Permission to Play

Hello. Hello. Had a decent run around last night on the turf field at Greenwich High. All the schools in Fairfield County are ripping up the natural grass fields and replacing them with synthetic turf. Sounds awful, but I tell ya the wannabe grass is so well made, I don't actually miss the real stuff too much.

They infuse the blades with tiny rubber pellets to cushion the blow on the old knees. And every bounce is true (can't blame the field for mistakes). I imagine it's also much easier to maintain. No cuttin, fertilizin, weedin, or waterin. Just lay it down and play on.

The only thing I do miss is the smell of a natural field. Nothing like it, my friends. A freshly cut field smells like home to me. I crave it sometimes.

Kris was at the college expanding her mind, so Cam joined me last eve. She was enjoying the company of couple of older friends, Samantha and Rebecca. When the ball was on the other side of the field, I'd always glance over to make sure she was OK. She was more than OK. I don't think she stopped smiling, running, or laughing. A joy to see.

A police officer showed up mid-way through the session and stopped it cold. Apparently, some grouch with nothing better to do, called the Chief of Police. We had to prove that we were allowed to play on the field. Luckily, the guys I workout with are very organized and presented an official permit to play. The officer left and we continued.

I was surprised. Where I come from, if a field is free, that was your permit to play. And if a field was in use, you opened you mouth and asked for permission to play. I think I like the old system, keeps the grouches out of it.

GM

Song for the Rain

Yet another soaker up here in Seattle, CT. I can sense a grunge movement a-stirring. The NYC commuters were all lined up on the train platform donned in their flannels, staring at their shoes. Barbershops are going out of business. Coffee n’ smack sales have skyrocketed. Yes, it’s come to that.

Not all is lost my sun-starved friends, I happen to find y’all a wonderful little piece of music yesterday as I was clicking to and fro in search of nothing in particular.

Here tis:

http://www.karmichit.com/MP3/Find-Place-to-Land.mp3

It’s the kind of song that will brighten a sunny day, or fit right in with a rainy one. A rare universal appeal. Listen to it whenever and wherever and it will amplify whatever you happen to be feelin. Powerful and oh-so simple.

It’s by a band called Big Spaceship. Don’t know much about em.

Enough of me yammerin. Get listenin.

Let me know what ya think.

GM

Downward-Facing Duck

Good morney friends.

Your humble scribe has decided on a new regimen. A healthy one said to benefit all shapes and sizes. A universal good that will bring you closer to the universe. I figure if I let you in on my new routine, I will more likely commit to it every day. Hope you don’t feel used, but this is the kind of symbiotic relationship I’m hoping to achieve from you: A virutal give/take.

If you haven’t guessed already, it’s Yoga. Kris found an old DVD last night after I mentioned my interest in Yoga for—quite possibly—the four hundredth time.

My first session was at 630 this morning. A striking Scandanavian beauty dressed in smurf-blue tights met me on screen and said in a soft, lilting voice something about energy and power and spirit. Whatever.

She was talking to me from what looked like the edge of the Grand Canyon. Does she not realize a stiff breeze could knock her straight into the rocky void? And why is fog rising from it? When do the Tekken warriors start fighting? It’s all to mystical an magical for an uncaffeinated 630.

Don’t know if you know much about Yoga, but the idea is to breathe properly as you hold certain positions. The positions look easy enough, until you try them. Then you realize only people made of cartilage can do them.

One position had me grabbing my big toe and pulling it back over my shoulder. I think the position is called “giraffe teabagging self.” As I struggle to even grab my big toe, smurfette is telling me to exhale. So I did, I exhaled a string of expletives. That’s my kind of Yoga.

Mind you, this is a Yoga for beginners DVD. Hate to see where she puts my big toe in the advanced DVD. Well, off to a rough start, but as John McEnroe once said, “You gotta suck before you get good.”


