my favorite sporting venue.

Bobby Jones, the amateur golfer of the early 20^th century who won the grand slam and never earned a dime in the process as a golfer; the founder of Augusta National and the originator of the Masters tournament - is to me, the most inspirational sporting figure the world has to offer.

And Tiger Woods is back. No longer an inspiration.

Let me state this clearly. Let me make this plain and inconveniently clear.

"I am a Tiger Woods fan".

I was before this debacle, and I am today as he readies to play round one of the Masters tomorrow afternoon.

He is clearly the most talented golfer on the planet. As clear as when Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player to ever play the game. As clear as Wayne Gretzky was the greatest hockey player or Pelé the most brilliant footballer (soccer player) of all time.

My advice to anyone who will listen is that when someone is the best at anything – and they exhibit that skill in a venue for you to watch them do it – please watch them do it.

Do I condone the behavior that led to Tiger Woods fall from grace.

Goodness no.

But I am not qualified to judge other peoples personal behaviors.

Chairman Billy Payne

But when Augusta National's Chairman Billy Payne spoke in his annual address to the media today as part of the Masters Tournament tradition – he spoke the words I wish I could say to Tiger - if it were my place to do so.

"It is simply not the degree of his conduct that is so egregious here, it is the fact that he disappointed all of us, and more importantly, our kids and our grandkids. Our hero did not live up to the expectations of the role model we saw for our children."

Payne went on …

"Is there a way forward? I hope yes. I think yes," but certainly, his future will never again be measured only by his performance against par; but measured by the sincerity of his efforts to change."

"I hope he now realizes that every kid he passes on the course wants his swing, but would settle for his smile."

I have a friend at work who told me the story of travelling over to the Buick Open last fall with a young nephew. As he tells the story, they got to the course – Warwick Hills in Grand Blanc, Michigan very early. Tiger Woods was practicing his putting on the practice green.

My friend approached Woods to ask if he would sign an autograph or have a picture taken with the young boy. No one else was around. Tiger looked past my friend, and simply said:

"I'm not doing that today".

End of story.

You might be justified in saying my friend intruded on Tigers private practice time. But really, how inconvenienced was he. Would it have been a great sacrifice to pause for a second to accommodate a fan and a young boy who idolized him as a hero.

As I see it – from very far away – but after great consideration – I believe that Tiger Woods went through a transformation. He went from a little boy who wanted to be great – to a human corporation founded on the basis of greatness.

And corporations have to succeed.

The person Tiger Woods became was the same selfish executive leaders we have seen recently exposed for their greed - like ENRON CEO Kenneth May. Only Tiger's greed was realized as lust.

There's not one of us alive that wouldn't want a second chance to prove themselves.

Not on the golf course … but as a person.

And while it's easy to want to see the great ones fall to Earth after being held up so high, think that you can be the better person for once ...

... better than Tiger Woods …

... and a allow Tiger his second chance to prove to you that he is indeed once again a human being, and no longer the tyrannical self-absorbed womanizing sexual deviant he was exposed to be over the last five months.

Imagine that, if it was you, your worst demons and most embarrassing intimacies published and fodder for gossip, convicted without a word in your own defence (not that he has a defence) – would you deal with it nearly with nearly the poise he has shown?

At least when he was visible to be seen ...
So this week, as this grand tournament unfolds on the most beautiful golf course in the world, the tournament most revered by players of this most beautiful game – and the camera cuts to Tiger Woods on the tee box, or fairway, or on the green leaning over a putt for birdie … I ask only that you consider Mr. Payne's closing words :

"We at Augusta hope and pray that our great champion will begin his new life here tomorrow in a positive, hopeful and constructive manner, but this time, with a significant difference from the past. This year, it will not be just for him, but for all of us who believe in second chances."

I hope Tiger wins the damn thing.

But first I hope Tiger revists the legend of Bobby Jones. And remembers what the Masters really means.

 (photo credit Reuters)
(Billy Payne Excerpts taken from TheGlobeAndMail.com article "Tiger Gets A Scolding")

Why We Have Bunnies And Colored Eggs At Easter

It Easter morning at our house.

It's so great to be able to sit on the back deck again, with my faithful black lab Suzy lying comfortably beside me, on such a beautiful Easter morning.

If you and your family celebrate Easter, then my most sincere Happy Easter to you.

If you don't celebrate Easter, then may you and your family have a wonderful beautiful day today.

I hope you have a better day than Suzy.

Suzy ate all of my eldest daughter Alannah's brightly colored and decorated Easter eggs last night – just before the girls were going to bed.

They had put them by the fireplace down in the family room – each in their own brightly colored Easter baskets. To entice the Easter Bunny to leave them lots of candy.

Poor Alannah was upset. She worked so hard on those eggs. They were really beautiful.

Poor Suzy. Not only did she get a good yelling at - she also got sick as a dog (literally!).

I never really understood our traditions of Easter.

It really makes very little sense.

Easter is supposed to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

But instead, it seems to celebrate the sudden appearance of chocolates and candies, shaped like bunnies and eggs – in brightly colored baskets – delivered by the Easter Bunny.

How in the world did this tradition arise?

So, as with all deep and profound questions like this that I wrestle with … I Googled it.

Google will tell me the answer. The wise and resourceful Google can find me answers to any question I ask.

So I posed the question in the Google search box – "Why do we have Easter Bunnies?"

The result was some twenty million links.

Good grief.

So I started going through the first couple pages.

The first twenty or so were simply responses of others like me confused as to how this transition from the sacrifice's of Jesus to the little furry bunny delivering colored eggs in a basket could happen?

But then I stumbled on an answer. And as read more, the answer remained consistent.

No I am no theologian – not by any stretch of the imagination. I am simply a layman – and not in search of any controversy.

But this answer seems to make the most sense.

There were pagan festivals before Christianity grew to be a dominant ideology in the world.

There was one at the fall equinox – which we now know as Halloween.

Another at the winter solstice – which we now know as Christmas.

And yet another at the spring equinox – which is now Easter.

The spring solstice celebrated the rebirth of the earth – the fertility of the world.

And there is nothing more fertile than bunnies.

The hare was - at that point in time - the symbol of fertility.

The eggs of chickens were decorated and given to children. An affordable gift given the economic circumstances of the time.

The trade routes of the world had not yet brought chocolate to Europe – so the hollowed out bunnies were something tacked on to the tradition later – replacing other sweet treats that the children of those days were given.

