The Twins Spending $184 Million Completes a Surreal Weekend

Yesterday, the Joe Mauer contract put a fitting cap on what was a surreal weekend for The Common Man. Were those TCM’s Twins shelling out $184 million after all those year’s in baseball’s small market wasteland? Indeed it was. In general, The Common Man is pleased this morning by the contract the Twins gave to Mauer, and looking forward to having him with the club for the foreseeable future. Twins bloggers and national media types are weighing in on this deal, but here are the salient points as TCM sees them:

1) $184 Million over eight years represents a huge risk by the generally risk-averse Twins, and could seriously hamper the club’s ability to compete on the back end of this deal.

2) However, in order to enjoy the benefits (drastically improved odds of making the playoffs every year, and happy fans) of having an otherworldly talent like Joe Mauer in the short term, you have to live with the long term risks.

3) The Twins smartly tacked this contract onto the end of Mauer’s existing contract, giving the club more financial flexibility in this down economy, it only becomes more expensive, presumably, when the economy recovers and revenues are at their normal levels.

4) The No Trade Clause is somewhat troubling, but seems to be the price of doing business. TCM doesn’t want to trade The Golden Boy anytime soon anyway, so that’s fine. If the clause becomes an issue, it will likely be because either the Twins are not competing and need to rebuild, or Mauer’s production has declined to the point that he’s no longer starting. In both cases, there are mitigating factors that might motivate Joe to actually enthusiastically accept a trade that would net him a better chance to win or more playing time.
There is no doubt that this deal represents a fair market value for Joe Mauer’s talents. It is just a shade higher than the 8-year, $180 million deal Mark Texeira signed, and a catcher of Mauer’s ability figures to be more valuable than a 1B of Tex’s.

5) While Joe probably wanted to stay all along, he and his agent really had the Twins over a barrel in these negotiations. The Twins, from a PR perspective, simply did not have the option of letting Joe walk away a year after opening a new tax-payer funded stadium, and a year removed from a well-deserved AL MVP award. He is one of the most popular players in franchise history, and nothing would have killed attendance in Year 2 of Target Field like a Mauer-less Opening Day lineup.

In retrospect, The Common Man thinks it’s clear that the Denard Span and Nick Blackburn deals were done to send a message to Mauer that the Twins intended to be competitive in the long-term, and were not going to let Joe wallow in mediocrity like the Twins did with Kirby Puckett in ’93-95.

Other surrealness that happened this weekend to The Common Man:

When The Boy gets a new interest, it’s not just an interest. It quickly becomes an obsession. This weekend, The Boy decided that he was no longer a small human child, but a whale. He would only eat food with krill in them (krill sandwiches, krill chili, krill breakfast burritos, etc.). On Sunday, this obsession culminated in a trip to the book store, where The Uncommon Wife fueled this fire with some extra gasoline, buying two books on whales, a book on sharks, and one on the ocean. The Boy returned from the store, and announced that he was a sperm whale, “because sperm whales have teeth.” The problem with three-year old, land-locked sperm whales, however, is that they want you to pretend to be an octopus or orca, and then use those teeth. Ow.
Throwing dry brush, jet fuel, and treasured keepsakes from the attic on the fire, The Uncommon Wife suggested, and TCM accepted her proposal for, a family vacation to Los Angeles in April to do some whale watching, among other things. This will also allow The Common Man to take in games in Arizona, Anaheim, and possibly San Diego. So everybody wins!

The Boy was also decidedly high-energy all weekend. By 9:00 last night, as he called his mother up to sing him a song before bed, The Uncommon Wife decided she had had enough. “Ice cream,” she told The Common Man as she met him at the stairs. “That’s not a question or request.” Intimidated by the wild look in her eye, TCM asked meekly, “Do you know what kind you want?” “Something chocolate,” she glowered. “Don’t get what you usually get.”
So, The Common Man ran to the grocery store. TCM pulled into his parking spot directly opposite another beleaguered-looking guy who was just getting out of his truck. TCM then followed him into the store, and both headed directly for the ice cream. As they stood, intently examining frozen case after frozen case of ice cream, TCM looked over and said, “So you got sent out for ice cream too?”
“Yep. And they’re never specific about what they want, are they?”
“Mine just said something about chocolate,” said TCM. “So at least I have a genre to work in.”
“I heard her say chocolate and caramel,” said TCM’s new friend. A bond was forged.
After both heading through the self-checkout, the brothers-in-arms stared at each other briefly before exchanging “Good luck”s, and drove away.

