Children and dogs will always win

Everyone knows that

I won’t work with either one again

It’s not in our contract 

These lyrics must have seeped into my subconscious, because for years my standard reply to my children’s request for a dog was a resounding “No.”  Either that, or “Sure, we can get a dog, but you have to kill the cats first.”

Neither response was appreciated.

Some days, after denying my children their only opportunity for happiness, I’d watch the neighborhood dog owners walking their canine friends and think a bit about who I used to be and who I’d become: a man unwilling to get a dog for his children.  What had happened to me?  After all, I grew up with a dog, a hyper Maltese named Butch that peed on my record albums and frantically ran in circles when I came home.  My friends and I chased him in the yard, we let him lick our ice cream on hot summer days (ew!) and we searched throughout the neighborhood when he got away (which was often, almost as if he didn't want to be our dog).

Even after Butch left us for that Great Big Dog Park in the Sky and I grew into a young adult, I considered myself a Dog Guy, the kind of guy you’d see at the park with his trusty golden retriever strutting by his side, its tongue dangling happily, pretty women smiling as a more handsome version of me walked by.  What had happened to that guy, aside from the hair loss?  Why such an aversion to dog ownership?

Part of the answer could be attributed to what can only be described as a double homicide.  Six years ago, my sister’s dog, Murphy, killed both of my daughter’s hamsters, not by eating them exactly, but by using his teeth to play with them until they were dead.  And though the event traumatized us (to this day my daughters block out Murphy’s photo on our refrigerator with a strategically placed magnet), the murders did provide us with an opportunity: a silver lining, if you will.  We now had a clean pet-slate, the equivalent of using a small house fire as an excuse to update one’s living room furniture.  We could now purchase whatever family pet we wanted without worry of compatibility for the rodents we’d been keeping in cages (and whose lids weren’t quite as secure as we’d thought).

Time to get a dog, right?  Nope.  On a whim, we chose a couple of cute, flea-ridden kittens to join our family, and though Murphy’s murders could have been blamed for my avoiding a canine companion, the truth is that in the back of my mind I kept hearing that Graham Parker tune:

Children and dogs will always win,

Everyone knows that

In a sense, I had internalized that lyric, the way one might internalize a parent’s suggestion not to eat yellow snow.  It was just good advice, and instinctively I knew that I, as an at-home dad and writer, would be the dog’s keeper.  I would walk it in the morning.  I would walk it at lunch-time.  I would walk it in the afternoon.  I would feed it, play with it, train it, scold it.  I would be the one left to schedule dog-sitting when we decided to head out of town for a few days.  It was all on me, baby, and I wanted no part of it.

Children and dogs, my friends, will NOT always win.  Or so I thought.  

On a frigid Friday in January, I walked past a friend of mine bending over with a blue, plastic bag as she picked up a mammoth-size turd that her Alaskan Husky had happily laid.

“It’s come to this, has it?” I said to her.  She laughed.  I laughed.  And I thought to myself, “What a silly, silly woman you are and what a smart, smart man am I.”

Twenty-four hours later, I was picking up poop.

Children and dogs

And wives.  And cell-phones.

Not one full day after my little quip, my son and I were enjoying a warm winter’s day, unusual in Illinois, and I was experiencing what can be only described as a joyful mood, equally unusual.  And then I received a text with a photo of a small brown and black beagle licking my daughter’s face and the accompanying message from my wife: “Can we take her home?”  I, in my crazily joyful mood, unable to see anything but the best in everyone and everything at that particular moment, texted back, “Yep.”

And so what started out as a shoe-shopping trip for my wife and daughter, ended up with me picking up Toffee the beagle’s feces later that evening.

Toffee is perfect for us.  Like the wands of Olivander’s Shop in Harry Potter, I feel like dogs choose the person.  At the adoption center, Toffee, with her floppy ears and mournful eyes, chose us, and who were we, the chosen, to say no?

These days I walk Toffee in the morning, I walk her at lunch, and most days, I walk her in the afternoon while my children attend their after-school activities.  I feed Toffee, play with her, train her (sort of), and scold her (lovingly).  And soon, I will be the one left to schedule dog-sitting when we decide to head out of town for a few days.  

And it’s all good.  Sure, children and dogs will always win.  Everyone knows that.  But we adults are the benefactors.

Our cats?  Not so much.

