Erik's theater camp teachers really seem to be nuts about him. What it does for me is remind me what an amazing little guy he is. What these ladies are teaching me is that I can't see him as just a pain in my butt. If I get stuck in that mode too much, I'll regret it. When they get those small doses of him where he is really showing off for them, they really can see him at his best. I too see his best qualities through out the day, but him not listening to me telling him to put his shoes on, things like that, are peppered in there too, making me lose sight of what an amazing little dude he is.

 Sometimes he will say something or figure something out on his own, and it makes Mrs. Noisewater and myself just think we are not exposing him to enough activities and challenges. Why have we not gotten him a musical instrument and lessons by now? I guess I'm hoping that if he has a calling for something it will just find him. I read a lot of rock star biographies, and those rock stars always had some moments where they decided they needed to play. The problem is that generation all had that awakening when they saw people like Elvis and The Beatles, and I do not know what in the heck is going to be the muse for these kids. 

Baseball he is good at though. Mostly because he is one of the only kids not picking dandelions or digging in the dirt when the ball comes. That's half the battle at this age. We really only have two kids who are watching the batter when the ball is hit, react to the ball to go get it, and know where to throw it. He is one of the two Bluejays can put all that together.

Desi is the sweetest thing ever. He wants to be independent so he will say "I want to do it myself" and then he will put way too much toothpaste or ketchup on something and make a giant mess. But again, that's the pain in the butt side that I don't want to focus on. Desi is the cuddliest little guy ever. When he wakes up in the morning he will crawl into bed and cuddle. Or if we are watching a movie he will crawl right into your lap. Those are the good moments that I really like to just take in and be present for. 

I'm still off the sauce (alcohol). The summer is going by fast, but I'm making sure I'm exercising, getting things around the house done, and working on my Master's hours every day. Oh, and remembering to pick the kids up. 

Mrs. Noisewater is out with some moms in the neighborhood. I applaud her efforts in making friends. We need some more dang friends sometimes - it feels like it anyway. Going out with some random dads would be a real challenge for me right now, especially without any beers. But I'm finding my way, navigating this world without booze, and learning a lot about myself. I still haven't really put it all into words yet, but I'm not quite ready to do that. 

Thanks for listening.

Shimee Shay's Bar & Grill

I haven't had a drink almost 3 months now, and I feel pretty great. I'm more present for things going on in my life, more aware, more in the moment. I feel healthier and happier, getting more done, and enjoying my time with my family more.

So that's that.

Hey, let me tell you about someone else who was drunk. A friend of mine was in town with his son (he wasn't the drunk one, nor was his offspring), and he was bringing his young boy to his first baseball game at Wrigley Field. This friend has been living in LA for years-and-years now, but he decided he would be damned before he let his son's first game be a Dodgers game. And guess what? His son had the ultimate Wrigley experience and will likely (read hopefully) be a Cub fan for life. He got onto the field before both games and got autographs, the whole 9. 

So onto the funny drunk person story. After I parted ways with my buddy at a rooftop hotel bar overlooking the ballpark (where I drank fake beers, staying the course) an attractive 20-something attractive gal approached me. Did I say attractive twice?

"Do you know where the karaoke place is over that way," she said, motioning south down Clark Street.

"Well, Murphy's Bleachers used to have some karaoke" I suggested, not knowing if this was still true all these years having gone by since I painted the town brown in that neighborhood.

"No, that's not it."

"Oh, well, you could for sure go to Trader Todd's. That's not far at all, on Belmont and Sheffield. They do karaoke 7 days a week."

"That's not it either. It's a big name," she said, spanning her arms out like jazz hands in either direction, looking deep into my eyes like I would get it. She might have been on something besides booze, now that I think about it. "The name is like . . . Shimee shay," she said in an epic, important-sounding manner, "Like that's not it, but it's like that."

"So that's not the name at all because that's nonsense, but that's like the rhythm of the name?"

"Yeah!" She said, thinking I got her.

I didn't. "I'm sorry I don't know this gibberish bar. I wish I could be of more help."

"It's okay," was the last thing she said to me as she joined her friends walking south bound, relaying to them that the guy she talked to didn't know where the bar was. I hope they found it. I walked away not wishing at all that I was drunk like her, but looking back fondly on those drunken adventures. I don't need any more of them, but they're nice to fondly look back on in the rearview.

Stealing the Missing Bases In My Dreams

I had a really vivid dream the other night where I was a professional baseball player in the midst of a heated game. I had gotten on first and was excited about stealing second. Did I mention I was Black? I'm a white dude, in case you didn't know.

I got off to a big lead, and as the pitcher went into his stretch, I got a great jump towards second. I had it stolen easy, but as I got to where the base should have been, the bag was nowhere to be found! I had beaten the throw by a mile and was frantically looking around for the base when I was tagged by the shortstop. When the umpire called me out, I was absolutely irate and hopping up and down.

