Top 40 Songs of 2012 (if you have kids)

It's New Year's Eve and once again iTunes has helped me compile my family's forty most played songs of the year. (Um... can you tell we have five kids under the age of ten?)

1. Locked Out of Heaven (Bruno Mars)

2. It Will Rain (Bruno Mars)

3. We Are Young (Fun feat. Janelle Monáe)           

4. Eyes Open (Taylor Swift)

5. Call Me Maybe (Carly Rae Jepsen)

6. Ours (Taylor Swift)

7. We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together (Taylor Swift)

8. Payphone (Maroon 5 feat. Wiz Khalifa)

9. Boyfriend (Justin Bieber)

10. Rumour Has It (Adele)

11. Moves Like Jagger (Maroon 5)

12. Harder to Breathe (Maroon 5)

13. Shake It Up (Selena Gomez)

14. Baby (Justin Bieber & Ludacris)

15. Mean (Taylor Swift)

16. Sparks Fly (Taylor Swift)

17. Billionaire (Travie McCoy feat. Bruno Mars)

18. California Gurls (Katy Perry feat. Snoop Dogg)

19. Back To December (Taylor Swift)

20. On the Floor (Jennifer Lopez feat. Pitbull)

21. Kissin U (Miranda Cosgrove)

22. Some Nights (Fun)

23. Makes Me Wonder (Maroon 5)

24. Good Time (Owl City & Carly Rae Jepsen)

25. You Belong With Me (Taylor Swift)

26. Who Says (Selena Gomez & The Scene)

27. Firework (Katy Perry)

28. Fearless (Taylor Swift)

29. One More Night (Maroon 5)

30. Volcano (Jimmy Buffett)

31. Start Again (Counting Crows)

32. Love Story (Taylor Swift)

33. Kookie Kookie, Lend Me Your Comb (Edd Byrnes)

34. As Long As You Love Me (Justin Bieber feat. Big Sean)

35. One Less Lonely Girl (Justin Bieber)

36. Make It Shine (Victorious Cast)

37. Girlfriend (Avril Lavigne)

38. Leave It All to Me (Miranda Cosgrove)           

39. Safe & Sound (Taylor Swift feat. The Civil Wars

40. Nothin' On You (B.o.B feat. Bruno Mars)

And as a way to save face, here are my most-listened to songs of 2012. (This is the part where my wife will call me an old man.)

1. We Can Work It Out (The Beatles)

2. Emotion In Motion (Ric Ocasek)

3. My Back Pages (Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, George Harrison, et al.)

4. Please Please Me (The Beatles)

5. I'll Follow the Sun (The Beatles)

6. Let My Love Open The Door (Pete Townshend)

7. Electric Blue (Icehouse)

8. Take It On The Run (REO Speedwagon)

9. New York, New York (Frank Sinatra)

10. Don't Stop Believin' (Journey)

11. Denise (Randy & Rainbows)

12. God Only Knows (The Beach Boys)

13. When I Grow Up To Be a Man (The Beach Boys)

14. All My Loving (The Beatles)

15. You've Got To Hide Your Love Away (The Beatles)

16. Paperback Writer (The Beatles)

17. The Times They Are A-Changin' (Bob Dylan)

18. Norwegian Wood (The Beatles)

19. Blowin' In the Wind (Bob Dylan)

20. Like a Rolling Stone (Bob Dylan)

21. Real World (Matchbox Twenty)

22. Expressway To Your Heart (Soul Survivors)

23. Born In The U.S.A. (Bruce Springstein)

24. All I Really Want To Do (The Byrds)

25. I Wonder Why (Dion & The Belmonts)

26. Got to Get You Into My Life (The Beatles)

27. Cool (Gwen Stefani)

28. Boston (Augustana)

29. I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues (Elton John)

30. Rag Doll (Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons)

31. Basket Case (Green Day)

32. Laid (James)

33. Mrs. Robinson (Simon & Garfunkel)

34. Penny Lane (The Beatles)

35. Take Me Home Tonight (Eddie Money)

36. Next Year (Foo Fighters)

37. Runaround Sue (Dion)

38. Lonely Teenager (Dion)

39. Walk of Life (Dire Straits)

40. Remember Then (The Earls)

Happy New Year, everyone!

35 Minutes From Newtown

It's a cold, grey afternoon here in Central Connecticut; but I'm inside. Our fireplace is lit, our Christmas tree twinkles in the corner - and as if by some obsessive-compulsive urge I keep counting the stockings that hang on the mantle.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All present and accounted for.

From my perch in the living room, I can hear my five children giggling in the kitchen. They're decorating gingerbread houses, though I'm sure more candy has landed in their stomachs than on the frosted roofs. In a few minutes they'll go watch "Frosty the Snowman" or "Elmo's Christmas Countdown" for the umpteenth time; but for now their focus - their only care in the world - revolves around candy canes and gumdrops.

It dawns on me, as it has often over the past three days, that I could get in my car right now and drive to Sandy Hook Elementary School in about 35 minutes. Thirty-five minutes. That's all that separates my kids' little gingerbread houses from what many have deemed the epicenter of evil in this cruel, inexplicable world.

The questions won't stop pouring through my mind:

What has society come to?

Where is our collective conscience?

How does a loving, compassionate God allow something like this to happen?

Over the next several weeks, reflection will be aplenty. Analyses both forensic and philosophical will inundate - if not consume - us. Our tiny state of Connecticut will undoubtedly lead every news outlet from Dateline NBC to People magazine, while (hopefully) a national public policy debate on semi-automatic weapons will ensue.

And in nine days we'll celebrate Christmas.

I look up again at our stockings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All present and accounted for.

May God bless those who aren't as lucky.

Why This Year's Yankee Loss Is Worse Than 2004

The official time of death for the 2012 New York Yankees was yesterday at 7:27 pm, although anyone who knows anything about baseball could tell they'd been on life support since just after midnight on Sunday. Less than ninety minutes after Raul Ibanez tied a playoff game (again) in the bottom of the ninth (again), the Bronx came to a screeching halt as Derek Jeter - the leader, the captain, the heart-and-soul of his team - was carried off the field by his manager.

Jeter broke his ankle and would be out for the remainder of the 2012 postseason... but it didn't matter. The games from that point on were a mere formality. As sure as I was we were going to win the World Series when Ibanez homered, I was equally sure we'd get swept four games to none when Jeter was carried off.

Unfortunately I was right.