Probably by a guy named Cadbury or Hershey.


Those pagan cultures of old Europe maintained these cherished festivals – and translated Christmas and Easter to fit them as their belief's transitioned to follow those of the new Christian churches.

Most of that day could not read.

Fewer of them had access to a Bible.

The early Christians of Europe were as dependent on their priests as they were when the Pagan sects were prominent.

The priests of that day were as powerful as the politicians.

As the Roman civilization spread its influence throughout Europe, it brought with it the Roman variation of the Christian church.

But the population was not willing to give up their cherished Winter and Spring festivals – so they were "Christianized" – changing the meanings to suit the needs of the new church.

And so now for Easter, the dual traditions carry forward.

Brightly colored and decorated eggs are left for the children to enjoy – celebrating the rebirth of Jesus – resurrected from his tomb after being crucified on the cross – to atone for all of mankinds sins before God.

This now makes sense.

I don't know how appropriate it seems – but it seem to fit – as the cultures of the world for the most part follow the path of least resistance when a new path or direction is offered.

What priest of those early days would go to his people – after directing them through a period of fasting to represent sacrifice – only to tell them the SpringSolstice festivities are cancelled because they are pagan practices of sinners?

"Spring Solstice was fun. You want us to give up our fun?"

It's much easier to redefine the purpose of the festivities – now to celebrate Christ's rebirth – his ascension to sit at the right hand of Our Father.

"And yes, you can keep the bunnies and the brightly colored eggs".

"Well then, I'm in!", chanted the new followers of this new religious faith.

As well, as today, there were many who profited from these festivals. Most likely people of power that the Church needed to align with.

Churches cost money you know.

People are people. Then like today.

But for all this new understanding I have come to this morning, there is still one burning question I have not been able to answer, asked by my seven year old daughter Ashley-Rae:

"Daddy, how does the Easter Bunny get in the house? Does he come in like Santa, down the chimney? And why doesn't Suzy bark at him while he's here?"

"I don't know, darling. I just don't know".

Good grief.

Spring Cleaning

Spring indeed has sprung.

And this year, spring has inspired a little change in me.

Perhaps when you popped on this morning, you thought to yourself "hey … I'm in the wrong place? This doesn't look like head stuffing?"

It is indeed.

Welcome to the new look of head stuffing.

The old look was just getting … well … old.

Call it spring cleaning.

Call it not being satisfied with a layout that worked.

Call it the result of a masterful three years of procrastinating exalted to a new high.

Call it whatever you think appropriate.

But this new layout gives me the opportunity to do more with head stuffing as time goes on.

Like show off the friends of head stuffing a little better. You can get your facebook picture in there too if you like. Just become of a friend or fan of head stuffing on facebook by clicking the link at the top of the fan box.

Like show off my tweets on twitter a little clearer further down the right side.

Like spread things out a little neater.

Like making things a little bigger, and easier to read.

I am getting older you know.

But the tools are the same. They still work the same.

The archive tree on the left still unfolds by clicking the little arrows beside the month and year.

The links on the right still get you to Pat Caputo's best Detroit Sports Blog – and Open Book, and Ian Aspin's ReallyGoodThinking.

And all the old stories are still here.

But now it's just easier to see.

And hopefully easier to read.

But I did change the logo. Believe it or not, I have had this new version of the logo that you see above sitting in my clip art for the last two years.

It just never fit the old layout of head stuffing.

So what's next?

Well, as you can see across the top and bottom of the page, there are now links to let you jump quickly to my other two writing venues – Detroit Tiger Outsider and ProjecTalk. Currently these are completely separate blog venues – but I hope one day to make them tabs within head stuffing.

As well, there is a book I am working on. And for the last while, I have been very tempted to post excerpts of it here on head stuffing – just to get some feedback.

But that idea is a little more risky.

I might get my feelings hurt.

Who knows – as the internet is changing as fast as the movies in the theatre – head stuffing just might go 3D – Real 3D.

The hard part will be getting you the glasses before you get to the web page.

Who in their right mind wouldn't want to sit on my back veranda by the pool with me and my faithful black lab Suzy and read the latest head stuffing post with a warm cup of coffee and watch Suzy chase down Fluffy the rogue squirrel.

Okay, that one might be a ways off.

But odder things have come to fruition.

Spring is indeed a time for change.

And head stuffing really needed some change.

So we opened up the windows and the doors – and we left the stagnant old layout blow out with the rest of the dust and stale air.

And as a result, we have a squeaky clean new place to hang out.

I really hope you like it.

And thanks again so much for coming by.

Since you're here, could you grab me another cup of coffee … and maybe a dog-treat for Suzy?

Shifting Back To A New Center

My mornings always start with a cup of coffee.

Two creams and two sugars.

And my computers web browser.

I like to wake up by reading in my favorite website haunts – like Ian Aspin's ReallyGoodThinking and Pat Caputo's Open Book Sports Blog. Both are very talented content providers – sharing their expertise with me freely.

I get my updates on my friends on facebook. I see what the people I find interesting on twitter have to say.

And then I jump to the local papers headlines to see what's happening around town.

Funny, because the local paper is usually sitting on my front porch as I log into the online version.

Then I jump into Pat Caputo's blog to see what he is talking about.

I check my emails and see if I have any comments on my head stuffing blogs.

Then I grab another coffee and I get ready for my day.

This morning ritual of checking my computer for what's new in the world hasn't really changed much over the last decade – except perhaps for what I'm reading.

It used to be that I checked my emails, and any news I subscribed to.

It used to take about tem minutes. Then I'd go get the paper and another cup of coffee.

Now it takes about three quarters of an hour. My coffee far from warm when I'm done.

Now before I get to work, I have a fair idea of how my friends are. What the trend of the day is – and perhaps even gain a little inspiration to start the day with.

Times are changing.

Over the last week, I have noticed that I actually just grab my iPhone to do all this. But it's just not as comfortable reading from that tiny screen yet. Convenient yes, but comfortable? No.

If you're reading this, most likely your way of getting up to speed with your own version of the daily planet happenings is very similar to mine. Perhaps the when and where is the only difference.

The shift has begun. For some this ritual is brand new.

The decade before this one found me sitting on the living room couch with my cup of coffee, getting my news from the television morning news, the paper open on the couch beside me.

The morning news is still on the television – available for me to check. And the paper still comes to the house – mostly for the ad flyers my wife needs to plan our weekly budgeted purchases.