The umpires got together for a long deliberation, during which time I was pleading my case to anyone who would listen. I remember discussing the matter with a Japanese teammate through his interpreter. I let him know that I was a born base stealer and it's how I made my living, and to deny me of the tangible base to take, they were denying me of my God given right! The two Japanese men seemed to agree with me based on the looks of disapproval on their faces. I can still picture them shaking their heads in disgust and disbelief about my situation.

I saw that the umpires looked to be wrapping up their discussion, so I said to my manager that if he didn't plan on arguing to the point of getting thrown out of the game, I was going to. He assured me that it was his plan to do so, but when I asked him what kind of theatrics he would be displaying during his potential upcoming tantrum, I wasn't impressed with what he had in mind. I suggested he try pulling up the second base they had just put in as well as all three other bases before being dragged off the field to demonstrate what little respect these umpires had for the bases and the rules of baseball in general. He acted as if he was considering it, but I got the feeling he was sticking to a low-key fit that in no way was elevating himself to the passion that the situation demanded.

Sure enough, the umps called me out, and my manager did his best to honor me by getting thrown out of the game, as promised, but it really did seem lackluster compared to the performance I could give. It just seemed to me that Skip didn't share the same passion that I had. I turned my hat around, rolled up my sleeves, and got ready to dig up out those bases and toss them all over the place for all the base swipers, all my teammates (especially the Japanese ones), and for anyone who has felt injustice at the hands of corrupt authority figures.

This is when I woke up. Still white. And broke.

New Beer Vendor Hated By Wrigley's 500 Level Seats

I took my good friend, Beatnik, to a Chicago Cubs baseball game last night in my season ticket seats.  My Cubbies are on a roll, by the way, having won 11 of their last 12 games including last nights defeat of the Milwaukee Brewers.  But you can look statistics like that up elsewhere.  What you come here for is the minutia of meaningless and hopefully funny observations of everyday life of your good friend, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater.

Myself and the three other buddies in our season tickets package have a beer vendor in our section that we dislike and don't buy from anymore as a result.  He made one off-handed comment in response to a simple clarification question we had about what inning/time they stopped selling beer that was something to the effect of "What is this your first game?"  We didn't take kindly to it, and over the years we have built up an irrational hatred and talk about things we would like to do to the man we call Walt Disney (due to a slight resemblance), such as curb stomp him like in "American History X."  Would we ever do such a thing?  Of course not.  It's just our sense of humor to grossly exaggerate and crack each other up when we're texting each other when one of us can't be at the game live.

("That's right, Bambi!  Bite that prick's shoulder off!")

Now, not buying from Walt is really something silly we like to maintain as tradition and superstition. Our hatred for a new beer vendor in our section is quite genuine and shared by our entire section.  This new guy is an overweight older gentleman who refuses to walk up the few steps into the 500 level sections.  He will, however, walk downwards a few steps into the more expensive 400 level seats, which to me goes beyond laziness and into some sort of class debate, showing preferential treatment to those more fortunate.  It could very well turn into a working class rebellion by the time the playoffs arrive, but only time will tell.

I am not saying he won't sell to us, but he will only do so by passing beers and exchanging money right up the seats.  I have never seen this done.  You see, a beer vendor can go up or down and aisle and pass things down a row.  That is fine, and that is how it has always been done.  This lazy son of a gun doesn't use any rows or aisles.  What he does, in effect, is instead of just disrupting one row of people, he makes up to ten rows stop what they're doing to pass a beer upwards, awkwardly reaching behind and passing over shoulders.  Lots of beer can be spilled that way, and that's perhaps the biggest tragedy of this guy's horrible technique.  It's really ticking off not only other customers but other beer vendors have shot me looks in agreement when I show frustration as if to say, "You believe this guy?"

(Even in Japan they pass down the aisles, not up the seats.  And check out that Samurai cup scabbard!)

Beyond just not buying his beer, where do I go from here?  I was thinking I could take to Twitter and start lambasting the guy on there to raise awareness.  Any other thoughts on how to get this guy fired or at the very least demoted to hot dog vending?  

The other night I met my good buddy, Southie, for some margaritas and Mexican food before attending a Chicago Cubs game together.  On my way out I used the establishment's ATM for some cash.  My money didn't come out, and when I called my bank to see if the $200 I requested and didn't get was taken out of my account, it was as well as random attempts at taking $20 and another $40.  I cancelled my card and made a claim about those transactions.  Important tip: If a machine ever says there will be no receipts given, cancel right away.

Fast forward a week later when I'm at the bank cashing a check and ask for a printout of my last 20 transactions to be sure there is no more funny business on my account, and there are numerous withdrawals of $500 from an ATM I have never been to on the far west side.  I am freaking out at this point, and while the cashier is looking into it for me she suddenly says, "Oh.  This printout isn't from your account.  This is someone else's."