In my 35 years on this planet, the Yanks have won the World Series a whopping seven times - which means they've been eliminated, one way or another, 28 times. Of those 28 times, the 2004 loss to the Boston Red Sox obviously stands-out as the most famous (since it resulted in a trivia question: "What is the only team in MLB history to lose a 7-game series after starting 3-0?"); but I'm ready to argue that from a fan's standpoint, the Yankees' loss in this 2012 series was worse. Here are five reasons why:

1. The 2012 Yankees were a much better team than the 2004 Yankees. Think about it: Mark Texeira vs. John Olerud? Robinson Cano vs. Miguel Cairo? CC Sabathia vs. Jon Lieber? David Robertson vs. Esteban f'n Loaiza? Yes, that team had Bernie Williams and Jorge Posada - but on the whole, the 2012 team was and is significantly better than the 2004 team.

2. The 2004 Red Sox were significantly better than the 2012 Tigers. Again with the match-ups: David Ortiz vs. Delmon Young, Manny Ramirez vs. Andy Dirks, Orlando Cabrera vs. Jhonny Peralta... and while I admit Justin Verlander is comparable to Pedro Martinez, the rest of the 2012 Tigers' pitching doesn't hold a candle to Curt Schilling, Derek Lowe or Keith Foulke.

3. The 2012 Yankees wasted the one thing the 2004 Yankees never had: good postseason pitching. Every manager knows that regardless of how you got into the postseason, the key to winning the postseason is pitching - pure and simple. All season long this Yankee team has had question marks around its rotation and its bullpen. We trade for Michael Pineda and he goes out for the season. We have the best closer in baseball history in Mariano Rivera and he goes down for the season. "Big Game" Andy Pettitte spends most of the second half of the season pitching simulated games... and even our ace Sabathia has two stints on the DL. Our hitting carried us into the playoffs, but everyone wondered what would happen on the mound... and our guys responded with one of the most impressive postseason pitching performances I've ever seen (for a group of guys with so much uncertainty). The Yanks lost the 2004 ALCS because Kevin Brown sucked. So did Lieber, Mussina, Javy Vazquez and (God help us) Tom Gordon. It was awful pitching and they deserved to lose. But this year, CC, Kuroda, Pettitte, Hughes, Soriano, Robertson and the others pitched their hearts out... and lost.

4. The 2012 Yankees' offensive had what can only be described as a monumental collapse.There are actually few words I can use to explain what happened to the Yankee bats. Its as if the wood was magically cursed by some evil sprite to gradually stop working after the 162nd game of the season. (Seriously: that's about as plausible as any other explanation out there.) I really have never seen anything like it. In 2004, the Yanks averages 12 hits a game in the ALCS. In 2012? 5.5! Five and a half hits per game from a team that's known for its offensive prowess. It was as if everyone (with the exception of Ichiro) simply shut down. A-Rod (1 for 9) gets the most negative press, but what about the others: Cano (1 for 18), Martin (2 for 14), Texeira (3 for 15) and the granddaddy of them all Curtis Granderson (a whopping 0 for 11 with 7 strikeouts). How many times were Yankee fans looking at a runner on third base with less than two outs saying "a fly ball... just hit a fly ball" - only to have the next two batters either pop-up to the catcher or dribble one right into the first baseman's glove? It was sad... and pathetic.

5. The 2012 Yankees lost their leader... and with him, their heart. I could certainly make the argument that had Cano and Texeira done their job in the bottom of the 11th inning, Jeter never would have had to go out in the field to play the top of the 12th. But he did, he got hurt and it was over. From where we were sitting in Section 233, it was obvious something was wrong the minute he hit the ground; what we weren't prepared for, though, was the worst. If the Stadium felt like a rock concert when Ibanez homered, it felt like a funeral parlor after Jeter was helped off the field. In an instant the aura had changed - from the grandstand to the men's room, it was obvious that the game, the series and the season were over. It wasn't that us fans gave up... it was simply that our hearts were broken.

The counter-argument to all of this, of course, is that losing to the Detroit Tigers can never possibly be as bad as losing to the Boston Red Sox. Such reasoning, however, is falsely predicated on the notion that Yankee Universe hates Red Sox Nation with the same passion for which Red Sox Nation hates Yankee Universe. The whole "Curse of the Bambino" thing was always a bigger deal for Boston than it was for New York; and while losing that 2004 ALCS was by no means the highlight of my career in Yankee (fan) pinstripes, it was a lot easier to swallow than this year's debacle.

Dump A-Rod, dump Granderson, dump Swisher. Pitchers and catchers report in 119 days... I can't wait!

SUMMER RE-RUN: Twins Again!

If network television can fill its summer/creative void with re-runs of things it has already broadcast, then so can I. This essay of mine appeared in the Summer 2009 issue of TWINS Magazine. (I think I'm supposed to put "used with permission" or something like that; but since its my own work that I'm using, granting myself permission to use it seems somewhat redundant.)


Father of Five: Twins Again?

By J.J. Treat

TWINS Magazine, Summer 2009

The grainy black-and-white ultrasound couldn’t have been any clearer. Two small circles, two dark spots, two little flutters.

We were having twins. Again.

Alex and Madeline were four and a half, Katherine was not quite 18 months and there we were, back in the same exam room where it all started, finding out we were having two more.

For a good, solid minute we sat in silence, taking deep breaths and staring at the monitor as if we were in a trance. Finally my wife blurted out: “Oh my God - what kind of a car is going to fit five kids?”

Without cracking a smile our doctor shrugged and deadpanned: “A Suburban.”

Two set of twins... and Katie in between.

Most statistics put the average American family at somewhere between 2.06 and 2.10 children – a fact which has come to explain the novelty of having five kids in today’s Western culture. From the minute we saw those two little flutters we knew we’d be branded a social anomaly.

My mother-in-law, for example, burst into hysterical laughter when we told her we were pregnant with Nos. 4 & 5. So did my mother. My father literally took an hour to absorb the news, while my father-in-law simply told us to get a bigger house… and soon.

When word got out to the rest of the world, most people gasped and told us how lucky we were (a legitimate reaction given our doctor’s claim that the odds of naturally conceiving twins twice is about the same as getting struck by lightning). Others suggested we get our own reality show on TLC.

And of course all of the people who thought we were crazy to have three children had plenty to say about our fourth and fifth. From the generic “How will you afford it?” to the more caustic “better you than me,” people didn’t mince their words.

Buried within the novelty, though, was the very real feeling that our life was changing – and for real, this time. The jump from zero children to two was big but expected; and the jump from two to three was nothing. But making the leap up to five was an unequivocal game-changer.

For starters, my father-in-law was right: we needed to move. Our three tiny bedrooms just weren’t practical anymore; plus, we wanted a town that offered a myriad of sports and activities so our five kids, who all already have different interests, would have plenty to choose from.

Mostly, though, we just needed to adapt to the everyday nuances that exist outside the American “norm”. Most strollers are built for one or two children; we needed one that could hold three. Most restaurants have booths to fit five; we’d always need one for seven. And most deals, specials, coupons and prizes are for a “Family 4-Pack.” With us that would barely cover half.