My television now has some thousand channels available to be watched – news stations designed by program directors to feed me what I need to know by my interest in business, finance, or political perspective. But I don't use that. I get the news I am interested in online – and in the order I want to absorb it.

In fact now, before I even hit the shower, before I even lay the cereal bowls out for the girls to get their morning started – I know that an old buddy in Atlanta is participating in a fishing derby on Lake Lanier, and that another friend in Miami is off to do a photo-shoot in some beautiful location in Miami, and yet another friend just took off in a plane to another destination for work, or vacation.

That's worthy news – to me.

They may include photos –or a video – to let me share the experience.

I can't get that from the television's morning news show.

The television wants to tell me about what's happening with people I don't know. Paris Hilton's dog, or Brittany Spears boyfriend, or who from American Idol is favored to win. Somebody must be interested in that stuff – but that somebody isn't me.

I do still find great value in Sports Center on the sport network. I'm interested in that. But I can get more information in the time of my morning coffee consumption by checking for specific Detroit Tigers bloggers and stats sites.

I guess the shift I am talking about – as I see it anyway – is in how I can streamline my approach to getting up to speed.

But the downside is that sometimes I miss out on interesting items that occur outside peripheral vision of my little pinholes of interest.

You can't find out about things you don't know about by simply typing "What's interesting to me?" into a Google search box.

There are some out there that complain that we are passing by the services of the truly talented in the world by approaching this new media in the way that I am describing. That we are not reading the best news content – or not reading the best authors – or not being entertained by the best entertainers.

Their argument is that this new media allows mediocre content to take away the audience away from the truly talented content producers.

As I see it, if your truly talented – people will find you – on whatever media you are deploying your service – and they will show their appreciation to you by loyally returning for more of whatever it is that you are dishing out. Until what you dish out no longer is interesting.

Then they are off to the next interesting person.

Just like the holder of the television's remote control.

There are no more the medias controlled only by the big three networks – giving you only what they feel will get the biggest viewing audience – fitting their programming to best match the median interests of their audience.

However …

That being said, one could look at facebook and twitter as the biggest of the two new media networks – and you are trapped only seeing information on these sites in the means they have determined the common median of their audience wants to see it.

Perhaps the shift is simply that the pendulum is swinging back to the middle – with Facebook and Twitter taking the place of the major television networks?

You only get a person's recent status – on twitter limited to one hundred and forty characters or less. On facebook you have to filter out the constant updates as to how your friends are doing playing the facebook games like Mafia Wars or whatever.

Whatever?

Maybe the big shift is just back to whatever best pleases the median interests of the public?

But in a much more specific way? Only from who you want to hear from.

Sometimes change seems to occur to make things more like they used to be.

Remembering Yer Man’s on St. Patrick’s Day

I think it is true that on St. Patrick's Day, everyone is a little Irish.

To some it's a day to wear green and to adorn yourself with shamrocks.

To others it's a day of parades and saying things like "Top o' the morning".

But to most of us, it's a day to enjoy a pint of beer or a sip of whiskey with good friends – gathering in a place to laugh and have a good crack – perhaps singing the old Irish songs.

To me it's all of these things – but more so a time to remember fantastic friendships from the past – and miss some fantastic friends of the present.

It wasn't until living in London, Ontario that I truly partook in St. Patrick's Day festivities.

At the time – in the late 1980's and early '90's – I found my circle of friends to be of various descents from the British Isles. From London and Wales, Glasgow, Dublin, and Belfast.

All great friends. Never an ugly word between them.

One of this circle opened an Irish Pub in town. It was called "Yer Man's" – and as Irish a pub in Canada you would find. It was there I learned to drink – and even pour – a proper pint Guinness. A meticulous endeavor requiring patience and a steady hand. Complete with a shamrock drawn in the frothy head.

And it was there that I learned that I actually preferred Harp – a lighter lager – to Guinness. I still have a pint whenever I come across a place that serves it – regardless of the reason.

My fantasy is to one day to always have a keg of Harp in stock and on tap behind my own little bar. Perhaps if my book is successful … some day.

The pub was a grand place indeed – run by Jimmy King. All of our friends gathered there. And the nights were full of telling jokes (or having a crack) – playing darts and playing pool.

We would gather there every night after work – and every weekend after a round of golf. Jimmy and his staff made us feel like the place was ours. It was the place where as you walked in the door, a pint of your favorite was already drawn for you and sitting on the bar – waiting for you. And the whole room would say "Hey Fred!" as you walked in.

I don't even get that at home.

Some of the best nights of my life were spent at Yer Man's – sipping a pint and cracking jokes with my mates. Yes, I said "mates" – because at Yer Man's – you felt Irish.

There was Kevin Powers – a Welshman who owned Power Printing – about the nicest guy you could ever meet – and funnier than anything one you will see on television.

And Hughie Edwards – a pipefitter from London, England - nearing retirement at the time – who took me aside when my Father passed away and told me "If you ever need a Da to talk to boy, come see me …".

The kindest words ever said to me through that trying time.

And Bobby Hill – another English Londoner who owned a tool and die shop in town – as good a guy as you'll meet – with a stutter that we all impersonated to give him a hard time.

We would golf most weekend mornings, riding to the course in Bob's van – and once the round was over – off to Yer Man's we would go – to spend the afternoon – which often turned into evenings.

On St. Patrick's Day each year – Yer Man's would pack to the brim. An Irish band would come in and play the standards – and each of us always had a space reserved for us at the bar. The whole place would be signing – the pints would be sloshing, and the jokes would be cracking wise.

I really loved that place. And Annie King was like an Aunt to me. Jimmy like a cousin.

One day a very pretty girl came in to apply for a job behind the bar. Patsy was probably the most beautiful girl I ever saw. In the end, Patsy and Jimmy married – but in the path leading up to that event, I did not know this, and I did my feeble best to win her affection.

When I did find out about the two of them, I felt like a real idiot.

I was really embarrassed.

I stopped going to Yer Man's – which was a mistake on my part. No one there thought any the less of me.

But when I feel embarrassed – my rationale goes out the window.

As the days turned into years – I stopped going to Yer Man's. But years later, I heard they had moved to a new location.

I stopped by one night – after work – thinking it would be just like the old days.

But the new location was much darker.

And the new crowd was full of unfamiliar faces.

There was no Kevin or Bobby or Hewy. I didn't know anybody.