GM

Conspicuous Gallantry

Days of relentless gray up here. Clouds have blanketed the sky, I'm starting to forget the color blue. The trees, the squirrels, the birds, all seem to be carrying extra water weight.

After a morning of soggy soccer up in the hills of Danbury, the turnip and I decide to brave a short break in the rain. We bike though our neighborhood, I drive as cleopatra navigates from her cushy toddler seat.

We live in a sleepy maritime burg. Our house is a mile from the beach. In the summertime, the salty sea air travels all the way up to my block. It smells alive.

We cruise down to the beach as a steady drizzle kisses our cheeks. The giant gulls look confused. They know it’s a summer weekend, but nobody’s around. No free hot dogs? No free fries? They'll have to work for their food today.

We come across a war memorial about 100 yards from the shore right next to a weather-worn shack: home to our local windsurfing school. I’m guessing the memorial was built after WWII. It’s a large, flat concrete patch with an enormous brick wall jutting from its mid-section. Placards inscribed with the names of fallen soldiers are set into the wall.

Cam says, “walk.” I oblige.

As she’s doing laps around the wall, I take in the inscriptions. It’s dedicated to all the boys from Norwalk who sacrificed their lives for our country’s beliefs. About 100 or so names for WWII, probably 20 for Korea, the same number for Viet Nam, and one, lonely name for Iraq.

Each war has its own placard. A quote from the president in office signs each of them. For example, FDR said “It's better die on our feet than live on our knees.” That may not be the exact quote, but it was something inspiring like that.

No quote for the Iraq placard. I suppose because the war isn't over, or maybe W is still thinking it up. I wonder what it will say. Will it sound profound and presidential like FDRs? And if it did, would you believe it?


GM

People Watching

A few days ago, doing my NYC thing, I walked onto a subway train headed downtown. I noticed two young police officers inside.

It looked like they had been riding that car for hours. One was leaning against a hand rail, the other on a post in the middle of the car. They looked thoroughly bored with one another. I imagine they probably had a conversation at some point, but it had since burned out.

There's not much to do when you're on subway detail. After 9/11, NYC placed thousands of officers underground to ride the subway cars and cruise stations for suspicious people. As far as I'm concerned, every third person in NYC looks suspicious, so I don't know what they're looking for. But I don't mind riding with em one bit, though I think their presence deters more muggers and drug dealers than it ever will terrorists.

I think about how mind-numbing their job must be for agonizing stretches. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Then nothing. I feel a flash of superiority about my profession. I have a job that keeps me interested day in, day out. Hour on top of hour.

One of the officers looked like he was reading the subway ads. Scanning one after the other. He had his hat off, holding it down at his side exposing the inside of it. A clear, plastic pocket was sown into the lining. And stuffed inside the pocket, a copy of the Lord's prayer.

Then I realized the importance of his job, and the insignificance of mine.

I appreciated that moment. I looked up at him with the intention to say, "Thanks man, for what you do." That's when the doors opened for my stop, Astor Place. So, instead, I smiled at him. He didn't notice. He just watched as people filed into the car.


GM

Oil Change

The late nights and early mornings have finally taken their toll this week. I can usually handle it if I mix in a healthy dose of running, or stretching. A couple of quick visits to the gym. Maybe a little whoppiee. No time for that nonsense.

Gotta makea dolla.

Well, folks heed my advice. Listen to your body. If it’s fighting you, don’t fight back. Trust me, you don’t want to feel like I do today. Legs like lead. Tendons like cables. Blood like syrup. Bones creaking, cracking, grinding.

Zero lightness in my step, or my attitude.

Gotta big presentation today. Gotta make a quick turnaround. Just writing you about it helps. So I thank ye for listening.

Now go eff yourself.

GM

My New Friend, The Beekeeper

Met my first official beekeeper yesterday. Pretty cool, eh? Never met one before, and I must admit I was a little surprised at how much I pre-judged em. Today's blog will set the record straight for all beekeepers. Dispel all that slanderous PR they've been getting.