Kevin and Elizabeth were born full-term on a rainy September morning only a minute apart and weighing-in at a combined 14 pounds, 15 ounces (which I’m fairly certain qualifies my wife for sainthood). Coming from a comparatively small family, I was in awe – amazed, even – the first time I saw all five of my children together.

As early as our hospital stay, though, random strangers felt the need to weigh-in on the size of our brood. One woman chastised us for having so many children, citing the world population and the growing need to adopt. Another said we should have just stopped after the first set of twins. And plenty of uninhibited types had the nerve to ask “natural or in-vitro” with the same ease a waitress would ask “regular or decaf.”

Lucky for us, peppered within all the cynicism and commentary was genuine excitement - mostly from people who either came from or had big families like ours. They assured us that what most saw as a novelty was simply just our life.

That got me thinking. With five kids in public school, I will never again complain about paying my property taxes. And with five kids living under my roof, I should be able to stop shoveling snow by the time I’m 40.

With five kids, they will have to learn patience, independence and responsibility (since my wife and I can’t do everything for everybody). They will have to learn how to share, how to fight and how to resolve conflicts; and they will wave to learn how to tolerate other opinions and adapt to other interests.  

And with five children there will be plenty of people to take care of my wife and me when we’re old. More importantly, though, there will be plenty of them to take care of each other.

Life with a big family won’t always be easy. We’ve already had (and will surely continue to have) our ups and downs. But at the end of the day my wife and I rest well knowing we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of all the questions we are asked, the most common is always: “How do you handle all those kids?” I wish we had some snazzy, magical answer; but when people ask how we do it the simple truth is: we just do.

And we haven’t even needed a Suburban… yet.

J.J. Treat lives in West Hartford, CT with his wife and five children.

The Tragedy of Penn State

As both a guy who follows college sports and a human being who has a soul, its hard not to have an opinion on the debacle that has become Penn State football.

Both of my degrees are from the University of Connecticut (i.e. the Mecca of college basketball) so its fair to say I've never really cared all that much about the goings on in "Happy Valley". They played in a different conference, excelled in a different sport, and (gratuitous self-affirmation notwithstanding) hadn't won a national championship in that sport since Ronald Reagan was president. To me, there was really no difference between Penn State and the University of Hawaii.

Jerry Sandusky & Joe Paterno

Everything changed last fall, though, when the state of Pennsylvania finally slapped the cuffs on Jerry Sandusky.

After a three-year investigation, Sandusky, an assistant football coach and top lieutenant of Penn State legend Joe Paterno, was charged with forty-eight - FORTY-EIGHT! - counts of sexual abuse, most of which centered around young boys. Within days, the Penn State trustees (in a rare show of leadership) ceremoniously fired both Paterno and University President Graham Spanier, and they hired former FBI Director Louis Freeh to investigate further. Freeh's report, which was released a few weeks ago, was both shocking and scathing.

"Our most saddening and sobering finding is the total disregard for the safety and welfare of Sandusky's child victims by the most senior leaders at Penn State," Freeh wrote. "Messrs. Spanier, (Gary) Schultz, Paterno and (Tim) Curley never demonstrated, through actions or words, any concern for the safety and well-being of Sandusky's victims until after Sandusky's arrest."

Its not just disgusting, its disturbing. And "disturbing" is perhaps the nicest word I (or anyone else) could use to describe the culture that was allowed to permeate Penn State, its football program and its community.

Former Penn State VP Vicky Triponey

One of the names that keep creeping up in all of these Penn State stories is Vicky Triponey, the school's former Vice President for Student Affairs who was fired in 2007 for (and I'm using editorial license here) having the gall to stand-up to Paterno. I knew Vicky when she held a similar position at UConn; knew her well, in fact. We did a lot of work together my senior year and I was genuinely disappointed when she left us for Penn State. On the day after Freeh's report was issued, Vicky was quoted in USA Today as saying "Penn State became... too big to fail. It wasn't just that we can't have bad press. It was, we have to protect this image that we're perfect."

Like lemmings, people followed Joe Paterno and the brand he had cultivated. Even after Sandusky was arrested and Paterno fired, thousands of Penn State alumni and students took to the streets to protest the nerve of the school's trustees to even question - let alone terminate - the ultimate authority of the Almighty "Joe Pa". This culture - this cult-like way of thinking - has lead to what, in my mind, is the biggest issue at hand: the lack of focus on or sympathy for the victims.

New York Daily News columnist Mike Lupica, whose views on sports, politics and life are almost identical to mine, said it best: "These are the men who did not hear the cries of children... they told themselves they were protecting a school and a football program and protected a monster in their midst instead." A monster. Sandusky was a monster. A monster who permanently scarred the lives of countless young boys. The students and alumni who took to the streets to protest the firing of their beloved "Joe Pa" should most certainly keep that in mind.

To cast a pox upon all of Penn State and everyone who has ever had any affiliation with the university is both unfortunate and wrong. In the wake of this scandal, a group of Penn State alumni have created a website to raise money for the victims and survivors of sexual abuse. They state they are "embarrassed and shocked by the recent events at Penn State" and that they want to "stand up for the victims of abuse."

Thank God somebody still has a moral compass!

Joe Paterno died of lung cancer in January. Graham Spanier, Gary Schultz, Tim Curley and Lord knows how many others will almost certainly face criminal charges. And Jerry Sandusky, who was found guilty on 45 of the 48 counts against him, will spent the rest of his natural life in prison before rotting his afterlife away in hell.

Students and alumni holding vigil at the Paterno statue.

Still being debated on sports pages and talk shows across the country is what Mark Emmert and the NCAA should do with Penn State football. My two-cents: whack-it. Let every existing Penn State football player transfer immediately, penalty-free - and then cancel both the 2012 and 2013 seasons, essentially forcing the university to start from scratch. This isn't accepting plane tickets or selling memorabilia on eBay - this is a crime, a felony. Multiple felonies... at the highest levels of the athletic program and the university. They deserve the harshest penalty the NCAA has ever issued.

And as for the famed Paterno statue: I say melt it. Then sell the bronze and donate the proceeds to RAINN.org. It would be a good first step down what promises to be a long, long road of healing and recovery.

My Dad

For more than 38 years my father has been an educator. He started as a teacher, spent the bulk of his career as an elementary school principal, was promoted to Assistant Superintendent and eventually became Superintendent of Schools in the city where he (and I) grew-up. On June 30th, my dad will retire - marking the end of an era in the New Britain school district.

My Dad after throwing out the first pitch at the NB Rock Cats.