But Patsy was there – running the place by herself that night. And when I came in – only one voice this time said "Hey Fred!" – and it was Patsy.

She introduced me to the new bunch of regulars as a "very important patron of the past". And she made me feel special on that visit.

She drew me a pint of Harp without my even asking. And she gave it to me on the house. And I sat on the end of the bar while Patsy filled me in on all that had happened with she and Jimmy since I last saw them.

I tried to talk to some of the new regulars – but I couldn't seem to spark much interest in conversation. I got up and played a game of pool by myself – expecting someone to drop a quarter on the table to challenge me – but no takers presented themselves.

So I sat and drank another pint of Harp, and thought to myself about how true it is that while time may heal many wounds – time also stands still for no one.

Or no place.

Not even Yer Man's.

I miss Yer Man's and the days of old with all my mates. And I wonder how they are. Are they even still alive.

Ashamed in myself for not even keeping touch after nearly twenty years have elapsed since seeing them last.

And fifteen years since my last visit to Yer Man's that one night.

It hits me hardest every St. Patrick's Day, how much I loved that old place – and that old gang of friends.

It's hard to explain sometimes.

But Yer Man's was one of the most important places in my journey through life.

I hope this St. Patrick's Day – that you are enjoying the people in your life.

Sláinte!

My Truly Canadian Olympic Games Moment

I have been really enjoying the Winter Olympics.

To the point of distraction.

Staying up far too late watching skiing and ski jumping and moguls and snowboarding and half pipe and speed skating and figure skating and dance skating and …

.. and curling

.. and hockey.

The one point of these Vancouver games that I anticipated was "how would they light the Olympic Torch?" – that big mammoth glorified gas fireplace that sits above the city for all to see for the duration of the game – only to be snuffed at the end with the remainder of the flame shipped back to Greece to be stored like Lord Stanley's Cup.

"Where would they put it?", I wondered.

"Why up in the mountains – on Whistler –so high it would shine down on all like the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles", I answered myself.

You should worry when you answer your own questions – or so they tell me. Especially me. I am usually giving myself bad information.

But my answer made perfect sense - to me.

"So how would they light it?", I countered myself again.

Well let's see.

In Atlanta – they had Muhammad Ali light it. That was a wonderful scene – the great Ali in heroic fashion mastering his challenges to ignite the flame.

Moving - In true American style.

In Barcelona they had an Archer stand at the bottom of the great arena – and the last runner of the torch lit the end of the Archer's arrow – and he shot it up into the sky – landing in the center of the caldron – and igniting the Olympic flame!

Legendary – in true Spanish flare!

In Beijing – the entire upper wall of the arena depicted scenes from all across China – and a runner ran all the way around the huge electronic banner and lit the flame at the end.

Honorable – in true Chinese tradition.

So how would Canada do it?

"I know, they could have a ski jump above the torch, and a ski-jumper slide down the great ramp – floating as only a ski-jumper can – and land inside the torch to ignite the flame - but who would we sacrifice at these games? You couldn't survive that, could you?"

But Vancouver trumped my expectations.

Vancouver selected Wayne Gretzky – the Great One – old 99 himself – to be the lighter of the torch.

The Great One was selected above others such as Terry Fox's mother – the young man who ran across Canada after losing a leg to Cancer – to raise awareness of Cancer across our entire Country – only succumb to it before he could finish his quest.

He is truly our greatest Canadian ever.

If Terry Fox were still with us – I would hope he would have had the honor.

"So what would the Great One do? Light a hockey puck on fire and shoot it into the torch? That would be really cool."

Nope.

Ya see, here is what they did.

They got a yellow pickup truck.

And they gave the Great One the torch – and they made him stand up in the back of the pick-up.

And then – in the pouring rainy mist that only Vancouver can muster year around – they made old ninety-nine hold that torch up and they drove him through downtown Vancouver – to the hidden location of the great Olympic Torch ...

(which weren't on no mountain at all - it was locked up tight downtown - so no one could snatch it)

... and they unlocked the gate so he could get in, and he walked over to the torch and lit it.

Ta-da!

In true humble and modest Canadian fashion.

Oh my.

I kept waiting for the pick-up truck to pull into a Tim Horton's donut shop to get an extra large double-double for the trip – or maybe stop at the beer store to grab a two-four of Labatt's or Molson's.

The Olympic Beer Run tradition would have been started right here in Canada.

Now that's Canadiana, baby!

I do love my country so very much. And in a way – I do think The Great One's lift in the back of a pick-up was a fitting tribute to our mighty land of hosers.

Bob and Doug McKenzie would have been prouder than punch.

And we all have another wonderful Olympic memory.

So for all the wondrous - and disastrous – things that have happened in these 2010 Olympic Games in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada …

The lighting of the torch is still the highlight of the games to me.

I plan to talk about if for a long, long time.

Check One Item Off Tiger’s To-Do List

Tiger came out of hiding today.

Tiger Woods has come out and read his speech and followed the coaching of his public relations people – looking around at the audience – meeting their eyes – looking into the camera – meeting the home viewers eyes – and did his best attempt at a sincere apology.

A quick glimpse of his Mum in the audience revealed a very sour faced Mrs. Woods.

What did it mean?

Honestly – it meant nothing. It was an item on a to-do list. An agenda item that can now be marked completed.

A line item in a project plan on the critical path to Tiger's return to golf.

Was it successful?

It didn't have to be.

It merely had to be done.

He pulled it off without a smile.

He nailed the landing like a Russian figure skater at the Winter Olympics landing a quadruple sow-cow.

"Did anybody buy it?", he may very well have asked as he walked out of the building and got into a waiting helicopter to fly him back to his yacht called Sanctity.

"They didn't have to, Mr. Woods", would say the polished public relations assistant escorting him.

And he clicked the item completed on his blackberry calendars' list of agenda items.

It doesn't matter one little bit.

Tiger cheated on his wife. He cheated a lot. And to me, that is all between Tiger and his most beautiful wife Elin – a woman more beautiful and classy than any of the women he cheated on her with.

Stupid ass.

Will he do it again? Who knows. I don't need to know about it if he does.

Because while Tiger Woods has been away from the PGA Tour – the golf has stunk.

I have been an avid follower of the PGA for nearly thirty years now. From the end of Jack Nicklaus' dynasty in the 1980's to the present day.