With Bob Morris and Greta Salpeter taking turns at lead vocals, the band ripped through a 70 minute set to an enthusiastic crowd, most of whom knew many if not all of the words of the seventeen songs.  Leaning a little heavier toward their last of three albums, 2008’s Goodbye Blues, the five-piece band played well despite the hiatus.  Opening with “I Could Love You Much Better,” the band settled in after tackling a few technical issues.  Singer and guitarist Bob Morris took the role of band representative between songs in an easygoing and lighthearted tone, joking before one song, “I want to encourage understanding relationships, because none of my songs represent that.” 

Morris’s singing contributions had dropped considerably on the band’s last album, and as such he sang mostly earlier material, including several from 2005’s So Sudden.  Many of these garnered the greatest audience response.  “City Traffic Puzzle,” “Crawling Toward the Sun,” and “Echo,” electrified the listeners, as did “Sweet Tangerine and “Intertwined” from Hush Sound’s second album, Like Vines.

On the other hand, Greta, who’s red skirt matched her keyboard, stuck to songs primarily from the band’s last album, and one gets the sense that as her voice matured from So Sudden (when she was only seventeen), she became more comfortable with her singing and songwriting.  Her voice cut through the band's instrumentation brightly and strongly on standout tunes such as “Molasses,” “Medicine Man” and “Honey.” 

As a keyboardist, Greta remained stationary throughout most of the set, coming out of her allotted space only when playing acoustic guitar.  Bob played a more visible role, coaxing the fans to clap along repeatedly.  Drummer Darren Wilson and bassist Chris Faller laid down the rhythms steadily and proficiently without stealing attention away from the two lead singers.  Mike LeBlanc backed up on guitar, keyboards and bass.

“Did you know Bob and I went to prom together?” Greta asked the audience at one point.

I did, and it is my great misfortune of not having taken advantage of the opportunity to see the band play in its embryonic state at my neighbor’s garage early last decade.  Little did I know then that the rumblings from next door would lead to three masterfully done albums, and – last night – a masterful live performance.

Here’s hoping it’s a sign of things to come.

What excites me the most (and what lays to rest any question of my geekdom) is a rhythm that doesn’t change time signatures, but that still manages to fake the listener out, intentionally or not, by calling the downbeat into question.  In this scenario, what you initially hear as the “one” beat you come to find is someplace else entirely, and your ears are left to add or subtract a beat or a half a beat in order to get back in synch with a song, like dancing to a CD that skips and having to make an adjustment before you step on your partner’s toes.

My favorite example occurs in the Yes song, “Yours is no Disgrace."  For over three decades I’ve never failed to hear the first chord as landing on the “and” of four in a 4/4 measure.  Give a listen:

I hear the song as: 

But once the band kicks in, it sounds like Yes has subtracted a beat, inserting a measure of 3/4 instead of 4/4 (and with Yes, this is an entirely plausible proposition).  In truth, the time signature remains constant for this part of the song, but my ears hear the downbeat incorrectly.  The first note lands on the “and” of one, not four:

Even with this knowledge, I still hear the rhythm the way I always have, and after thirty years, I guess I kind of like it that way.

Another example is Sting’s “Ghost Story.” This song starts similarly, with an instrumental passage absent an obvious count-in.  But even when Sting’s voice enters, the downbeat is in question:

I’ve always heard first note coming on beat two of a 4/4 measure: 

But as soon as Sting sings “Another winter comes, his icy fingers creep,” a half a beat is added, and it become clear that all along the initial note of each phrase had in fact landed on the “and” of one:

Sting uses this deceptive tactic often, though I suspect in his mind there’s nothing deceptive about it since he hears the downbeat where it should be, and there are probably many listeners who hear it correctly right off the bat.  But to me, my faulty instincts add to the pleasure of the song, providing just enough jolt to keep things interesting.

I’ll have another three or four songs with this idea in mind when I write part two of this essay.  Stay tuned.

For the first couple of years it seemed to pan out.  In 2010, “Avatar” and “Up” – both top-ten grossing pictures – were best picture nominees, as were the “The Blind Side” and “District Nine.”  Things seemed to be going exactly according to plan (although “Avatar,” the biggest money-making motion picture in history, lost to “The Hurt Locker,” which came in at 116 for the year).  And last year, big money makers “Inception” and “Toy Story 3” made the list, with “The King’s Speech” – coming in at eighteen – taking the award.