This past Wednesday night, my dad was feted at what can only be described as one of the largest retirement dinners I have ever even heard of, let alone attended. More than a dozen speakers touted my father's accomplishments and presented him with tokens of appreciation before my brother and I finally had the honor of introducing him. Here in its entirety is what I had to say:


There are more than 500 people here in this room tonight – and that is, in and of itself, both a tribute to my father and a representation of the vast cross-section that is his life. Family and friends… students and administrators… colleagues and business leaders… coaches, players, politicians… and teachers.

My father was and is - first and foremost - a teacher… a time-honored profession that transcends the history of civilized society. The acquiring of knowledge and dissemination of that knowledge is a skill - a gift – that generation upon generation of human beings have venerated not for its wealth or prestige, but for the very simple fact that it sustains our future. Teachers ensure that society advances; that it continues to propagate and prosper… for centuries and centuries to come. 

My father is a great teacher… and for all of you who know him, you won’t be surprised to learn that in my 34 years of being his son, he’s taught me a lot.

And for all of you who know him, you also won’t be surprised to learn that in 34 years of being his son, there are also several skills I’ve acquired that he ostensibly did NOT teach me: like sheetrocking… and plumbing. Installing an electrical outlet… or tiling a kitchen floor. Pretty much anything involving a hammer, nails, a drill… in fact he doesn’t even own a drill.

Every year I hike through a tree farm with my wife and kids and chop down a Christmas tree with my own two hands… NOT a skill I learned from my father.

Driving a car? Lord knows he tried… but that too was NOT something I learned from my father. And negotiating the price of a car? Definitely not something I learned from my father.

Fishing, painting, singing, playing cards? I can do all of them… with absolutely zero thanks to my father.

But obviously when I started thinking about what to say here tonight, it did dawn on me just how many things – how many important things – in my everyday life that my father the teacher did in fact teach me.

He taught me how to shave; and how to tie a tie… two skills without which I’d undoubtedly be unemployed.

He taught me how to read… a skill I not only use every day in my job, but more importantly every night when I put my kids to bed.

He taught me about baseball… a game that’s rarely ever over; that’s always possible to win. A game designed to make you fail, bounce back, fail again… and emerge stronger, more focused and more resilient than ever.

He taught me how to keep score in baseball… a skill that earned me all-conference honors at New Britain High my senior year; and he taught me how to be a coach… something I get to do with my son and his friends a couple of nights a week.

And while Joe Dimaggio famously thanked the Good Lord for making him Yankee, I always thank my father for making me a Yankee fan.

My dad the teacher taught me how to teach… something I’ve been doing at Central and the community colleges for almost ten years now. He taught me how it’s about patience and understanding… and always remembering that the ultimate purpose is to get your students to think.

He taught me about politics… how it’s not about celebrity or even a person; but rather a process – a powerful mechanism – that we all can use to help make our community, our country and our world a better place.

I make my living through politics – and though I don’t often say it: it was my father who first got me involved. In 1984, I was 7 years old – and my dad took me down to Democratic headquarters to work for Walter Mondale and an incumbent Congressman named William Ratchford. We stamped postcards, passed out buttons, ran numbers on Election Day… and of course we got trounced. Being only seven, I was devastated, but my dad taught me how to hope for the future and manage defeat… a skill that came in quite handy four years later when he took me to see Michael Dukakis speak in Waterbury – and he too got trounced.

When I was 11, he took me to a local candidate forum sponsored by a group of New Britain school parents. He was supporting some guy named DeFronzo who had never held office before and had virtually no chance of knocking off the city’s longest serving mayor… that one, of course, we won (go figure). And we won a lot more than we lost over the years, but the message was always the same: be active. Challenge the system. Stand up for what you believe in. My father taught me that win or lose, we have an obligation to inspire, to be a part of the process - to bring people together and work for the type of society in which we all want to live.

My dad taught me how to be a leader… a professional… part of an organization. And he taught me how to be passionate about my job… how life is too short to waste by not doing something you absolutely love. How there are good days and bad days… but no matter what: at the end of the day, you’ve got to have feeling for what you’re doing.

My father taught me to remember where I came from… to take pride in the fact that I’m the grandson of a factory worker and the grandson of a carpenter… and that were it not for my grandparents and their insistence that their children be educated, neither he nor my mother nor my brother nor I would be standing before you today.

My father taught and continues to teach me every day how to be a son-in-law… and of course: a son.

He has taught and continues to teach me every day how to be a brother… and a brother-in-law… and a cousin… and an uncle.

I watch his relationship with my mom – the woman he has loved and adored since their days at New Britain High. His partner, his companion… his confidant, his best friend… And I know that he’s taught me how to be a husband.

But in the final analysis – and above all else – the single most important thing I’ve learned – and continue to learn – from my father… is how to be a father. It’s been almost ten years since I first looked at that white stick with the little blue plus sign and knew that my life had changed forever. First came Alex and Maddie… and then my little Katie… and then Kevin and Libby. Are they overwhelming at times? Sure… and it helped that my dad was always there for the big things: when they were born, when they were baptized… when they were in the Emergency Room (which by my count I believe at least four of the five have been at some point). But in a way he’s also there every minute of every day… as I navigate my own ups and downs of fatherhood with my own children. Whether it’s helping them with their homework, or taking them on vacation, or talking them through a bad day at school or a rough outing on the pitcher’s mound… or answering their millions of questions about everything ranging from: who built me?... to what’s it like up in Heaven?... to why haven’t the Houston Astros ever won the World Series?

At every turn, at every step of the way, my first point of reference is always to think back to me and Nick – two little kids growing up – and ask: what did Dad do? What would Dad do? And just like any good, free-thinking student: sometimes I follow my teacher’s lessons, and sometime I don’t. Sometimes I have to try and fail on my own before I can see that he’s right… and sometimes he’s even taught me so well that I can admit that he’s wrong.

That’s the beauty of fatherhood… and the beauty of teaching. And in the end, they’re both what he knows best.

It’s my pleasure, my privilege, my honor to introduce the guy my grandparents named Ron… the guy that people call Ronnie and Jake… Mr. J… Coach Ron, Uncle Ron… Grandpa…

And the guy I still just call Dad.    

All I Really Need to Know I Learned from "Saved By The Bell"

Although the less cultured among us undoubtedly dismiss it as nothing more than a cheesy NBC Saturday morning television show for kids, I will admit: all I really need to know in life I learned from Saved By The Bell*... for instance:

- There is no such thing as magic zit cream... and even if there is, its not without some side-effects.

- Despite the laws of popular physics, you can instantaneously pause all moving matter simply by calling "TIME OUT".

- "California Girls" by the Beach Boys does, in fact, have hypnotic powers.