And through the eighties and nineties I cheered for such lack luster personalities as Tom Watson, Tom Kite, Freddy Couples, Curtis Strange, Nick Price, and Ernie Els.

Only Greg Norman and Payne Stewart held any spark of personality. Both fairly colorful figures.

And John Daly. Everyone loves big John grip-it-and-rip-it Daly.

I remember being excited when Phil Mickelson came along – a young trickster of the short game setting up to put the golf world on its ear with his flop shots and stylish play around the green.

But then came Tiger. I watched him win all three of the U.S. Ameteurs in edge of the seat style and drama.

And then Tiger turned pro.

And then he won the Masters.

And then he won – good grief – a whole lot more than I care to research.

With excitement and drama and going for it – and pulling it off. Hooks around trees that then faded back after the wind caught it to make the shot in the shape of the letter S. On purpose.

And his name was Tiger.

And he was fun.

And he was cool.

And we thought he was as amazing a person as he was a golfer – albeit we were in denial and refused to acknowledge his thrown clubs and excessive cursing and rudeness at times to the fans.

Having lunch today – a good friend of mine told us the story of taking a young relative to the Buick Open. As he tells the story – it was 6:30 AM and Tiger was practicing putting on the green. My friend took his young nephew up to Tiger – when no one else was around – apologized for bothering him, and asked if Tiger would sign something for the boy.

"I'm not doing that today", said Tiger to my friend, and walked away. The young boy was crushed.

This was last summer. Before Tiger's world fell apart.

Would he have done that if a camera were there. Likely not.

So I think that it's fair to say that the persona of Tiger Woods is a fabricated one. Built to match and enhance the legend that his real skill has created.

Do I care?

No.

Okay, truth be told, I fell for his image. Hook line and sinker.

But shame on me for being so naïve. Like Gomer Pyle used to say:

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me".

Shazaam.

Now during this period of absence – PGA golf has just been incredibly boring. Even the PGA knew it was boring – creating hilarious ads when Tiger returned to the Tour last summer to show us they knew that we knew that the tour was boring without Tiger.

And Phil Mickelson got caught cheating – even worse so than Tiger – during this period. He was caught cheating on the golf course – carrying a now-illegal wedge because of the grooves – and he knew he was cheating.

Tiger never cheated on the golf course. He swore – and he threw tantrums – but he never cheated on the course.

So what's next on Tigers' agenda?

Well, I guess he has to finish his rehab.

Rehab? For sex addiction?

Okay, sure.

Then he has to come out and tell everyone he is a new man.

And say "I'm sorry again".

And face reporters.

And answer questions.

And then actually play in a tournament. But it won't be much a golf tournament if all that is talked about is "Tigers back".

I can imagine the broadcast.

" … how do you feel about Tiger Woods returning to the PGA tour?" the reporters will ask every tour player in the event,

"I think it sucks!" – will think the Tour pro - you will see it in their eyes.

"Oh it's wonderful … He's done so much for the game … It's great to have the number one player in the world back again" will say the tour pro – every tour pro – in the accent they speak in – and a bogus smile pasted to their face.

Except maybe Boo Weekly …

"I'm gonna ask him if I can borrow his little black book …", would say Boo.

But one thing's for certain.

When Tiger returns this time, the PGA won't be hyping it up with any funny ads.

Detroit Tigers Offseason - What The Hell Is Going On?

This story was originally posted as the first on my new blog "Tigers Baseball Outsider"

This has been a very confusing off season to say the least.

And it started that day in late September 2009 when once beloved Maglio Ordonez achieved enough at bats to trigger the option on a huge contract bonus of thirty three million of Tiger owner Mike Ilitch's hard earned dollars for the 2010 season.

After a lackluster three quarters of the 2009 season.

And even though Mags finished 2009 with a flourish, the Tigers finished 2009 with a flop.

I still shiver when I think of those last two games of the regular season. So I won't relive them for you. You remember them too.

Or that single game playoff against the Minnesota Twinkies in the dome from hell.

Have they torn that damn thing down yet?

And then the dominos – the repercussions of Mags contract option – started the dominos toppling.

We bid farewell to Placido Polanco as the stalwart and steadfast rock of the infield and master of the clutch hit was refused arbitration and allowed to move on to Phillidelphia.

And if that weren't unthinkable enough – Curtis Granderson – beloved star center fielder and all-around-good-guy destined to be the face of the franchise - is traded to the Yankees.

A kick in the groin to Tiger fans.

"The money just wasn't there to keep those guys", we are told.

Two new young minor leaguers are received for Granderson – Austin Jackson – a centerfielder that the Sporting News projected to be the rookie of the year in 2010, and Max Scherzer - a reasonable pitcher at best.

Scott Sizemore was decided to be brought up from AAA Toledo – only to break a bone in his ankle in an Arizona fall league game. He is still slated as I know it to be Placido's second base placebo replacement.

"Okay", we all thought, "This Mags contract option is costing us our big names and most beloved players … but we can carry on – there's no money and the team is moving into a younger state of mind."

That's when they signed Jose Valverde – a quality closer (to fill the vacancy of rollercoaster Tiger closer Fernando Rodney – who was also not offered arbitration) from Houston – for fourteen million dollars.

I thought Ilitch was pinching pennies this year?

I thought that's why we lost Granderson … and Polanco?

What the ….

Now, as I write this, the rumor mill is spewing the sour news that the Tigers are on the verge of signing Johnny "Curtis Granderson took my job" Damon to a two year fourteen million dollar contract also.

What is it with two years and fourteen million dollars contracts?

This leaves us to question why then did we lose Granderson and Polanco?

It couldn't have been the money?

It must have been a determination to go in a different direction. Not necessarily a young direction. Just in a direction without Granderson and Polanco?

Yet still we have Carlos Guillen in left? He doesn't want to play left field any more than Inge wanted to catch?

And we still have Brandon Inge – easily tied with Granderson and ace Justin Verlander as the most favourite Tigers.

And we still have Mags – without his head of curls – that once lopped off – reduced him to a mere shadow of his former power-hitting self – and the root of what we all thought the problem was.

We kept the weakest links on the roster – and we got rid of our stability leaders?

Oh, I know – only the players who flourished last season have trade value. But we got nothing for Placido, and we got unproven hopes in Austin Jackson for Curtis?

It just doesn't make sense. Not from the outside. Not from where I sit.

But the good news is that the Tigers are still in the American League Central Division. The weakest division in all of Major League Baseball.