This year, I have to believe that some of the bigwigs in the Academy were shuddering when the best nine picture nominees of 2011were announced (for reasons unkown, they dropped the number of nominees to nine this year):

"The Artist"
"The Descendants"
"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"
"Hugo"
"Midnight in Paris"
"The Help"
"Moneyball"
"War Horse"
"The Tree of Life"

Some of these movies are still in theaters and will be sure to add to their totals, but as of today, “The Help” is the highest grossing of the bunch, coming in at thirteen.

Not exactly what the Academy was hoping for.

For a guy who only sees about ten movies a year (and most of them being of the “Puss in Boots” variety) I somehow managed to see five of the ten best picture nominees.  A small miracle.  And I can tell you straight out, none of them was any better – and some were worse – than ”Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2."

The most successful franchise in motion picture history doesn’t even get one nod in the major categories?  Not even an Alan Rickman best-supporting actor nomination?

Seems a little silly.

When “The Return Of the King” won best picture of 2003, it felt more like a “thanks for three successful movies” award than overt recognition that it was in fact the best movie of that year.  Had the final “Harry Potter” movie been given the same honor this year, it would have earned the award.  At the very least, it should have cracked the top ten. 

But just like with the NCAA tournament, no matter how many you allow in the Big Dance, there will always be some on the bubble who are snubbed.  This year, it was Harry Potter.

Maybe next year the Academy could expand the number of best picture nominees to twenty?

Over a few drinks the other night, my friend and I discussed this idea of passivity in other aspects of our lives, and how we surround ourselves with people who make us feel comfortable.  A passive person will surround himself with passive friends, because for a timid guy, there’s nothing more uncomfortable than a wild, confident soul who meets life with guns a blazin’. 

But of course, chocolate cake dipped in chocolate with chocolate sprinkles on top is still just...chocolate.  And a passive person surrounded by passive friends will remain passive, despite his intentions to do something extraordinary.

We strive for the Comfort Zone.

But the Comfort Zone should actually be renamed to the Uncomfort Zone, because the zone you’re settled in is the same zone that denies you the place in life where you’d actually be more comfortable: having achieved your dream of publishing a book, or getting that degree, or starting your own business, starting that blog, yada, yada, yada.

Successful people surround themselves with successful people.  Don’t like the word “successful?”  Then substitute the word “passionate.”  It all boils down to the same thing.

There are many examples of accomplished people who happened to know each other during their formative years.  Bud Selig and Herb Kohl, Robin Williams and Christopher Reeve, Al Gore and Tommy Lee Jones, the Facebook and Google guys, etc., and the drive and passion of these people helped to instill drive and passion in each other. 

When I was in college with a goal in mind, it was much easier – much more comfortable – to head to Schnooner’s for a dozen quarter taps of soapy Hamms than to write that paper, send that resume, attend that concert. 

Twenty five years later, I find myself in a similar predicament of my own making (always of my own making – I point fingers at no one).  I’ve been in a writers’ group for eight years now.  Two of us have self-published books, one has a few short story awards under his belt, a few haven’t finished anything, but none of us has achieved what we set out to do all those years ago: publish a book through an agent and make money at it. 

And here’s the thing: most of the time, we’re all okay with that.  We get together and we read.  If we haven’t written anything that week, that’s okay.  We enjoy each other’s company, we give a bit of advice, and if we do mention specific goals, no one holds us accountable to them.

How warm.  How fuzzy.

But do any of us actually drive the other person to achieve?

I think not.

The website, Live your Legend, asks the question: of the five or ten people you spend the most time with, are they passionate?  Do they inspire you?  If the answer is no, then it’s time to find new friends.

Please note that it doesn’t say, “discard your old friends.”  But it does place responsibility on each of us to leave our comfort zones where we are warm, safe and settled, and try a different tactic that – if luck holds – will only make us uncomfortable for a short while.

I’ve been guilty of coasting through life.  But if I can get enough people like me in a room at one time, then the drive and passion I have will be reinforced.  Unproductive spells will be unacceptable.  Goals will be communicated and adhered to.  Networks will be formed, contacts made.

Onward to the Uncomfort Zone.

This isn’t to say there weren’t some questionable moves this off season.   The highlight of the 2011 Brewers team was its pitching, and while all five starters are returning in the spring, the bullpen took a significant hit, though not as big as initially expected. 