- Don't make friends in middle school... because once you get to high school they're all going to disappear without explanation, only to be replaced by newer friends who happen to be significantly more attractive (thus ensuring higher ratings and a significant mark-up in advertising rates).

- And while you'd think someone named "Miss Bliss" would be a porn start or a pole dancer, chances are she's simply your teacher.

- Pay attention in Health class... you never know when you're going to be trapped in an elevator with your principal's pregnant wife and have to deliver a baby.

- Don't under any circumstances allow your nickname to become "Screech".

- And if by chance your name does become Screech, be warned: the rich girl in school who looks like Punky Brewster is only after you for your money.

- Kelly Kapowski was and is the measure by which all women on this planet should be judged.

- There is no shame in mourning the loss of a pet chameleon. (Oh, wait - there is? Sorry... scratch that one.)

- Babysitting your Anthropology professor's kids is a bad idea; falling in love with said professor is even worse.

- Like The King himself, vintage Elvis statues are irreplaceable.

- No matter how hard you work, how good you dance or how many caffeine pills you pop, you will not - I repeat: will NOT - get into Stansbury College... since it doesn't exist.

- It is possible to go from being a geek at one high school to part of the in-crowd at another high school without losing your virginity. (Granted it also helps if your father owns the production company.)

- Nothing good could possibly come from being set-up on a blind date with your principal's niece... nothing.

- Disney fairy tales set to rap music are soooo 1990's.

- You would think its against a slew of federal and state laws to sneak into the women's locker room, secretly take pictures of the girl's swim team and then publish said pictures in a pin-up calendar... but apparently its not.

- A new stepbrother is like a mild STD: it shows up out of nowhere, wreaks havoc on your life for a few days and then disappears, never to be heard from (or even mentioned off-handed) ever again.

- When judging a Fourth of July beauty pageant between your ex-girlfriend and your current girlfriend, always always always vote for your current girlfriend. (As if that really needs to be pointed out.)

- Striking oil on school property is fun and will make you rich. Unfortunately, it will also kill your favorite duck.

- Never give relationship advice over the phone unless you are absolutely 100% sure who's listening on the other end.

- The popular kid who hates school, cuts class and spends an eternity in detention always scores better on his SATs than the super-smart bookworm aiming for the Ivy Leagues. It's inevitable.

- Also inevitable: hot homeless chicks hanging around the mall at Christmas.

- When you graduate high school, you will be replaced by a new set of students... but fear not: they are neither as interesting or original as you were, and after a year or two no one will even remember they even existed.

- And finally: yes, its true... there is, in fact, no hope with dope.


*With many many apologies to the brilliant Robert Fulghum

Fifty Shades of Jay

A few months ago my wife and her Book Club friends began giggling about the new trilogy they were reading; and as soon as I heard the heated debates about who should play - gasp! - "Him" in the movie, I discerned that their latest literary conquest carried with it an unusually risque flare.

Both the rapidity and dedication with which my wife and her BFF's devoured the books were quite impressive, and I naturally became intrigued... even more so a few weeks later when said wife/BFFs made their pilgrimage to New Haven (along with a thousand other women) to meet the brilliant British author who had turned her personal musings into an international bestseller.

Interest grew when I told a writer friend who was covering the New Haven event for our state's paper of record that my wife would be attending. Her blunt response upon hearing of my wife's interest in the author and her trilogy: "Wow... you must be exhausted."

The straw of intrigue that broke this camel's back, though, came in the halls of my kids' elementary school. It was Open House night and parents were being lead chaotically from classroom to classroom by their adoring children. My wife started talking to another mother about "the books" - and while being pulled by her first or second grader in the opposite direction, this mother managed to announce with a suggestive smirk: "My husband's quite happy too."

Enough!

I couldn't take it anymore... I had to know: What, exactly, was this Fifty Shades of Grey? And why the hell did it have a cosmic hold on every 20/30/40-year-old woman in Connecticut?

First, the simple answer: Fifty Shades of Grey is an accidental novel originally written by British author E.L. James as a series of blog entries. It became so popular that Vintage Books picked it up, published it and awarded the movie rights to Universal Pictures, thus rendering Ms. James an instant multi-millionaire. (Since this is the desired career path for all of us writers, Ms. James' success story leaves me slightly impressed but mostly dripping with bitter jealousy.)

The plot itself was billed by my wife (and countless others) as a Pretty Woman-type love story... an analogy I'd wholly accept were the Julia Roberts character a sexually naive virgin instead of a hooker and the Richard Gere character a dark, disturbed sadist instead of - well, Richard Gere.Yet nonetheless, I get it: lonely yet insanely rich business man falls for an unlikely woman. Very cute.

But there had to be more. Had the fairy tale plot been enough to turn women into blushing goo, they'd simply sit home and watch Disney movies every night. What, then, sets this apart? The answer, for lack of a more scientific term, is quite simple: the sex.

I've never read one of those cheesy romance novels, but I've always envisioned them reading something like the more lurid passages in Fifty Shades of Grey. Christian (the rich sadist) often touches Ana (the virginal protagonist) "there." Then she "writhes and moans" as he "finds his release." Its suggestively comical. Kinky, too. In fact there was quite a bit of that S&M bondage stuff; and although I personally don't participate in that - ehem - "lifestyle," I'm not so naive as to deny it exists. For fans of that particular fetish, Fifty Shades must have been a dream come true; for the rest of us, it was a mere nuisance that had to be overlooked and overcome.

Whips and chains notwithstanding, I still admire any book that brings sex into the conscious mainstream of the middle-aged female soccer mom. Sure its a little unnerving to know that my mother-in-law, sisters-in-law and countless other female relatives have read, but I think most of us men are willing to take one for the team in the name of a greater societal good. As a man reading this book, though, three tenets come to mind - none of which are relatively new or far-fetched: first, women love powerful men; second, at some primal level they yearn to be controlled; and third, women love the challenge of a truly effed-up guy.

What I truly didn't expect, though, was the wildly contrarian nature of Ana.

She wasn't a pushover. She held her ground, wouldn't give in. She wouldn't even sign his silly sex contract - which made her more desirable to Christian, to me and, I suspect, to any other guy out there brave enough to read these books. As a friend of mine once famously said "I could never be with a girl who likes me that much." A tad hyperbolic, but I understood his point: even the most powerful of men like to be challenged. Sure we like to joke that in a perfect world we'd all have wives/girlfriends/live-in nannies that just did whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, however we wanted, et cetera. And while such a relationship might be fun in theory, most of the men that I know (myself included) could never last with a woman who invariably kiss their ass.

Ana had nerve, she had spunk... she had self-esteem - and to me, that was the best part of Fifty Shades of Grey.