Beekeepers are horribly pock-marked.
Not true. This beekeeper was actually quite handsome. Face was free from noticeable scarring.

Beekeepers wear their beekeeping outfit everywhere.
Again, this is simply not true. My beekeeper friend wore cotton denim jeans, a clean t-shirt, and surprisingly enough, no hood.

Beekeepers are either called "Bud" or "Zeek" or some other one-syllable name.
No, sir. My beekeeper answers to the name of Andrew. Twice the required number of syllables.

Beekeepers wear a scraggly white beard.
Nope. Clean shaven. He might even give the eyebrows the occassional tweeze.

Beekeepers have—at most—5 teeth.
From what I saw, his pearlies were in tact, and they seemed to be his original set.

A tractor is their sole means of transport.
Sorry folks, I pretty sure he drives a Hyundai Sonata or some other Korean jobbie.

Beekeepers despise ant farmers.
I didn't directly ask him this question, but I got the impression that he was quite tolerant of any kind of critter wrangler.

Beekeepers limp.
Andrew's gait was actually quite long and graceful.

Hope this cleared a few things up for ya, and maybe pollenated yer brain a bit.

I'm buzzin off to work now.

GM

Not Her First Word, But Just as Important

The second and third acts of my day were performed in a mood yesterday. Not sure what found its way through my cellar door, but it certainly soured my attitude.

Kris and Cam were out at the soccer field having a run when I returned from NYC to a darkened Emerson Street. I opened the door to a quiet house. Kinda ghostly, actually. The window ac unit enhanced the effect with its one, continuous exhale. The cool air turned my living room into a crypt.

Craving some warmth, I whipped up some vittles. Short grain brown rice with a pot of frijoles negros mixed in. Eat just enough, it'll give you jump. Eat too much, it'll do the opposite. Since the rice takes 'bout an hour to cook, I check the list o World Cup games saved by my friend, Senor Tivo.

I settle on Trinidad and Tobago vs. Paraguay. Apparently, England vs. Sweden, my preferred choice, was not part of Senor Tivo's work schedule. No matter. I like to see desperate teams play anyway.

K and C return soon after I get comfy and the house starts thumpin. Sour mood returns. Kris senses it and hits the shower. I don't blame her. Cam and I hit the couch to watch le beautiful game. I have my water. She has her milk.

After she empties the sippy cup, she knows bed time is approaching. I pick her up and, like usual, she fights it. "No bed." When she sees that has no effect, she creates other diversions to avoid the inevitable. "Puppy book." She wants me to read to her. "Walk." She wants me to put her down. "Milk." She wants more milk. "Wayer." Her second choice, water, after not getting more milk.

She's getting more desperate as we head upstairs. "Memo." She wants to watch Finding Nemo. Then she points downstairs into the living room where we had been watching the World Cup.

"Soccer."

I freeze mid-step. Kris, hair still dripping, looks at me wide-eyed. Did we just hear that? Yes we did. In perfect English.

And that sour mood of mine evaporated.

GM

Ads for Yer Arse

Hello faithful few.

Bit of a turbulent mornin'. Last night Thor unleashed a number in the Connecticut sky. Cracks and rumbles disturbed my angelic slumber as big, meaty raindrops slammed into my window ac unit. Sounded like an epileptic on a drum kit. We don’t get too many T-storms up here, so when it happens it can make the heart double dutch.

Early meeting with my crew today. We do a weekly check-in on projects every Tuesday morning (we chose Tuesday because Mondays blow). 845 start. I was outta bed at 6am to get my dose of caffiene and a little sustenance before I buzz out the door at 715. Train arrives to pick up us weary commuters at the E. Norwalk station at 723. Arrive Grand Central at 825. Green subway line down to Astor Place: 840. Walk 1 block down Lafayette to my address: 845. Like freakin’ clockwork, folks.