Much of this weekend was spent finally finishing the sink and vanity in TCM’s new bathroom. Alas, The Common Man was called into the sink and vanity project relatively late in the game. The Uncommon Wife had started it three weeks ago, but events conspired to keep it from completion. By the time TCM got to the sink, there were parts missing and no way to tell what had been done from the instructions, and what still needed doing. So The Common Man began taking things apart and starting from scratch. Alas, TCM kept needing more and more things, and ultimately made seven trips to hardware stores (because there are only so many times you can go to one hardware store before you are too ashamed) over the course of Saturday, buying new, flexible pipes for the water, more plumber’s tape, a rubber washer, an extension for the drain pipe, a second extension for the drain pipe when it turned out the first extension was the wrong diameter, and a new drain to replace the one The Common Man broke. TCM is ashamed and feels like much less of a man. On the other hand, he does now know how to not screw up when taking apart and putting together a new sink, because he’s already made all the errors a person can make.

Or did he?

Upcoming Plans, Lessons Learned, and a One-Sentence Movie Review

The Boy is still sick, work is busy, and tonight The Common Man and his son wing their way southward to Arizona. TCM will take in as many baseball games as he possibly can within four days without feeling like a horrible parent. He'll send pictures and be a busy blogger. In the meantime, enjoy these lessons TCM gleaned from watching the ridiculous and snark-inducing 2012 last night with The Uncommon Wife:

1) Sure 6 billion people will die in the global catastrophe; but if one little girl learns to not wet the bed, it'll all be worth it.

2) Don't worry. If they survive, white people can always go back and recolonize Africa...because it worked so well the first time.

3) Never sit with your back to a neutrino.

4) Always believe people who sound crazy. The crazier their predictions, the more absolutely correct they're bound to be.

5) Airplanes are freely available for the commandeering, and a surplus of pilots will make escaping the destruction of the world easy.

6) Children are our future...however, they will also almost get us killed every 15 minutes.

7) The most secret and secure of government bases are the easiest to get smuggled into.

8) John Cusack is impossible to kill. When the chips are down, stand near John Cusack and bathe in his invulnerable deus ex machina-inducing charm bubble of protection.

9) At all times and in all places, when in doubt, panic. CALIFORNIA IS GOING DOWN!!!!

The Common Man's review in one sentence: If you need to laugh at the expense of a movie (just as The Common Man did last night), want to know what happened to Lloyd Dobler and what he would do in the Apocalypse, or want to see Woody Harrelson squander the goodwill he earned in Zombieland, this utterly idiotic, tactless, and overproduced fetishization of the destruction of humanity is the film for you (note: TCM had a blast).

Halloweening

The Common Man wishes you, one and all, a happy and safe Halloween. The Common Man has certainly had one. Trick or treaters have come and gone, wiping The Common Man's stash out and leaving him with a serious sugar craving and hard up for that sweet, sweet candy.

But there is a tempting option. The Common Man and The Uncommon Wife took The Boy out for his first trick-or-treating experience this year, going to the various houses around the neighborhood where he has friends. Even at 2 years old, The Boy was very carefull to say "tick-a-teet," "tank yoooo," and "Happaween" at each door as he collected his goodies. When they were finished, The Common Man and his brood returned home with a half-filled bag of chocolate-covered, sugary goodness. If The Common Man were so inclined, he could sneak up to the bag, lift out a Snickers or Twix (oh, God, the Twix!) and no one (especially not The Boy, who is sweetly tucked into bed with his froggy, baby, bear in a baseball uniform, and robotic talking bear and who will remember nothing from this night as he grows older) will be the wiser.

But, as a matter of principle, The Common Man cannot bring himself to stoop that low. After all, Halloween is a kids' holiday, and those houses gave up the goods in the expectation that it would go to an adorable two-year old in an Elmo costume, not his 30-year old, sugar-jonesing dad. The only candy in there acceptable for The Common Man to get at at this point is his package of Hot Tamales (which he won't like), but The Uncommon Wife has already claimed them. So, here he is. The Common Man. Curled on the couch in the Mancave (Mantuary), in the dark, typing away the shakes. Oh, God, if only he had a Twix!

