Hello, Huxtable Residence

Playing in an adult softball league is one of the few youthful pursuits I have left. As I approach a milestone birthday, I feel like I'm showing my age more than I should. I'm married. I'm a father. I own a minivan. I have a mortgage. And now the wife and I are shopping for a bigger home for our growing family.

We've been reading lots of real estate listings and going to open houses. In shopping for homes, I've been in several different styles of abodes, from different eras and with varying floor plans. They include townhouses, ranchers, split-levels, colonials, dog houses and outhouses. They all have "master suites," "beautiful hw floors" and "custom wdw treatments." They also all have kitchens and they all have doors. But none of the kitchens have doors.

I have never lived in a house, apartment or condominium that has a door between the kitchen and the living room. Come to think of it, I've never even been in a house that has a door between the kitchen and the living room -- let alone a house with a double-hinged door.

Of course, in every single sitcom, there is a double-hinged door between the kitchen and the living room (never the dining room, which would make more sense.)

Where did this cliche originate? Is it just Hollywood imitating itself? Why not a pocket door? Or a beaded curtain? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned pass through?

Maybe someday, I will install a double hinged door to my kitchen. Then, while guests are sitting in the living room, I can go in the kitchen and argue with my wife without having to worry that anyone can hear me. Except for the live studio audience, of course.

Mercy Rule

Today I continued to be annoyed by having to traverse icy glaciers just to cross the street. I saw a man across from my office trying to "shovel" the ice off the sidewalk in front of his restaurant this afternoon. He grew increasingly frustrated as the thick chunks of ice that nearly claimed eight lives in 48 hours simply refused to budge. I watched as he broke not one, but two snow shovels. Maybe it's because they were "snow shovels" and not "three-day-old-packed-ice shovels." I surmise that if he had attempted to shovel his walk on Wednesday before the 3 inches of snow turned into two inches of solid teflon-coated-concrete, he wouldn't have had such a problem.

But then my day was brightened by a little e-mail I received just moments later. It was the notice that my spring softball league was now open for registration. The first game is April 29. That's practically just around the corner. Spring is almost here. I can just feel the warm rays on the back of my neck.

Now that's an e-mail I liked receiving. Maybe I won't close my inbox after all. Funny how it all comes full circle.

Willing to Sacrifice

On the subject of manners, people aren't just weasels online -- they're jerks after a snow/ice/sleet storm, too. There are some standards of human decency in times of wintry weather that seem not to apply south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Namely:

1) A few handfuls of rock salt sprinkled on the ground are not a substitute for actually shoveling your sidewalk.
1a) Shovel your g.d. sidewalk.
2) When driving on a road covered with a light dusting of snow, it is not necessary to drive at 5 mph...while riding your brakes...uphill. Please get the hell over.
3) Clean off the roof of your car. The huge, jagged slabs of ice that fly off the roof of your car can actually be slightly dangerous.
4) If there is a snowbank plowed against the curb, this does not give you permission to park perpendicular to the flow of traffic so that everyone has to merge into a half lane to get around your crap-ass car.
5) To the snowplow drivers: Try plowing all the way up to the edge of the curb. Just clearing a single curvy lane down the middle of a street is not terribly helpful. It makes for a fun driver's ed course, but is not efficient for assisting in the flow of two-way traffic.
6) SHOVEL YOUR SIDEWALK!

Perhaps these various wintry hazards are what have caused all the schools in the area to remain closed for two days. Yes, the weather on the first day of the storm was a little squirrelly. There had only been one snow-day all year, so I guess the kids (read: the teachers) were deserving of one. But today, Baltimore County Schools were "closed all day due to inclement weather."

I'm wondering just what about today's February weather was so "inclement." Was it the low humidity? The moderate easterly breeze? What is the sub 29-degree temperature? Maybe it was the bright, shining sun that beamed most of the day. Or maybe they were waiting for the rock salt to melt all the ice in front of the schools, rather than just shoveling the sidewalks.

Don't Be a Human Paraquat

Speaking of mustaches, you never see politicians wearing facial hair. William Howard Taft was the last US President to have any. He was also the last President to weigh more than 300 pounds. I guess times have changed just a little.