My wife has encouraged me to read the second two novels in the trilogy, but I imagine I'll pass. Not that there's anything wrong with them, per se... I just think I need a break. I'll ask her for the thirty second version of how it all ends and then finally turn my attention to the new John Grisham book about baseball that's been burning a hole in my nightstand for weeks.

As for E.L. James and her Fifty Shades of success? On behalf of every soccer dad in America I guess I should simply say "thanks"... but that sounds far too corny and is patently not me. Instead, I'll close with the soft, seductive words of Christian Grey.

"Laters, baby"... (though I still don't know what that means).

Pneumatic Theater

The doctor glanced at my x-rays, looked me up and down, then glanced at my x-rays again. He stuffed them back into the large manilla envelope and had a seat at his desk.

"It looks like you've got pneumonia," he said matter-of-factly... and had this been two hundred years ago, I would have hopped on my horse, galloped over to the local undertaker and started planning my funeral. This being 2012, however, I hopped into my car, drove over to CVS, pick-ed up my z-pak and headed home for five days of mandatory rest, relaxation and cough syrup with (Amen!) codeine.

I couldn't tell you the last time I took a sick day - let alone four in a row - so I had no idea what I was going to do to pass the time. Sure I read a little bit, and at times even checked my email; but aside from the 14 hours a day I spent sleeping, my time was mostly consumed by inordinate amount of television.

Here are some highlights:

The $25,000 Pyramid
I should have known better than to watch this one so close to the passing of Dick Clark. The minute he appeared on the screen made me a little misty-eyed. So did seeing Markie Post (from Night Court) reading off the clues to some 40-year-old 1980's housewife dressed like Estelle Getty. At any rate, I was amused at the point in the second round when the Estelle Getty lady won the "Mystery 7" prize and Dick informed her the prize was "a brand new Video... Casette... Recorder!" The lady went bananas; I laughed out loud.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off
One of the most under-appreciated pieces of dialogue comes at the end when Ferris' parents (who are married in real life, by the way) pull up to their house after the big Ferris-and-Jeanie chase scene...

      MRS. BUELLER: I just picked-up Jeanie at the police station. She got a  
        speeding ticket, another speeding ticket and I lost the Vermont deal
        because of her.

      MR. BUELLER: I think we should shoot her.

Silver Streak and See No Evil, Hear No Evil
I did a little twin-spin of Gene Wilder/ Richard Pryor flicks. The former was late 1970's classic that my brother and I must have watched a million times when we were kids - the premise is kind of dumb and the dialogue is corny, but the train crashing into Chicago's Union Station at the end is still cool. The later was the first R-rated movie I ever saw in the theater... and save the gratuitous Joan Severance shower scene, its rather unremarkable.

Field of Dreams
A guy plows under his corn and builds a baseball field so that the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson can come play... which he does. Honestly: has there ever been a sports movie with a more absurd premise? Its dorky, hokey and overly sentimental - yet like any other red-blooded American male who loves both his father and baseball, I usually end up in tears at the end.

Law & Order
Thanks to my Apple TV, I now have access to every single Law & Order episode ever made. (Of course you could also argue that by virtue of having access to TBS, TNT and the USA Network I already had the complete series at my fingertips, but I digress.) I gasped when they killed Greevey, gaped awestruck at the acting genius of Paul Sorvino and got a little misty-eyed when I saw Lennie Briscoe (RIP Jerry Orbach).

Spaceballs
Daphne Zuniga in hot... a fact often overlooked in this Mel Brooks classic. Also overlooked...

      DARTH HELMET: Found anything yet?
      TROOPER 1: Nothing yet, sir.
      DARTH HELMET: How about you?
      TROOPER 2: Not a thing, sir.
      DARTH HELMET: What about you guys?
      TROOPER 3: We ain't found shit!

The West Wing
I watched pretty much every episode from when Josh convinces Matt Santos to run for President all the way through the wild Democratic convention. Santos' "we are members of the Democratic Party" speech still gives me goose-bumps... so does Arnie Vinick's sly "alright - let's go win this thing" line to end the season. (It's sad when you can recite the lines before they even say them.)



Tomorrow its back to work... and unless I get diagnosed with malaria or typhoid fever, that Quantum Leap marathon I was planning will just have to wait.

The Bad, The Good & The No Longer Needed

On New Year's Eve I made a resolution to try something new in each month of 2012 and then blog about it. In January I wrote about joining an all-female bootcamp... and what follows is my entry covering February, March and April.

FEBRUARY

Wednesday, February 22nd - almost 6:00 at night and I was at a local Chamber of Commerce reception across town. I was making my way towards the doors, saying my goodbyes, when suddenly my cellphone started flashing/buzzing/dinging/howling/whistling/shaking out of control. Phone calls, text messages, Facebook postings - all from people wanting to make sure I was alright. Befuddled, I called my wife for answers, which is when she told me: there was a shooting at my hospital... at least two employees were seriously injured... it was all over the local news.

Actual picture of the SWAT Team (via Hartford Courant)

I felt like I was kicked in the stomach.

For the next six hours I was immersed in a sea of SWAT teams, news cameras, neighbors and colleagues as the entire mess was sorted out. We huddled up against a patrol car with the Police Chief and the Mayor, getting updates as they came through; and once the suspect was caught and the victims transported to a local trauma center, we headed back inside and started to try to put things back together. For the days that followed we met with employees, met with prosecutors, met with police; we prepared press statements, edited press statements, delivered press statements. We fielded calls from the Governor's Office and from Congressmen; we read police reports and arraignment notices. And we prayed for our two colleagues who remained in critical condition.

There is a lot more I need to write about all of this, but I'm still not ready. The will to get back on track has come and will continue to come over time. But for now, I'm counting the management of this crisis as something new... something I've never done before nor every care to again.

MARCH

BEFORE

I'm the type of guy that always has to be doing something, even more so in stressful times - which is why the primary beneficiary of my post-shooting neurosis was my wife (and, more specifically, her master bathroom).

AFTER

When we bought our house four years ago, we hated the decor. In fact, we actually walked-out of the house the first time we saw it. Pink walls, peach walls... tons of gaudy wall paper. And a powder-blue master bath. Over time I have removed all of the wallpaper, painted all of the walls, removed a bunch of rugs, polished the floors, et cetera, et cetera - but never had I taken on a full-scale project like an entire bathroom.

Over the course of four weeks I completely removed the tile, toilet, sink, shower and drywall from the bathroom and then re-constructed the entire thing. Yes: My father-in-law did help with the shower install; and yes: I did have to hire a plumber to weld a new shower control pipe thingy in there. But by and large I did the entire thing myself. It was and is hands-down the biggest home improvement project I've ever undertaken... and the first full re-model I've ever done myself.