Anyway, this craving will pass, either because The Common Man generates some freaking will power out of thin air or he passes out entirely from low blood-sugar. He's hoping for the former but will settle for the latter. And in the meantime, he'll think about his adorable son knocking on the doors of neighbors, trying hard to keep the head of the Elmo suit out of his eyes, and being ever so polite. Sure, holidays are fun for the kids. But when they're young enough, it's even more fun for the parents. Even a shallow kid-centric one like Halloween.

Anyway, Happaween everybody!

Stuff and Saturday Beer Review: Stockyard Oatmeal Stout

Today was a cool, crisp day. The kind of day where The Common Man doesn't mind being out raking leaves, contemplating the end of summer, because the temperature is perfect to do work and not become a sweaty nasty mess. Instead, he could collect said leaves into a neat pile and enjoy watching The Boy collapse, face-first, into them over and over. Indeed, as The Founding Father points out, over at The Mantuary, there is no month like October if you're a man. Football, baseball, raking, perfect temperatures. Fires in the evening.

And finally, it's time to get into real beer. No more light and airy beers, tasting vaguely of fruit and dancing. Instead, it's time to drink stouts, porters, and bocks, strong dark beers designed to ward off the cold and provide nourishment in the barren winter months. So, tonight, as The Common Man sits in his favorite chair, watching the Red Sox-Rays game, reading one of Rainster's latest book recommendations, and just enjoying life, he holds in his hand a mug of Stockyard Oatmeal Stout, which he found at his local Trader Joe's.

Stockyard is apparently brewed by Goose Island Brewing Company, out of Chicago. The Common Man says "apparently" because there is no Stockyard Brewing Company, and other beer bloggers out there have suggested that they've found some kind of connection. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that this is a perfectly acceptable beer, rich in flavor and dark in color. There's a significant amount of carbonation, and subsequently it has a thinner feel to it than, say, Guinness.

Indeed, after sneaking a taste, The Uncommon Wife called it "Guinness for wusses". She's got a point. That said, there's less flavor here than in Guinness. It's got more chocolate to it than coffee flavored aftertaste, and sticks with you far shorter than the Irish Stout by which Irish Stouts are judged. It's worth a try if you want to like Guinness but are turned off by just how thick, rich, and overbearing the beer can be. Just be sure to drink it when it's warmer. The Common Man gave it a try right out of the fridge and didn't get the full body of the beer until later. It was then he realized that it's a manly beer for manly men, but not for the manliest of men, who drink a Guinness for breakfast, a Guinness for lunch, and then a sensible dinner.

Kicked Out of Bed By 31 Lbs of Chuck Norris

The Common Man has been totally out of it today, to the point that he fell asleep in his chair more than once this afternoon. Last night, after he and The Uncommon Wife decided, for reasons that defy logic, to stay up late, their minutes-old sleep was interupted by the concerned and forlorn cries of "daddy?" and "mommy?" eminating from the next room. The Boy, it would seem, would no longer brook being left in his crib while everyone else got to snuggle.

And so, The Common Man rose from his slumber, and like any responsible parent, brought the product of his loins back to his bed, to nestle between his mother and father. However, rebel that he is, The Boy refused to stay nestled. He twisted. He pushed. He flipped. He climbed. And, ultimately, he kicked (like a baby Chuck Norris, except that Chuck Norris emerged from the womb fully-formed: 200-odd lbs of ass-whuppin'). It was a grueling 45 minutes of the boy refusing to sleep or to let his parents sleep. And so, when at the end of his rope, and wanting to make sure The Uncommon Wife (who is suffering from some day-care-born mega-virus) was able to get some sleep, The Common Man returned The Boy to his crib, where he (The Boy, not The Common Man) began to wail incessently, at least until he realized that his father was getting himself a blanket and was planning to camp out on the floor.

Satisfied that he would no longer have to sleep alone, and that his best (non-verbal) efforts could no longer prevent the slumber of his parents, The Boy settled down at about 2:30. However, before finally shutting his eyes for the night, The Boy did kindly throw an extra blanket and a couple stuffed animals down to his father, so that he wouldn't get lonely or cold. And as The Common Man rested his weary crown on the head of The Boy's bear rug, listened to The Boy talk to his stuffed animals and then begin to snore, and folded himself for warmth under a fleece blanket meant for a two year-old, The Common Man thought, "well, this isn't so bad."

Obviously, he was delirious.