So the Tigers still have a shot.

An outsiders shot … but a shot.

No matter my confusion, or disappointment, or frustration in trying to understand the void in rationale of this offseason, I will still root for those who wear the old English D. I will still listen to and watch every pitch on the radio or TV. I will still pump my fist when we win a close one, or utter profanities should we fail to pull one out in the bottom of the ninth with two men on and no outs.

Just like last year … when we led the AL Central from May 10^th to the single game playoff in that disgusting dome.

We still have a shot.

And remember … we weren't supposed to be any good at all in 2006.

And for certain … the Tigers aren't supposed to be anygood in 2010.

So we got a pretty good shot.

Albeit and outside one.

Turtle Club Baseball Is Back

Baseball started today.

The Turtle Club in LaSalle, Ontario started their winter clinics.

The Turtle Club has a great little setup in a gymnasium down the street from the famed Essex Golf and Country Club. There are five little workstations for throwing, ground ball and pop fly practice, and two batting stations.

Each of the thirty little girls in our session was eager to be there.

Faces smiling.

Trying hard.

And no one complaining to go home.

Baseballs bouncing on a gymnasium floor. Coaches standing with the kids helping them get their fingers right on the ball, stepping through to get leverage on the ball. Elbows raised and hands positioned on the handle of the bat to strike the waffle ball on the tee with force.

Balls bouncing off of heads in the pop fly station.

Balls being whipped at coaches in ground ball station.

It's wonderful.

In an icy cold January like this one, I need any hint of summer that I can get.

Sure, there is no smell of fresh cut diamond grass, or no red clay, or the chalk of the baselines yet.

Not yet.

But there is baseball, and baseball is alive in the hearts of my girls.

Alannah and Ashley-Rae did well. I was happy with how hard they were trying – and in how fgood they were doing. They were paying attention – not spinning around while waiting their turn – doing dance moves and chatting and giggling with their friends.

They cared.

That's all I can possibly ask.

You can't make a kid like baseball. They either like it or they don't.

And at least for this first practice, they liked baseball.

I know some of you may wonder why this means so much to me. But it does.

The Turtle Club is a fantastic organization, their facilities are just around the corner from our house, and most times when we go someplace, we drive right by it. And when we do we look down the laneway as we pass and we all remember how pretty it is there in the spring and summer – the green white and yellow colors of the parks and clubhouse – the old fashioned white scoreboards with numbers hung by hand in the squares.

The history there is grand. National titles and trips to the Little League World Series by Turtle Club teams.

It means something.

I want my daughters to grow up being a part of the Turtle Club. To have the experience with them of being a part of such an organization while they grow up. To contribute to such an organization – to care about something and give back to it.

To learn sportsmanship and team work.

And maybe even learn some leadership skills – if the opportunities present themselves.

Opportunities always present themselves.

Last year I took a stab at becoming a Turtle Club coach. But they didn't seem to think my application and references were up to their standards. And that was ok. So I helped out where I could.

But this isn't about me. I'm happy to assist however they ask me to.

So here we sit on the last day of January – the first day of Turtle Club baseball. And I am so delighted that it started on such a fantastic note.

Most other little kids in Canada right now are wrapped up in hockey or ringette right now. Both are fantastic sports in their own rite. Both teach the exact same things – but in different ways.

But to me there is something special about baseball, and what it can offer a little kid. And what a little kid can learn from learning such a diverse set of skills.

So for this moment I am savoring how positive 2010 baseball started out this morning.

And I think the best is yet to come.

Suddenly January doesn't feel so cold anymore.

Suddenly spring doesn't feel so far away.

The Turtle Club is playing baseball again.

Even if it is inside a gymnasium.

Why I Write - Revisited

As time goes by, our goals and objectives are bound to evolve.

Mine certainly have.

I still long to strive to reach my potential as an IT professional. That goal remains unchanged. And I'm not done yet. My commitment is strong.

In fact, tomorrow I have my performance review first thing in the morning. So I have spent the evening with the standard form – answering the questions to the best of my ability – unbiased but still intentionally putting my best foot forward.

That's how it works, right?

But as I reached the exercise of examining my goals and objectives, my mind started to wander.

And I went through some of my favorite headstuffing posts – and I started once again to reconsider my goals and objectives for headstuffing.

Back in April of 2008, I wrote a post called "Why I Write". I liked this post so much that I decided to put a link on the side bar under my profile – and use that as my statement to the world … my justification if you will … why headstuffing exists.

But that was almost two years ago.

And this performance review has me in mind of reflection.

So why do I write headstuffing now in 2010?

I still stand behind my original mission statement that I am writing these stories about our life for my daughters so "they can remember us as we are now, for as long as I keep writing these stories – as long as I keep documenting our life – and they will be use these stories to keep us alive in their hearts".

But there is more now.

No, not to make money off my Google Ads. I still have yet to see a penny from my Google Ads.

I have come to realize that I really enjoy writing stories that touch people. That inspire people. That make people laugh and cry.

And think.

If I can make you laugh and think at the same time, I have reached my objective with my story.

I'd just as soon you not cry. There is enough in the world to make a person cry. I don't want to add to it.

And my goal to strive for? To achieve should I consistently meet my writing objectives of touching you with laughter and thought?

Easy.

I want to do this for a living … my retirement profession.

After I am done with the IT profession, or after the IT profession is done with me.

I want to write stories like the sideline columns my favorite author and hero Lewis Grizzard used to write.

People used to pay for the whole Atlanta Constitution just to read Lewis Grizzard's column – running down the left side of an inside page in the front section – about an inch wide the length of the page. And then leave the paper for the next person to pick up – likely only to read Grizzard's column as well.

A grandiose goal to be sure.

But we gotta dream. And why not make a goal out of dream.

But I don't charge for headstuffing. It's just a blog.

And take it from me, if you go telling people that you write a blog, the eyes roll back in their head, and you can see your credibility fall from right off the edge of the world by the smirk of the smile on their face.

But to me, headstuffing isn't a blog.

It's a collection of stories. My stories.

My heart.

My soul.

I consider headstuffing being referred to as a blog is an insult. Even though you and I both know that a web site with posts archived like this is really just … choke … a blog.

But I want these stories to be read. I hope that these stories are enjoyed. And I desperately want the writing that goes into these stories to be respected.

Would it be great to make a living off these stories? Of course it would be.