The problem with the rush hour trains is seating is scarce. By the time the train works its way down the line, every seat is occupied by a power suit. Many of us paying commuters gotta stand for the hour or dirty our bottoms sitting on the "unsanitary" linoleum.

I crack a little smile when I see the white-collar starchies from Westport sitting their $1000 pressed wool on decades of shoe grime. Rookies. They don’t realize you can tear down the ad posters and use them as a seat to protect yer trousers.

I don't feel guilty one bit, I just rip em right out of the frame. Trust me, most of them make better seats than ads.

GM

Stanley Kubrick is Renovating My Basement

Stan Kubrick's "Paths of Glory" was on the tube the other eve. I had it on with the sound off as I noodled around on the old keyboard. Koobs (that's what he would've never let me call him) was 29 when he directed it. A filmmaking infant. Yet if you let yer eyes roam around each scene you'll see he had an uncanny sense for detail. Even at twenty effin' nine. I was still figuring out how to dislodge my thumb at that age.

Every frame, meticulously crafted. Beautiful pools of light give the eye plenty to feast on. This is a man obsessed with minutae.

He must've driven the actors, producers, crew, and wifey nuts. I can hear em all now, "For the love of GOD, Stan, it's fine! Can we please move on!?"

But that's what made him great, I suppose. I guess I could say the same thing for Mark. Mark is my neighbor who happens to be a master carpenter. He's been renovating my basement for what seems like the last decade.

My humble little basement is his Acropolis. Yes, he installed Greek columns. Made them by hand from flat pieces of MDF (Lord only knows how he did it). I think the columns are a bit excessive for a 6 1/2 foot ceiling, but who am I to argue?

See, I'm giving Mr. Mark as much creative freedom as possible in exchange for an affordable rate. My basement is his cherry project, a portfolio piece. And, being in the ad biz, I know the importance of a good portfolio.

I've lent a hand here and there when he's asked for it, but most days, I just let him go. Besides, when I do help, I just stand behind him with handful of drywall screws. That's my job: a drywall screw dispenser.

Needless to say, he's doing a crackerjack job down there, his monument to the Gods. But it's s-l-o-w going. I can't tell you how many times I've said, "That's good enough, Mark. Can we please move on?" He'll turn and glare at me without a word. He'll hold it there until I realize it's time for me to put the screws down and go make him coffee.

GM

One Day, Two Triumphs

You bled. You clawed. You scrapped. You dug. You found your soul.

That's the US team I was hoping for. We aren't going to out-skill, out-technique, or even out-class our opponents. But we can certainly out-work em. You boys did.

The result was a 1-1 tie, which is a major triumph considering the referee's ridiculously quick plastic.

I am a very proud US soccer fan today, I hope you are, too.

But this bloggernaut isn't just going to talk soccer every day. There are other matters of interest to discuss. One of which is Ryan Joseph Martin. A newborn weighing in at 6 lbs and 15 ozs of Irish fury.

Emily and Tim, a heartfelt congratulations. I will be in FL to terrorize the entire crop of Martin children in mid-July. Nothing you can do will prepare em for it. That's what a first uncle once removed, fourth brother, second cousin is supposed to do. Happy Pappy's Day to ya. And to all Pappy's, including mine. Love ya, Dad.

I leave you all with a quote from Julio, my morally-lax friend here in CT: "It's Father's Day for me in Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas, Miami..."

GM

Sam's Salvation Army

Hey youze.

Just finished fixin a nice ham n eggy for the princesses and myself. Belly satisfied, coffee still steaming, I'm ready to make a prediction for today's matchup between Sam's Army and the Azzuri from Italia. Thank you Andy, for the idea for this blog. I take requests. So if youze have one, lemme know.

I wasn't surprised at the US team's loss against the Czechs in the World Cup, but I was surprised at how we played. Most of our guys showed no confidence. On the field, an athlete needs a "sureness" to have success. That sureness opens a player up so they are controlling the play, the play isn't controlling them. A slight shift in perspective that makes an enormous difference.