APRIL

Save twenty or so pounds, I'm a rather healthy guy. I don't do drugs, I don't smoke and I don't ever ever ever eat McDonald's (because, let's be honest: its gross). But my one vice? Soda. And not even regular soda: diet soda; namely Diet Coke (which I do prefer to regular Coke) and Diet Dr. Pepper (which tastes more like a dessert than a drink).

Every day, I usually treat myself to either one Diet Coke or one Diet Dr. Pepper with lunch, surmising they are not the regular high-fructose corn-syrup infused quaffs that are almost single-handedly causing the obesity epidemic in America. They're "diet" - it even says so right on the can... but that's not good enough for my wife who likens diet soda to poison. She cites study upon study that (apparently) proves diet soda is just as bad - if not worse - for you than regular soda.

I, of course, dismiss this as pure poppycock - noting that I walk past doctors every day who drink Diet Coke after Diet Coke. (Granted, I also had a chain-smoking pediatrician when I was a kid who used to treat my asthma, but that's no really relevant.)

Eager to at least try a life without soda, though, I prepared a challenge: one week without it. Every time I wanted a soda, I'd simply have an unsweetened green tea (which I don't think anyone disputes is like the single most beneficial drink ever created... or something like that). One week, I told myself. I can make it one week.

I am now on Day 13 and still alive; soda is no longer a necessity to survive. I've also lost six pounds and am in a much better mood... but I will admit: the ice-cold Diet Dr. Pepper in the vending machine downstairs does occasionally call my name. 

My Anxious Little 8-Year-Old

Alex is the oldest of my five kids and an anxious little bugger.

He worries about things outside of his control, he obsesses over unfamiliar situations and he somehow extrapolates seemingly harmless events into natural disasters. He's also easily rattled by the things that annoy him or gross him out (i.e. his sisters' singing, his sisters' chewing with their mouths open... pretty much his sisters in general).

Some parents have a hard time relating to an anxious kid, but I'm not one of them. I get him. I get exactly what's rolling around in that over-worked little brain of his, even when I don't like it.Why? Because he's me.

Me, circa 1985

In elementary school, I went through a period when I physically couldn't eat in the school cafeteria with the other kids because the noises they made while chewing grossed me out. I also went through a phase where I had to pull back the shower curtain twice every time I entered the bathroom just to make sure some creepy killer guy with a hockey mask wasn't standing behind it waiting to slice my throat with a machete.

Making new friends was tough, since I never knew how to start a conversation... and recess? Torture. Pure torture. Something as simple as going up to a group of kids and asking them if they wanted to play was nearly impossible given the inner workings of my brain.

Such is the same for Alex... and it breaks my heart.

Alex loves baseball, and he's pretty good at it too. (Some have even suggested that's he's better now that I was in my prime - a fact I won't dispute.) By the end of last summer, though, you could see his anxiety start to take-over.

What if I can't turn the play?

What if I get hit with the ball?

What if someone on the other team slash-bunts and gets tossed out of the game? What will the umpire say? How will he toss him? Will the fans boo? Will the kid throw his helmet?

Alex, circa yesterday

By the time fall baseball came around, the anxiety became too much. Between the start of school, a new coach and older kids pitching, things got so bad that Alex - the team leader in batting during the summer - could not step inside the batters' box come fall. He was too nervous.

But there was and is a difference (thank God) between my run as an anxious 8-year-old and my son's: he had and will have infinitely more resources by which to deal with his anxiety than I ever did. The science of anxiety has ballooned over the last three decades to the point where society now knows more about and accepts more of the intricacies of our own human brains. What I once saw (and internalized) as my own inherent failure to be a care-free little boy is now understood to be a complex confluence of genetic traits that are able to be addressed environmentally. Hallelujah!

Over the last six months, we've helped Alex and we've gotten Alex help; and though he's still revolted by his sisters slurping cereal, he's been able to enjoy the thrills of being an 8-year-old much much more.

Last night we had our first game of the new baseball season. Alex was the starting pitcher and played the rest of the game at shortstop. He struck out, grounded out and - get this! - got hit by a pitch. Six months ago he would have been scared to ever face a pitcher again. But yesterday? He simply jogged down to first, stole second and was eventually driven home.

We won the opener 12-10, but I didn't really care. My anxious little 8-year-old was exuberant, ecstatic -  playing the game he loves.

And happy.

Stupid Sweethearts

My cherubic little Kindergartner Katie came home with her valentines this afternoon... plus an inordinate amount of candy. (Apparently Valentine's Day is the new Halloween.)

Kids undoubtedly love candy; yet among Katie's chocolates and lollipops and cherry red Starbursts lay a lone box of Sweethearts that I knew would go untouched. Katie hates Sweethearts. So do I. So does any other human being with legitimate taste buds. (And just to be clear: we're talking about Sweethearts not Sweet Tarts. I love Sweet Tarts and will duel anyone who thinks otherwise.)

I fully intended to throw Katie's Sweethearts away for her - but then curiosity got the best of me. I wondered:  Gee, just how stupid are those little sayings they have on them? Against my better judgement, I opened the box and looked. The results were scary... bordering on horrific. Here were some of the lowlights (and no - I'm not making any of them up):

• "Hug Me" - Innocuous; in fact they should all just say "Hug Me".

• "Pick Me" - As opposed to the millions of other cute little candy hearts out there?

• "Adore Me" - The thought of anyone adoring me skeeves me out.

• "Friend Me" - So Zuckerberg is into the whole candy scene now... nice!

• "Tweet Me" - Because we should all be able to express our love in 140 words or less.

• "Text Me" - As long as there are no pictures of Congressmen in their boxer shorts.

• "U Can Do It" - I can?

• "1 on 1" - I couldn't tell if this was a sex reference or simply homage Hall & Oates

• "Go Go Go" - Seems more suited for Viagra than Sweethearts.

• "Boogie" - As in Wonderland? Or Oogie Oogie Oogie?

• "Voila" - Non, merci'.

• "Time 2 Dance" - They're small, hard candies. Don't dance while eating them. You could choke.

And by far the weirdest one of them all:

• "Jump 4 Me" - On our first date? C'mon - what kind of a guy do you think I am?

So I'm The Only Guy In Boot Camp...

On New Year's Eve I made a resolution to try something new in each month of 2012... and then blog about it. Here's my entry for January.

I work in a hospital... and twice a year we get the following all-staff e-mail from our fitness director: 

Are you looking to jump start your workout?

Lacking motivation and need a boost?

Take the Boot Camp Challenge!

Boot Camp is an intense exercise class that focuses on all areas of fitness to include muscular strength, balance, agility, flexibility and endurance through a combination of strength training and aerobic activities.  Classes are packed with lots of variety and tons of fun!