But for right now, this is the venue that I have to share with you.

And I do love headstuffing. It is my passion.

Silly eh?

Perhaps.

But it's also my legacy – for my little girls to really know their Daddy and remember our family by.

And it's my only way to share with the world what I have to offer.

All I have to offer.

Google Ads? I still don't need no stinking Google Ads!

But I do love your comments. And I do love your feedback.

So since I'm sharing with you, why not share a bit back with me by sharing your opinion by leaving a comment.

And your still welcome to click a Google Ad or two while you're here.

Our Hearts Go Out To Haiti

The scene in Haiti is horrific.

What Haiti is experiencing right now is so enormous in scale that our strongest descriptive words like horrific and insurmountable and tragedy and incomprehensible – seem meager and unqualified to describe it.

Like the recent catastrophe in China was. As was the catastrophe in Pakistan.

But the plates that comprise our planet earth are held together by only their sheer weight and the gravity of the earth spinning on its axis.

When a poor population has to make shelters and structures, they do not have the luxury of using state of the art engineering principles to survive the incredible force of a quaking earth.

Haiti just fought off two hurricanes – those structures withstood them.

The 7.0 earthquake's epicenter was only 25 kilometers away from the Port-au-Prince.

Cement structures crumbled and fell down on top of those who occupy them. With in an instant a huge portion of the population were expired. It will be sometime until we find out how many.

The majority of the remaining population is now homeless, without shelter or facilities or services.

The structures fall down and cover the roads the roads impeding the ability to get into the most densely destroyed area.

Earthquakes don't kill people – poorly constructed structures that crumble in earthquakes kill people.

Such an overwhelming catastrophe.

And as typically happens – humankind shows its best side.

I'm impressed with how hard the Americans are trying to help.

I'm impressed with how quickly the U.N forces pulled together to jump right in to do … something.

My God, where do you start?

I am impressed with the Haitian people who managed not to be crushed immediately getting to work to find those that were.

Impressed is not a grand enough term.

Right now it's a horrific exercise in rubble removal to look for survivors – and the sorrowful task of recovering the bodies. And the insurmountably urgent task of determining what to do with those bodies. Bodies of fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and friends and loved ones – not just bodies – but the bodies of those that you love.

The heartbreak.

Tons and tons of debris must be removed to find those trapped underneath. But how do you move such mass quickly? Where do you put it after you remove it? How do you get machinery in there to move it? And how do you move it so gently as to not crush anyone who might somehow still be alive in there?

But also - as such tragedies unfold – you not only see the greatness of the human spirit, but also the despicable.

The looting has started. Chaos is looming like a finely balanced tight rope walker on a windy day. The dark side of humankind arises as well.

It's not constrained to only the Haitian's. The worst comes from the lands looking on.

The "elite" news journalists covering this event, and then I only mean the elite faces – who are taking this opportunity to be videoed holding the hand of a screaming boy in agony because his body is crushed and his parents are killed – only to add this to their portfolio of events covered to qualify for the elite status of journalists – then off to the next opportunity for advantageous video.

The Katie Courics and the Cooper Andersons. They should be banned from ever going such places. They add no further insight by their presence.

Ego. The side of the fifth estate that is journalism that I despise.

Then there are the political winds that swirl up from such catastrophes are as well despicable. Pat Robertson – the evangelist politico wannabe inferring the Haitians deserve this tragedy as their payment to a deal made with the devil. Or Rush Limbaugh declaring the democratic right and specifically Obama – using this event for political positioning.

If there was ever a pot calling a kettle black …

No help – just political posturing. Yes, I believe Robertson is more a political opportunist than a man of the holy word. The proof spews out in his words of contempt.

As well, we now must also be aware of the scammers trying to fool the rest of the world into giving money to phony aid programs.

But why is such a place as Haiti – so geographically positioned and so culturally rich – so poverty stricken to begin with?

History unveils the facts that Haiti's poverty is the result of the French forcing the re-payment of 70 million francs - a bill that in today's dollars would have been over twenty one billion dollars – as the remaining debt owed by Haitian freed slaves after succeeding in their battle for independence. The same era of time during the years of America's Deal with the French for the Louisiana Purchase.

In those days – Haiti was an incredibly rich and profitable nation as a shipping hub and exporter of tropical goods. But the high price of this bill allowed little left over to build a proper infrastructure. This problem further accentuated by multiple reigns of ruthless and greedy dictators – scraping the profits remaining to build palaces and fund their extravagant lifestyles.

But that is history. Those people are no longer around to blame or to hold accountable.

The task ahead of Haiti is enormous. They cannot solve this problem alone. They need to world to help.

What can we do?

What can we – people like me – people most likely like you – the common person in the landscape of the world – do?

We can give money.

We can't go to Haiti and start removing rubble. We can't go to Haiti and start performing medical aid. We can't go to Haiti and cook meals in person. We can't go there to physically assist in this disaster.

We would be in the way.

So we can give money.

As you sit this moment and read my words on your monitor or LCD screen or cell phone – please think about how incredibly lucky that you are that you are not going through this horrific tragedy. And think about how you would feel if it was you, or someone you loved deeply, trapped under rubble still – alive or dead – and how helpless you would feel not being able to do anything.

Then do something.

Do what you can do.

Send money.

Send a thousand dollars, or a hundred dollars, or ten dollars.

Anything will help.

Please visit http://www.redcross.org/ today and determine how best you can assist.

My biggest regret in writing this post is that I wrote it five days too late.

Face Down In Four Feet Of Snow

It's weird sometimes how ideas come to you.

This morning I was getting for ready work, and while showering, I started making up this song.

Okay – pretend I said I made it up shoveling the driveway – that's a better mental image. Sorry.

It's been in my head all day – and it had a tune like an old Tennessee bluegrass mountain song with banjos and fiddles – I don't know why. But since I can't write music and you surely do not want to here me sing, let me share the verses with you in the form of a poem.

Again, I have no idea why I made this up.

But it sure was fun. I hope you like it.

Feel free to sing it in the shower.