Good Times

The best 4 minutes and 11 seconds of all time: Dancing in the living room with your 22 month old to Living on a Prayer. Even though dancing only consists of him running around in circles, shaking his sippie cup of milk (is that how you make a milk shake? And does it bring all the boys to the yard?), and, very rarely, doing a big jump.

The best 20 minutes of all time: Watching your 22 month old son "color" his monkey mask at the local children's museum. The Uncommon Man, during this time, made himself a cow mask, and The Uncommon Wife was a kick-ass lioness.

The best 6 minutes and 30 seconds of all time: The brief period that your 22 month old takes a break from playing with his blocks to cuddle up with you to watch football. Before you can fully explain the Cover-2 to him, he's gone again.

The best 20 seconds of all time: The moment in church, during the Gospel, when your 22 month old wants to give both parents a simultaneous hug, followed by kisses. Less wonderful was 20 seconds later, when he decided to start hitting his mommy.

The best 13 minutes and 45 seconds of all time: Decorating sugar cookies with your 22 month old, and trying to keep as many of the sprinkles as possible off of the floor, while the dog hovers nearby.

Even with a heartbreaking (and entirely predictable) Vikings loss, this has been a wonderful weekend for The Common Man.

D*#k Flicks: The Condemned

Wow. The Common Man cannot adequately describe what escaped from The Boy last night while in his crib. Something so disgusting and terrible that it required an immediate bath, the stripping of the bed, and the scrubbing of his mattress. Then, it necessitated an evening of snuggling between his mortified mother and father. The Common Man has never seen anything so horrible. Except, of course, when he was stuck on the couch on Tuesday, "enjoying" the latest D*#k Flick to come to his attention, The Condemned, starring Steve Austin.

Austin, of course, is best known as Stone Cold Steve Austin, the superstar and chief anti-hero of the WWE. The film represents Austin's first (and, gratefully, thusfar his only) attempt to be a leading man, after a decade and a half of guzzling beer, rolling around with half-naked dudes, and flipping the bird in the middle of a misnomered square in front of millions of people. It was also an attempt for WWE Films, the (The Common Man kids you not) movie-making arm of the country's pre-eminent wrestling outfit, to lower the standards for B-movies everywhere (leading to unbelievable grade inflation. On the new scale, if The Condemned is a B-movie, Gigli gets an A++.) and to promote one of its icons.

Now, the plot has actual promise as a sleazy b-movie. Ten convicts (men and women) from around the globe, all awaiting the death penalty, are ferried to an island in the middle of somewhere, where they will fight to the death until only one of them remains, all for the pleasure of an international online audience. There's a black guy and a Japanese guy and a Latino married couple, and a South African mercenary, and some other characters that, frankly, The Common Man was not too disappointed to forget. Most are entirely indistinguishable from one another, aside from skin color. Anyway, one of these convicts is a wrongly accused and convicted American ex-special forces guy who was rotting in a Guatemalan jail (Guess which character Steve Austin plays!).

Anyway, things begin going awry quickly when the show's production team begins to revolt against the executive producer. When, surprise surprise, the female contestants start getting cruelly raped and killed by their fellow players, the men and women in the control booth start getting a little squeamish. Of course, the producer wants to hear none of this. His viral snuff film is supposed to make him billions, after all. And so around and around they go, debating morality and ethics and wringing their hands that people will be entertained by realistic violence.

Note: It's important to remember, at this point, that the movie was produced by the WWE, a consistent source of violent entertainment several nights a week, and that, as the controllers are still debating, the film undercuts its own moral message by continuing to revel in the torture and killing of its actors.

The larger film tries to come off as the ultimate macho grudge match, with a kitchy plot and a lot of action. But frankly, the action doesn't deliver as promised. For a professional "athlete," Austin seems incapable of doing stunts that last longer than a few frames of film at a time. As though he's simply not gifted at using his body as anything other than a giant tank. So his fight scenes are all shot using very shaky handicams that do not capture one entire person, let alone an entire fight. And because of all this, with all the shaking and cuts involved, the film gives the distinct impression that Steve Austin can't fight worth a damn.

Also, because of the sketchy camera work, it's hard to figure out what's going on. When Austin fights another white guy, you're out of luck until the end. If you haven't guessed the end of the movie already, it's impossible to tell who wins until one guy is standing, bloodily triumphant, over his fallen foe. It's impossible to build any kind of suspense or momentum. And, perhaps most importantly, it gives The Common Man a damn headache, and perhaps a seizure (there's about 3 minutes of the movie that The Common Man is "missing"). The Common Man wonders how impressive this concept could have been with someone like an in-his-prime Chuck Norris in it. As it is, it just sucks to watch.