Back then, people still knew what a buggy whip was. They read books. And when they were angry with someone, they'd call them a scalawag or rapscallion. Such abasements could be followed by a strongly worded letter or the challenge of a duel. But certainly, there was no e-mail flame copied to eighteen other people in your company.

I am exactly one e-mail away from closing my inbox. It never fails to shock me at how the immediacy and perceived anonymity of e-mail empowers individuals to be complete and utter @ssholes.

At my job, I receive hundreds of e-mails per day. These range from nettlesome business solicitations to inocuous messages about empty tupperware in the staff lunchroom. But mixed among the meeting requests and deal confirmations are always several abusive messages per day. Some of them are directed toward me (deservedly or not). Others are messages I have been copied on for the purpose of embarassing the target. Worse yet, some of them I have been blind copied on.

I can appreciate how easy it is to be a complete and utter schmuck over e-mail. When you're angry, upset or just being an irrational douchebag, it's easy to sit in your filthy hole and fire off an obnoxious and hate-filled e-mail. And with a couple extra clicks, you can enjoy the cheap rush of copying the recipient's boss, secretary, janitors, ex-officemates and former-employees.

But I've learned that if you just stop for one second, take a breath and look at what you've written, it's quite easy not to be a total shithead. Don't call ex-girlfirends when you're drunk and don't write e-mails when you're angry. And certainly do not copy your insulting rants to others. It only broadcasts what a complete and total jerk you are.

There's a saying that you should never put anything in an e-mail that you wouldn't say to someone's face. Unfortunately, this is not a good rule of thumb. Because when you're sitting behind your vintage 1997 Gateway with 64MB of RAM, it's easy to feel eight feet tall. It's quite possible to picture yourself actually having the spine to say each and every word you're typing to someone's face.

As is the case with so much new technology, there are still few societal mores that keep bad behavior in check -- think cell phones that ring to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" or oblivious morons wearing iPods and blocking your way in a store.

I am serioulsy considering an e-mail boycott of one whole week. Messages sent to my inbox would receive an automated response instructing the sender to either call telephonically or correspond via US Postal Service. I kind of want to see what life was like before e-mail. If you wanted to "carbon copy" multiple people, it required multiple envelopes, multiple stamps and multiple paper cuts.

Or maybe instead of closing my inbox, I'll contruct a form e-mail that I bounce back to e-morons. If an incoming message contains criticism, editorializing, bullying, sarcasm, venting, foul language, needless "cc'ing," "bcc'ing" or general shitiness, a boiler-plate response will indicate that such messages will not be returned. A telephone number will be provided should additional communication be desired. Otherwise, please go to hell. Simultaneously, your message will be filed under "@."

Michaels, Cosell and Weaver

Speaking of hiatuses, baseball is about to come out of it's annual hibernation. To get us all in the mood, all this week the Mid-Atlantic Sports Network has been replaying a game of the 1983 World Series each night. I guess it's one (dis)advantage of living in Baltimore. Hey, it could be worse. I could live in Toronto.

Even though I know the Orioles will eventually beat the Phillies in five games, I've found myself watching pretty regularly. Maybe it's the lousy mid-season replacements on the networks. Or it could be a touch of "spring phever." Whatever the reason for watching, I sure am enjoying the trip down memory lane.

Oh, the wasting confines of Memorial Stadium. The bright green carpet of the Vet. The powder-blue road uniforms. The cartoon Oriole bird logo. And check out those stirrups and zippered jerseys.

But what's up with the facial hair? I can't believe how many of these guys had mustaches! I think each team was allowed only two clean upper lips. Pete Rose and Von Hayes for the Phillies, Cal Ripken, Jr and Jim Palmer for the Orioles. Every other guy on the field was sporting their own style of soup-strainer. Of course Schmitty's 'stache was way manlier than anything Dempsey or Flannigan could muster. And it's definitely not something A-Rod or Jeter could ever pull off.

So what of the mustache? What killed it? Where did it go? Is it poised for a comeback? Why is it that relief pitchers seem to be the only players these days than can wear a hairy lip?

One Hiatus Begins...

...and another ends.

These are some big shoes to fill. Can I possibly help to bridge this gap in the blogosphere? I can't promise to try. But I'll try to try.