What?  You're just handing me information on someone else's bank account and scaring the crap out of me?  To tell you the truth, I was so relieved that all was okay that I didn't even give the woman a hard time.  I have worked a lot of jobs, and in every single one of them I have made colossal stupid mistakes.  I truly believe that all is well that ends well, and there is just no need to yell at someone at times like this.  She knows she screwed up bad.  Me hollering at her won't make her get that any more.  Me yelling at the Cubs didn't help them beat the evil Whitesox that afternoon either.  But I did it anyway.

Friday afternoon was just about the nicest day of the year in Chicago, and I thought I would ride my bike down the lakefront to coach first base for a friend’s elementary boys softball game. The kids were all friendly and having a good time, but one thing was clear: there are a lot of city kids who don’t know the rules of baseball. As a child of suburbia, we had all the rules down pat by the end of the 2nd or 3rd grade. With these kids, it was nearly impossible to teach most of them that you can overrun first base, or run through the bag, as we used to say. They were slamming on the breaks and nearly falling down as a result. Taking a lead off was also confusing for them, and we were getting picked off of first like all day long. They would usually get back to the base on time when the pitcher threw over there, but sometimes they would start their lead off again while the first baseman still had the ball, and they would promptly get tagged out. One kid got out to a couple steps for his lead off, turned to ask me a question, and failed to see that the pitcher was throwing over there to pick him off, which he did. We were all having a laugh, but not at all at his expense, and the kid was laughing at himself too. More important than whether or not they look like the Yankees out there is that students are getting outside, they’re being exposed to a new game that they may end up enjoying, and they are part of a team.

I got talking to the other school’s coach, and he said they only have seven eighth graders in their entire school. They had to put a fifth grader in the lineup to round out the team, and he was small even for a fifth grader. I thought for sure he was a batboy until I saw him come up to the plate and beat out a pretty hard hit grounder. Most likely due to enrollment, they will be closed at the end of the year. Yes, if the numbers are way down than I’m sure in many ways it makes sense to move those kids into a neighboring school, but if it’s such a failing school in the eyes of the bureaucrats, than why is it that there was a parent spectator for just about every boy on that team, and meanwhile the school I was coaching had zero parents watching for a school over enrolled at close to fifteen hundred students? What I saw there did not appear to have the makings of a failing school; It was a loving and supportive community with terrific kids and coaches who really cared. Their coach told me that it took him four seasons to win their first game, so if that doesn’t show commitment, I don’t know what does. Hell, they beat us something like seventeen to six.

To put in all that time, energy, and hard work day after day as a member of that staff only to have it all suddenly shut down on you has got to be hard to take, especially considering that the people who make the decisions about that building don’t know the first thing about the staff, parents, or kids in it – they just know about the data. Their coach said that the school is across from Mayor Rahm Emanuel’s house. Chicago’s mayor seems big on closing down schools, but I think he should have taken in this ballgame on Friday to put a few faces to the numbers. After all, there are a lot of parents out there quite happy with their children’s public education, and they can’t all afford private schools, especially the ones Rahm’s kids attend.

I felt rather uninspired for gift ideas this year, but one that I did get right is a trip for me and my father to go to the Baseball Hall of Fame in July.  My dad is getting up there in years, and he has never been to see The Hall, despite being the most knowledgeable baseball historian I know.  As a kid, I remember seeing him spending hours leafing through the Baseball Encyclopedia, making notes in his illegible handwriting about things he happened to know about various players and their seasons, such as Babe Ruth's worst season due to health complications he had due to a hot dog eating contest.  If you ask him any question you can think of, such as any big name player's lifetime average, he can rattle it off immediately.

He and I have 4 days in Cooperstown, N.Y., and we're staying in a cozy little bed and breakfast in the "penthouse suite," which is the ideal room because we can spread out, and multiple beds are good because my dad is on a slightly different sleep schedule than me (he goes to bed at 8pm and gets up around 4AM). 

Even if some family members got gift cards and the like from me this time around, I was really proud of this gift, and I felt like the best son ever when I saw how excited he was about it.

Everyone else have a good holiday?  Anyone want to share a good gift they got or gave away?

Die Some Eggs. Drop Some Acid.

An amazing accomplishment happened on June 12, 1970 when Dock Ellis pitched a no hitter on acid. Get a look at this terrific cartoon with an actual interview of Dock.



Also, have a look at Robin Williams describing just why it's really not easy to do much of anything on acid, let alone pitch nine no-hit innings. Whether you like Robin or not, he is the perfect comedian to explain the importance of this accomplishment.



Dock Ellis spent a lot of his life drinking and doing drugs, then he became a drug counselor after becoming sober, but unfortunately, in 2008 he died of cirrhosis of the liver.

To Doc and Jesus.

Pour out a little liquor for Dock.