So, despite its manly undertones, and its copious explosions and prevelent violence, The Common Man has to give this "film" just half a ball. It gives him no pleasure to do so (much like the movie itself), but it clearly has earned it. The horrible, unintelligible, seizure-inducing action sequences would be reason enough without all the whining and hypocrisy about being entertained by violence. But since the hypocrisy is there, The Common Man feels compelled to mention that too. And all of that is not taking into account that the movie stars a man who pleaded no contest to beating his third wife.

Saturday Beer Review: Two-Hearted Ale

(Note: For reasons that will soon become apparent, The Common Man eschews all responsibility for any typos, grammatical mistakes, or blatantly untrue statements contained in this post. Purple monkey, dishwasher.)

The Common Man was invited (with his wife and son, of course) to the neighbors' house for a pre-Labor Day blowout today. The Uncommon Wife and The Boy checked out early, but because The Common Man was ensconced in discussion with other writerly types, she told him to feel free to continue hanging out. That was at about 3:30. It's currently 6:30, and The Common Man is just getting home. Ahem. There was beer. And adult conversation (often in short supply when you have short people). And the combination may have caused The Common Man to inadvertently leave The Uncommon Wife at home, alone, with The Boy for 3 hours on a Saturday.

And so, even though The Common Man was set to just review the one beer today, an intriguing ale sure to appeal to friend of the blog, Rainster, The Common Man figured he would supplement it with another review tomorrow. After all, he was conspicuously absent last Saturday, and feels like he owes you. And owes his wife. There will be dishes done tonight and garages cleaned out tomorrow, let The Common Man tell you.

Anyway, first and foremost, The Common Man was ecstatic this week to find, in his local grocer's aisle, Two Hearted Ale. If you don't get the reference, and thus why The Common Man was so excited, don't worry. It's a little obscure. The Common Man will explain.



The manliest writer in all of mandom, for better and for worse, was and is Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway epitomized manhood in a time when manliness was highly valued. His stories and novels of fishing, boxing, bullfighting, loving, and fighting enthralled generations of Americans and have ultimately been added to the canon of great literature.



His style of short, choppy sentences epitomized manly restraint as he vowed not to waste a single sentence in any of his works. And, unlike so many men today, Hemingway lived what he preached. He was an avid boxer, fisher, hunter, story-teller (ok, so some of them probably weren't true), and lover. He drank a pint of whiskey as he wrote and beer when he was done. He was a man's man, and the officially endorsed author of The Common Man.

Anyway, during his senior year of high school and his freshman year of college, The Common Man became increasingly aware of and interested in Hemingway and his work (particularly when taught by The Professor, The Common Man's college advisor/drinking buddy/role model). Intrigued by the manly world he talked about, The Common Man would lose himself in In Our Time, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea. He internalized the message that, even though the world may beat you down again and again, leaving you no chance to escape, a real man presses on. In the face of overwhelming and discouraging odds, he fights on. Even when the world takes all that you love, the real man endures until he is destroyed.

In his debut collection of short stories, In Our Time (1925), Hemingway concluded his work with "Big Two-Hearted River," parts 1 and 2. In it, Nick Adams, Hemingway's semi-autobiographical everyman, makes his way through a burnt-out forest on the way to a local fishing hole. There, he makes camp and, the next day, fishes for trout. It is a story of psychological trauma and healing, of a man confronting the challenges he knows he must face in order to continue existing, and choosing to endure the pains that will not get better. It is a moving, sad, and mesmerizing story that, frankly, every man should read.

And so, when The Common Man saw the sixer of Two-Hearted Ale on sale at the local supermarket, he knew he had to have it. Made by Bell's Brewery, in Kalamazoo, MI, TH Ale seems to be the flagship of the brewery. The brewer bills it as "India Pale Ale style well suited for Hemingway-esque trips to the Upper Peninsula. American malts and enormous hop additions give this beer a crisp finish and incredible floral hop aroma."