Most surprising was Alex Rodriquez’s decision to accept arbitration, who was unable to find a team willing to offer him a closer role out of the pen.  Although the Brewers weren’t exactly hoping to have him return as a very expensive set-up man, perhaps it’s for the best in light of the two pitchers Melvin let get away.  The aging LaTroy Hawkins and Takashi Saito, both of whom came off injuries in 2011 to make major contributions to the Brewers’ bullpen, were lost to free agency.  Perhaps Melvin decided to quit while he was ahead, the way in hindsight he perhaps should have done with Trevor Hoffman after his stellar 2009 season, but it’s difficult to understand in light of how inexpensively these players were snatched in the open market.  Hawkins signed a one-year contract worth $3 million with the Angels, and Saito signed a one-year deal with the Diamondbacks worth $1.75 million.  Why Melvin thought it wasn’t worth pursuing these players for these prices is perplexing.

Another surprise was Melvin’s unwillingness to sign a two-year deal with Jerry Hairston, whose contributions at second base and centerfield down the stretch and into the playoffs were impressive.  The two-year $6 million deal Hairston signed with the Dodgers might have fit in well for the Brewers, who have injury-prone centerfielders in Gomez and Morgan (not to mention terrible strikeout ratios) and second baseman  Weeks.  The Crew also lost Mark Kotsay (again, for a meager $1.25 million) to the Padres, so utility infielders and outfielders are currently in short supply, and the prospect of losing Braun makes these needs more pressing than usual.

On the other hand, the Brewers upgraded the left side of the infield, which was atrocious both on defense and offense last season.  At shortstop, the Brewers upgraded from Betancourt to Alex Gonzalez – a defensive upgrade only, as Gonzalez is as awful at the plate as his predecessor – and at third the Brewers let go of McGehee and signed Aramis Ramirez to a three-year deal.  It’ll be interesting to see what kind of numbers Ramirez can put up at Miller Park, as his 2011 stats for a woeful Cubs team were exceptional.   And Ramirez might also serve to fill another hole – that left by Prince Fielder in the cleanup spot.

As insurance against Braun’s possible suspension, and as a left-handed outfielder off the bench, the Brewers are currently looking at Norichika Aoki from Japan, and have until January 17^th to agree to terms.  Several other players have been invited to spring training, but the only real question marks at this point are the bullpen and utility infielders and outfielders.  Barring injuries, the Crew’s opening day roster is fairly well set. 

Ultimately, if the Brewers have difficultly out of the pen in the 6^th and 7^th innings, or if an outfield or infield injury comes to pass, fans might cry out to Melvin about the inexpensive players he let get away.  But one can’t argue that the team isn’t in position to be competitive, which is a significant change from years’ past.

The Packers Championships in the 60s?  Wish I had been there.

The ’71 Bucks.  The ’77 Warriors.  The ’82 Brewers.  Three UW Rose Bowl victories.  Terrific times.

But for Wisconsin sports fans, 2011 was the greatest year on record, and I’m not quite sure young Wisconsinites get it.  They can’t recall a time when the Packers weren’t a contender (assuming they block out 2008).  To them, the Badgers football team has always been bowl-bound.  And sure, the Brewers had some tough years, but two playoff appearances in four seasons is nothing to scoff at.

They don’t know what we know.  We’ve suffered through bad seasons.  Really bad.  Horrendously bad.  Like 4-12 Packer teams, a Brewers franchise that avoided the playoffs for two and a half decades, and...well, you want to hear about bad?  Get this – the 2011 Badgers football team won as many games as in my entire tenure at UW-Madison.  (And it took me five football seasons to graduate!)

I’m not even joking about that last one.  UW won ten games in five seasons.  It was the Don Morton debacle.

So when looking back on 2011, it’s hard to convey to young folks just how amazing this year has been.

Consider the following:

The Packers lost a total of one game in 2011, won a Super Bowl and set a record for regular season wins.

The Brewers won 101 games in 2011, including a playoff run, and set a record for regular season wins.

Both Marquette and Wisconsin made the Sweet Sixteen in the men’s NCAA tournament.

And sure, UW football started 2011 with a loss in the Rose Bowl, but it ended the year with a chance to change the outcome.

Years like 2011 just don’t happen.  Maybe in cities where drinking beer is just a pastime, not a mission, but not in puny Milwaukee and Green Bay. 

So soak it up, young sports lovers.  2011 might go down as the pinnacle of Wisconsin sports years.  A year you’ll tell your grandkids about.  A year that will one day bring a smile to you as you suffer through season after season of botched fielding, inept tackling and sloppy dribbling.

Then again, you might instead recall 2012, a year that shows just as much promise today as its little sister did last New Year’s Eve.

Soak it up, indeed.