If one or two guys aren't playing with confidence, just sub them out. If six or seven aren't playing with it, forget it. The latter was the case with our team last Monday.

I don't see our guys getting it together in a matter of five days. I think Brucey-boy will try to open the team up a bit allowing them to play a little looser. This will make for an exciting game. But I think the Italians are too smart defensively to allow us to get out to an early lead. They will absorb the onslaught and, eventually, frustrate our boys. Unfortunately, that's when Italy will start scoring. All scoring will happen in the second half.

Italia 2: U.S. 1

Don't let this discourage you from watching the game, though. I'm sure it'll be a great one. Both keepers will be tested throughout the match.

Off to a wedding today. Gotta shine the shoes.

Until tomorrow.

GMo

If You Don't Know Someone's Name, Just Yell "Fortunado"

Mornin' my friends. Another stunningly beautiful New England spr/ummer day. The sun is up an at em early now. By the time my peeps open, yellow beams are streaking in, taunting me get the motor revved.

K and I played our first co-ed soccer game last evening. Every year we grumble about our committment to this team. It's a real hassle to get everything together and make it out to the field by 6pm. The team usually plays the second worst field in America. It's a grass field. But the grass only grows in clumps separated pot-holed plateus of packed dirt. Think of an abondoned filling station: weeds growing through cement cracks. Then pepper the entire thing with goose poo. That's what we're attempting to have a run on.

For the record, the first-worst field is just down the street. It's the same thing but with manhole covers at mid-field.

But by the time we lace up the boots, the grumbling stops. We're ready to play. The team is run by the unofficial mayor of soccer in Connecticut, Fortunado. Everyone who plays the sport in this state knows him.

What an amazing character, what an amazing player. Imported from Italy, he came to the US decades ago. Played at the highest level for US soccer in the late 70s/early 80s. He is probably 15-20 years my senior and built like a Fiat: short, squat, and shiny (no hair). He's carrying about 15 pounds too much. Both knees have been injured and operated on. He probably "sprints" a 12-second 40.

None of that matters. He effortlessly floats through defenders at will. Every time he touches the ball, three opponents are embarrassed, a pleasure to watch.

The team is his extended family. Literally. There's Ralph, his brother. Salvatore, his nephew. Tina, Salvatore's fiance. Fran, his daughter. Fortunado Jr., his son. And yet another Fortunado, his cousin.

A few new players showed up yesterday. One in particular seemed edgy. I can imagine she felt a little intimidated by this family affair. In an effort to ease her nerves, I overheard someone say, "If you don't know someone's name, just yell Fortunado." Ice broken, she looked ready for her debut.

GM

Greg owed "Freebie"

Interesting and unusual evening. Wifey came home from class at 230 am this morning. The class usually goes to 8pm. She, her prof, and another dedicated pupil went out for bevvys and vittles. You may be making your own conclusions, but I say good for her. She's been locked up with no extra-cirriculars outside of our little girl, Cameron, for quite a while now. Nice to see her socialize with people over the age of 20 months.

She lobbed in a coupla phone calls, but none said anything about 230am. The way I look at it she owes me a freebie. There will be a time, when my ETA isn't on the mark.

She will deny I'm owed said freebie.

This will likely turn into some awkward argument in the future. Which will give me more fodder for this forum. Win-win for G.

Have a good one today.

G

Yes, the world could use another blog

Your prayers have been answered. A blog from some guy living in the burbs of Connecticut. I'm stepping up and answering the call, folks. A unique point of view. Fresh thinking from the East side of Norwalk. I don't know how many bloggerpeeps are out there, but I'm sure there is an entire mass of em, tappity tapping away. I'm joinin ya. Here goes. Wish me luck. Whether we like it or not, we're in this together.

GM