It presents with a deep gold color and extremely high carbonation, and has a generous alcohol content (7.0%). The carbonation makes it feel as though you're drinking a beery soda, and distracts from the overall beer. The hops, as the brewer indicates, dominate the flavor of the beer, making it extremely bitter and difficult to drink. Coupled with the carbonation, it's not a brew that The Common Man would recommend drinking in quantity. Instead, it's the kind of beer that should be savored with a group of manly friends. Even better, have one at a time (since men are, ultimately, alone), and spread them out over six nights. Have it with fish or at the end of a long day. Or watching the sunset on your deck. Whatever you do, don't talk while you drink it.



Instead, imbibe it when you have time to contemplate. Contemplate yourself, and what you've accomplished. Who you've been and who you want to be. Think about the examples Hemingway provides us (rather than the rather troubling example he was) and try to live up to them.

But, above all, endure it. Endure its bubbles. Endure its hops. Endure its bitterness. Just endure. In the end, you'll feel better. And when you're done, shut the door and turn off the light. Don't say good-bye, because it will be like saying good-bye to a brown, empty glass statue. Go out and leave and walk back to your house. Preferably in the rain.

All's Fair

Did it feel like forever for you too? The Common Man was only gone for two days, but feels like ages have past since he last spoke to you. He's sorry for that, but family obligations (preparing the boyhood home to receive 60 or so guests and then travelling home last night) kept him from writing before now. In all, it was a good weekend. The Common Man reconnected with family and friends (and family friends) and ate a lot.

Not at the Fair, mind you. Yes, The Common Man and his family attended the state fair on Saturday. But it turns out that 21 month old little boys aren't as interested in food-on-a-stick as their fathers. Little boys are more interested in seeing cows, petting newborn piglets, and wondering at the biggest boar in the state. Also, The Uncommon Wife is less inclined to sit and try new and exotic brews, and more likely to want to watch The Boy ride around and around in a car on the Midway.

So while the fair impressed The Common Man with its size, the variety of activities, and how ridiculously crowded it was, The Common Man didn't feel as though he got to experience everything it had to offer. He didn't get to slide down a long plastic ramp on a gunny sack. Or eat a bucket of chocolate chip cookies and finish it off with all-you-can-drink milk for a dollar. And he didn't get to watch nearly enough fashion victims stroll through the fair with their muscleshirts and mullets.

But the experiences The Common Man had were choice. Watching his son run through the "baaaa barn" and stop at each sheep's pen to say hello. Going through the 95 year-old tunnel of love with The Uncommon Wife. And soaring through the air with The Boy in a giant metal bee, while trying to convince his son to stay seated and not try to jump out. So while incomplete, it was the best time at the Fair that The Common Man can remember. Next year, he'll insist on beer, however.

Ring, ring

The Common Man's got nothing today. He stayed up late last night again for no good reason, and The Boy tickled his father's feet awake at 6:00. The Common Man basically just wants to find a mattress somewhere and make up the sleep he missed, but he knows that he's got work to do. So he's phoning this one in. The Common Man is not complaining, mind you. If he's going to be woken up by anyone before his alarm goes off, it's better to be a 20 month old in froggy pajamas than anything else. It's impossible to be mad at anyone wearing froggy pajams, after all. The Common Man defies you to be mad at anyone in froggy pajamas, especially if they are carrying a Tickle-Me Elmo. Just try not to smile at them. See, you can't do it.

Anyway, The Common Man is way unfocused this afternoon and just can't bring himself to blog about anything meaningful. So he promises a double-poster tomorrow, after he gets a full night's sleep and retaliates by waking his son up playing Revelie on his trumpet at 6:00 in the morning. In the meantime, enjoy the great Ernest Borgnine, star of The Dirty Dozen, The Wild Bunch, The Poseidon Adventure (The Common Man's favorite guilty pleasure movie), Escape From New York, and McHale's Navy explaine to the Fox News morning crew how he stays so young-looking. When you're 91, you can say anything you want, in The Common Man's book, as long as you don't go all Mel Gibson.

(warning: this is probably safe for work, but keep the volume low anyway)



I JUST SHOOK HIS HAND! That'll teach them to pretend to be interested in what an old man has to say.

Saturday Beer Review (kind of)

Tonight's beer review begins with a story. The Common Man was innocently enjoying the farmer's market today; the veggies were relatively cheap and fresh (as were the bagels) and The Common Man managed to find two neat-looking beers to review by New Glarus Brewing Company. On the way home, since they had had such a wonderful time at the market as a family, The Uncommon Wife sweetly asked The Common Man whether he'd like to take a walk with her and The Boy and The Evil Dog that afternoon. The Common Man agreed since he needs to exercise more anyway and it's always good to spend more time with the fam. "Perfect," she told him, "I already have the route planned out.