Face Down In Four Feet Of Snow

Old Jebs been dead since two weeks ago

I gotta go bury Jeb in four feet of snow

Jeb died after livin a pretty good life

Had good children and he had a good wife

We come up north to go lookin for gold

But rocks is all we found, if the truth be told

Two weeks ago when we got this big snow

Jeb left the cabin cause he really had to go

I found Jeb an hour later, he was frozen up stiff

With his old worn boots stickin out a snow drift

I found Jeb dead, face down out in the snow

It was horrible dang cold – 'bout fifteen below

So I dragged Jeb in the cabin, no place else to go

He's been here since cause we got this snow

I wrote a letter to his children and a letter to his wife

Explaining best I can that Jeb loved his life

Explaining to them about not finding any gold

Explaining to them that Jeb didn't like the cold

And I told bout how he loved them very much

And bout how he always talked all bout them 'n such

And that I'm sorry bout Jeb dying out in that snow

How his last breath of air was fifteen below

But I can't mail the letter till I get into town

And I can't get to town with all this snow on the ground

The mule that we had died about four weeks ago

Cause we couldn't feed the mule cause our rations was so low

So I gotta find a way to get to town in all this snow

But I gotta bury Jeb before I can go

Cause if I don't make it and I freeze to death too

Then I aint no use to no one if I'm all frozed up and blue

So I'll put on my boots and my coat to protect me from the cold

And I'll grab my diggin shovel that never found us any gold

And I'll dig a hole in the frozen earth to put Jeb in

I'll cover up the hole and I'll come back in

Well, I'm back inside from burying Jeb in the snow

Took me four hours but he's at peace now

He's buried down deep in the frozen cold

But while I was diggin Jeb's grave, I finally struck gold

Optimistic About This Era Of Integration

A new day.

A new year.

A new decade.

A time for optimism – even though the pessimists will tell you we are doomed.

Some will tell you this is just another rising of the sun this morning. Just another rotation of the planet Earth on its tilted axis. They will tell you that the sun comes up every day – so don't get too excited about this sunrise.

Perhaps.

I see this morning as a great excuse for a milestone. A great place to put a landmark in time. A great opportunity to revisit our goals, evaluate our progress, and forecast our next course.

A great time indeed.

If you think about the progress in technology that we have made in the last ten years – then think now about the opportunities for we will encounter to extend that progress. By two or tenfold – the degree is up to us.

Here is a sample of what I mean – my predictions for what the next ten years may come to bear:

The past decade saw a complete transformation in how we communicate. The local phone call has been replaced for the most part by the text message. And the ability to keep in touch has been enhanced by social media forums like Facebook and Twitter. The next ten years will see this function become more and more convenient – ubiquitous – integrated into our lives – as cell phones continue their metamorphosis into mini communication computers allowing us to always be connected with those that we care about even though we are far apart. To create this next level of togetherness – video communications will be enhanced so that we will feel like we are right next to each other as we toil through the tediousness of our days.

As well, these little devices we currently call cell phones will continue to evolve to provide applications to assist us in every manner of our day to day lives – to do banking – to do shopping – to answer all of our questions – and to help us see opportunities we may not otherwise see.

The past decade showed us a transformation in the way television is made available to us. We saw the advances in Cable and Satellite technology – high definition broadcasts over the air. As well we saw new Internet services like YouTube reshape our definition of entertainment.

No longer does one have to be reliant of a massive communication enterprise like a television network, film studio, a recording company or a newspaper, or publishing house to accept your talents. Those that are motivated can now self produce and self publish – at very little expense – to get your message out.

Like I'm doing here.

But right now we are in the "wild-west" days of the reshaping of these mediums. Over the next decade we will see the ability of these means of expression to become much more simple. And much more available.

And much more structured.

In ten years it is likely that YouTube will be only one of a dozen or more such services – in much the way the major television networks and film studios evolved into the incredible amount of cable TV stations available today.

Likely it will be ten years from today – that the TV in your living room is no longer simply a TV – although we will likely still call it a television. It will provide you with the Internet as well, now expanding its use beyond just a medium to sit and watch – but now to interact with – to share with – and to communicate and express yourself with.

The television will no longer be your window to look outside to the world from your living room, but will also allow the world to look inside to appreciate you.

Right now, our devices are bound by cables – by independent devices like cameras and camcorders needing to be hooked into by a wire to your personal computer so you can download your pictures to your hard drive and then find a special program that will take your pictures and video burn them to a CD or copy them to a memory card that can be inserted in another device to be played and appreciated – like a DVD player connected to a TV (by wires) or a stereo system in your home or car or in your pocket.

Wires.

But over the last decade we have seen tremendous inroads made by wireless communication protocols like WiFi and Bluetooth. These fundamental foundations will be built upon over the next ten years to redesign these multiple layers of products so that they instinctively talk easier to each other. For example – as you will pull your car into the laneway – it will detect your home's wireless network – and start communicating with it. Information from the car will be shared with information from home – not only synching trivial things like music and video stored in the cars entertainment system with the home entertainment system – but also news of the day – global, local, and even personal. It will synch calendar schedules and grocery lists and such detail that will be of use the next time the car is to be driven.

It's really not so far-fetched. And people will appreciate the necessity of such data transfers as they start to make their lives easier.

At the workplace – the tools you will use to perform your duties will be made simpler – and even more portable. You will become more accessible than even the texts and emails on your Blackberry or iPhone – with greater access to decision making data you won't have to gather and compile before you leave your desk.

In fact the office desk – or workstation that so many of us now feel ourselves confined to may become less and less as we find ourselves collaborating in groups more and more. Team collaboration will evolve into collective thinking and decision making.

It won't be perfected in ten years – but we will be moving in that direction as decisively as we are moving into the more mobile direction of connectivity now.

The argument against this movement currently is security. It will continue to be so in the next ten years. And rightly so as the threat of identity theft and the security of corporate information is very much a valid concern. But as in the past – these concerns will continue to be met by enterprising ingenuity that answers each and every niche concern with a product or a process that solves the problem momentarily for a fee – such as the anti-virus and security system providers of today.

In short – security concerns will continue to be the checks and balances that ensure each solution is well thought out – but likely those lessons will be learned at the expense of those who adapt each new phase of integration early in the cycle of development.

Leadership will continue to be redefined as leaders coordinate collaborations to determine direction – not simply dictate direction.

As I see it, this is the path we are currently on. The direction the flow of progress is taking us. The momentum seems to be behind connected collaboration – and the integration of all components that can play a part in it. Be it your car talking sharing data with your home PC – which is also talking to your TV; or be it your role in a team as a collaborator – or leading a team of collaborators – in the exercise of collective thinking.

This is the way things seem to be moving now. And I see nothing ahead to yet to stop or curtail this period of integration.

This era of integration.