I generally delete such e-mails, deducing that any person who classifies "intense exercise" as "tons of fun" knows not what they profess. But in this particular case, I made the mistake of mentioning such activity to my wife - who very promptly encouraged me to sign-up. Naturally I resisted... until she threw the whole 12-new-things-in-2012 promise in my face.

My aversions to Boot Camp were admittedly sophomoric, though not at all unfounded:

1) I don't care for exercise.

2) I don't care for people watching me while I exercise.

3) And I especially don't care for women watching me while I exercise.

(I chalk it all up to phys ed in high school, where there was a solid partition between the girls' side of the gym and the boys' side of the gym. We could hear the girls on the other side playing basketball and volleyball and badminton, but we were never allowed to intermingle... which, again: I was fine with.)

So with my wife's encouragement and this blog weighing on my mind, I signed-up for Boot Camp. My assistant (a woman) informed me that she was joining, as did our Marketing Director (yet another woman). The trainer was a male (who I pictured wearing army fatigues and a green beret), and the initial rumor was that more than fifty people had signed-up... meaning I could very easily stand toward the back and  pretend like I wasn't even there. What a relief!

Of course I showed-up for the first session in my shorts and t-shirt only to discover that the fifty rumored participants was actually eight... and that of those eight, only one (i.e. yours truly) was blessed with a Y-chromosome.

UGH!

I knew I'd better develop a sense of humor... and quick. People do appreciate humility, after all; and I reasoned that if nothing else, these seven ladies had to at least respect the fact that I was willing to step out of the comfort-zone that I (and many other men in their mid-30's) inhabit. (Plus it helped that I out-ranked all of them work-wise - so if they did make fun of me, at least they wouldn't dare do it to my face.)

But as awkward as those first few minutes were in that illogically anxious mind of mine, it really wasn't - and isn't - that big of a deal.

Our little group of eight troopers just reached the half-way point of Boot Camp and I can honestly admit that any preconceived notions have been completely thrown out the window. My formula for success, in fact, is quite simple:

I go to Boot Camp. I exercise. I get winded, out of breath. The ladies laugh at me; I laugh at myself... and its all over in 45 minutes.

All in all: its a piece of cake... even if I am the only guy.

This Picture Makes Me Sad

My parents were born in the same hospital exactly 40 days apart... a fun little factoid that would someday result in their darling son (i.e. me) having to put together two separate 60th Birthday slide-shows within six weeks. In the process, I became intimately familiar with hundreds of my family's pictures - and among those that I managed to scan was this one, taken in New York City during the summer of 1986:

Try (if you can) to divert your eyes from our coordinated outfits... or our long white socks... or the fact that all three of us have our shirts tucked into our shorts without a belt. Instead, focus on the picture itself: a guy takes his two sons to New York City to see the Statue of Liberty and South Street Seaport and they stop (as billions of visitors once did) to take a picture in front of the beautiful New York skyline and its prominent Twin Towers.

My dad never thought twice about putting this picture in the album of our family vacations. It was merely one of a dozen pictures he included from that day; and merely one of hundreds more we had accumulated over the years.

It was never supposed to be special, let alone sad... but ten-plus years after those towers fell, its both. 

On Paterno, the Patriots and Presidential Politics

This past weekend was filled with several events worth opining about - chief among them: the death of legendary Penn State football coach Joe Paterno.

Paterno was 85-years-old and had about as much business coaching a Division-1 football program at that age as Strom Thurmond did casting votes in the United States Senate. In fact, Paterno himself practically admitted as much in his now infamous Sally Jenkins/Washington Post interview when he he said "I never heard of rape and a man"... an absurd revelation for anyone alive in the year 2012, let alone for a 61-year employee of the State of Pennsylvania.

My beef with Paterno, though, is less about age and more about the manner in which he allowed himself to become canonized, immortalized - free from authority and wholly above the law (both natural and otherwise). The video footage showing the hoards of mourners holding an impromptu vigil around Paterno's iconic statue was indicative of such idolization and will undoubtedly bring much deserved comfort to Paterno's friends and family in the days ahead. But those watching the vigil unfold on this morning's news had to have asked themselves: if it was held for victims of child abuse instead of for a football coach, would nearly as many people attend? 

After doing a job - and doing it well - for 61 years, its a shame that the first line in Joe Paterno's obituary will be about the Sandusky debacle. But as the headline reads in today's Daily News above yet another blunt yet brilliant Mike Lupica column devoted to the subject: "Sad. Old. Beaten. Broken."

***

Keeping with the football theme: the New England Patriots are headed to the Super Bowl.

Terrific.

For the next two weeks, all I'm going to hear on the radio, read in the newspaper and see on television is "Good Luck Patriots!" and "Go Pats!" and all of those other corny little tag-lines that Stop & Shop and Big Y and every other proprietary business in Connecticut will use to lure more customers. Ugh!

My loathe for the Patriots is predicated on three separate but equal truths:

1) I am a fan of the New York Jets.

2) I generally dislike all Boston-area sports teams.

3) About 15 years ago, that scumbag Bob Kraft took my beloved state of Connecticut for a ride.

To make matters worse, the Patriots are playing the Giants. Unlike some Jets fans, I do not hate the NY Giants... but I am dreading the inevitable (and inevitably unbearable) "New York vs. Boston" hype that both the local and national sports media will play-up. 

And let's be honest: who doesn't think Bobby Valentine will enter this fracas by the end of the week?

***

The best story-line from the weekend was without question Newt Gingrich winning the South Carolina Republican primary. (Full disclosure: I am a partisan Democrat who already has an Obama 2012 bumper sticker on his car.)

Hilarious. Absolutely hilarious.

Newt is the guy who single-handedly created "the politics of personal destruction" in the late-1980's when he brought down then-Speaker Jim Wright on ethics charges. He rose to the Speaker's chair after the 1994 elections and within a year faced an ethics investigation of his own. During his six years as Speaker, he caused a government shut-down, was found guilty of ethics violations and managed to impeach the extremely popular President of the United States for inappropriate sexual activity while he himself was having an affair with a member of his own staff. Eventually his party lost seats in the 1998 midterm election and he chose not to run for Speaker again the following year.

The man is a walking hypocrisy... and now also (thankfully) the darling of the conservative nut-job wing of the Republican Party. He is currently leading the Florida polls by 9% - and if he wins there next week, I think he's going to be the Republican nominee.

Can we as Democrats really be that lucky?

***

Finally, a shout-out to soon-to-be former Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords of Arizona. There are no words to describe the miracle that is her mere existence, and I applaud her for showing us all the true personification of courage. Arizona, Congress and all of America is better for her having served... and I guarantee she will be back.