What The Uncommon Wife failed to mention, however, was that the route was four miles long. With The Boy. And The Evil Dog. And what The Common Man figured as a half-hour jaunt around the neighborhood turned into two hour odyssey through the west side of Madison. The Common Man's two bum knees are a little sore tonight, he's dead tired, and sunburned.

Now, The Common Man would have been able to deal with this development. After all, what's two hours on a Saturday anyway? He could have one beer with dinner, after all, and one later. Or one to celebrate the end of his Bataan Death March, and one to chase the food down his belly.

However, fate would have other ideas. Along the parade route, The Common Man, The Uncommon Wife, and The Boy (but not Ralph the Evil Dog) managed to get invited to a party. For this to make much sense, The Common Man needs to backtrack here for a second. The backyard of the new house has a jungle gym and a basketball court. And so it has become a Mecca for kids around the neighborhood who either a) have no basketball court/jungle gym or b) don't have a little brother as adorable as The Boy. And The Common Man and Uncommon Wife encourage their presence, since it gives The Boy a chance to practice socializing with other kids. The upshot of all this is that The Common Man knows virtually every kid in the neighborhood but very few of the parents (though he tries to meet them whenever possible; he doesn't want to be known as the sketchy guy who lets kids play in his yard).

Anyway, out of the corner of his eye, The Common Man spots one of the kids in a backyard jumping on a trampoline. He waves, then sees a man coming out of yard's house. "Hi," says The Common Man, trying to be neighborly. "Are you A_____ and L_____'s dad?" He says something about being a stepdad and a conversation begins. He mentions that he's having a small get together that night and would everyone like to come by for brats, beer, and corn on the cob. Not wanting to turn down an offer for some adult company and really hoping to get in good with the neighbors, The Common Man, et al agreed to drop by.

And so, upon their return The Common Man and The Uncommon Wife sprang into action. The Boy needed dinner (because he couldn't last until the party), and if he was having dinner, everyone else might as well join in. And The Common Man never shows up to a party empty-handed, so he drove to the store and brought home a sixer of his old standby, Bass Ale.

Bass, to The Common Man, seems like the perfect beer to bring anywhere. It is flavorful and different enough to not offend the denigrators of Budweiser, Miller, and the other American waters. But it's also light enough that people who don't like heavy beers won't be offended. And though a pale ale by name, Bass lacks the hoppiness of most of its compatriots. It is perfect to drink in the heat, and just fine in the winter. It's great to drink in a crowd or by yourself. You can drink it here or there, you can drink it anywhere. It is, in fact, the perfect compromise beer. It has something to appeal to everyone.

So, what happens? The Common Man returns home, and the kids in question are playing in the backyard with The Boy. And they are happy to report that, somewhere, there has been a miscommunication. Actually, the friendly fellow from the walk isn't their stepdad, but that of their friend Chloe. And so, The Common Man, The Uncommon Wife, and The Boy head to the party of the man they don't know and have no connection to, with beer and cookies. Everyone there is perfectly nice, but, as it turns out, they do not drink or need any Bass (there's a kegorator of Bud Light in the basement). In fact, they return the leftover Bass when The Common Man leaves to put The Boy to bed.

So, now The Common Man is dehydrated (from the walk, and from drinking the Bass by himself), has no more room for the New Glarus, and hasn't had time to drink them anyway. So you get a story and a review of The Common Man's old stand by, Bass, filling in once again in a pinch. The perfect beer for every occasion.

Ah-vah Akbar

The Common Man has a problem. It's The Boy. He loves the "ah-vah". He loves the vacuum cleaner.

The Common Man knows what you're thinking. "What's the big deal?" you wonder, "He's just a kid, and it's just a vacuum." But you don't understand. The Boy loves the vacuum. Any vacuum. All vacuums. And brooms. And mops. And rakes. And swiffers. If it cleans, he loves it.

It began, The Common Man believes, on a trip to Bah-bah (Grandpa)'s house. While The Common Man and The Uncommon Wife were checking out some pyramids and some statues and some Nile, The Boy was sequestered with his grandparents. Now, The Boy had always shown some interest in "ah-vah". He followed The Common Man around while he vacuumed, tried to play with the cord, and wondered at how the stem of the vacuum reclined and stood upright.

The Common Man has since discovered that, while his parents were away, The Boy convinced his bah-bah to give him rides on the vacuum. Up the hall. Down the hall. The Boy would ride on the base of the vacuum, while his grandfather pushed him. He would feel it vibrate and hear it churn beneath him.

So, when The Common Man returned, he found a child obsessed with that damn vacuum. He would point to it. He would cling to it. He would push it. When it wasn't visible, he would search for it, calling "ah-vah! ah-vah!" It became his solitary concern (other than food), and he was never happier than when he wrapped his fingers around the cord or the handle.

And so, tonight, when The Common Man got out ah-vah to vacuum the living room, The Boy's eyes glowed bright. For a moment, he stood back in awe, his face breaking into a grin. "Ahhhh-vahhhh!" he cried and ran toward it. The Common Man started the motor and The Boy stood back, confused as to why his friend did not want him to ride. And so, as The Common Man ran the vacuum up and down the carpet, The Boy went and got his toy ah-vah, which his father bought for him. The one with googly eyes and a big smile. And The Common Man and his son vacuumed the carpet together.

Now, you might think this was cute (and it was). But The Common Man is worried that The Boy's worship of this false idol may have drastic implications on the rest of his life. What if The Boy is simply too clean? What if he refuses to enter his parents' room because it is cluttered? What if he won't eat off a plate that hasn't been boiled first? What if the other kids make fun of him for being too neat? What if he becomes a neat-freak, like Julia Roberts's abusive, yuppie husband in Sleeping With the Enemy?


What if he ends up as Julia Roberts's husband in Sleeping With the Enemy? What if he grows that mustache??? And what if, when he grows that mustache, he looks like Jason Giambi?


What if he uses steroids??? Wait, is it better to be an abusive, controlling yuppie who tries to kill Julia Roberts or Jason Giambi, rocking the porn 'stache and injecting steroids in your butt? The Common Man is unsure; he's been listening to sports talk radio too much.

As you can see, The Common Man is a little irrational about this whole thing. Maybe he should find other, more important things to worry about. Like, hey, did you hear that Israel is going to attack Iran?

Milestone

It's been an exciting 48 hours in The Common Man's fiefdom. First, The Common Man successfully turned 30 the other day, making him far more common than before. It was a good day. It began, as many days do, with The Common Man getting up with The Boy, taking him downstairs for breakfast, and making coffee for The Uncommon Wife. When The Uncommon Wife needs her coffee to be so uncommon, and so The Common Man doesn't mind helping her recharge her batteries.

Anyway, after church and mowing the lawn (The Common Man does love mowing the lawn), the family drove to beautiful minor-league-baseball-ville to catch a ball game. The home team, frankly, was terrible. They couldn't hit, pitch, throw to the right base, or tie their shoes without help. Still and all, it was baseball, The Boy behaved and had fun, and the "K-Man" struck out 3 times (2-for-1 beers each time!). The Common Man had seats behind the plate and sat next to the scouts (who really weren't in the mood to talk).
And, following the tragic final atbat, as Johnny Notaprospect struck out with his bat on his shoulder, The Common Man got to run the bases with The Boy for the first time.


And at that point, The Common Man realized something. Even though he (at 30, and never playing organized ball above Babe Ruth League) and his son (at 20 months) can find their way to the right bases, and the 20-23 year olds of this team can't find the right bases to run and throw to, The Common Man's dreams of playing pro ball need to die. There simply is no call these days for a 30 year old, doughy white rookie on a baseball team.
29, maybe. But at 30 some dreams need to die so you can focus on how much fun it is to run the bases with someone who may, some day, have those same dreams. So that you can enjoy watching him try to run between the bases, stomping his little feet, and can feel his sweaty hand holding yours for literal and figurative support. And so that you can help him pick himself up when he trips over second base, and point him in the right direction when he gets up and is a little unsure where third base is. And so you can feel his pride when he stomps on homeplate, and can lift him onto your shoulders in triumph. It was a good day.

And when The Common Man returned home, he learned something equally important. 30 candles on a tiramisu is a fire hazard. Take note.

Back to our regular schedule tomorrow morning.

Hold the Presses

The Common Man appreciates your patience this morning. He's got a review of the All Star Game last night that needs some editting and will be ready to go, but The Boy is especially punchy this morning, and needs his daddy (and Elmo). In the meantime, enjoy this list, from The Art of Manliness, of the 15 greatest man-cries of all time.