Let's Begin the Beguine...




OK, I am getting a few moments here and there to hear myself think, so I thought I would take this opportunity to catch up on the blog. Like any story, I really should begin at the beginning, so everyone is caught up to speed. This will likely lead to several installments, so bare with me.

It is highly common in twins that one takes a bit more of the nutrients than the other. This can lead to one of the twins developing a condition known as Inter-Uterine Growth Restriction (IUGR), where basically one of the babies does not develop at a normal rate. They use to call it Inter-Uterine Growth Retardation, but changed the name for the obvious reason that mentioning the word retardation to anxious parents=to-be invariably led to super-freakouts. While it is clear in the title it is the growth that is retarded, not the child's brain, the multiple painful explanations finally led to a convention somewhere where beleaguered perinatalogists agreed to the name change.

Anyway, as most of you probably already knew, one of little ones was diagnosed in utero with IUGR. This led to Candy spending something close to 4 months on bed rest, as that is one of the treatments. Laying on your side all day is supposed to increase blood flow to the placentas and therefore the babies as well.

Along comes week 36. Candy has shown no signs of distress, except for the significant symptom of being as big as an hindoor game complex. At week 34 the signs of IUGR that had faded somewhat from early on appear to be back, so we know that if they persist into week 36 we may get our delivery moved up. We also know statistically that the median age of a twin is 36-37 weeks. So we thought we were somewhat prepared for news that the delivery would be soon.

At 11am we walked into our perinatalogist's office. He hooked us up to his fancy-schmancy ultrasound and took a few measurements. The little one was only 4 percentile in size for its abdomen, now two weeks in a row. Clear IUGR. At this late stage of the pregnancy it is his considered opinion that delivery is safer than waiting for some sort of critical development. I.e, tiny baby could become distressed and be in big (maybe fatal) trouble before the next check-up. He sends up to our OB.

At 1pm we see our OB-GYN, an old school Israeli (we think) doctor whose bedside manner definitely gives the impression he will suffer the questions of fools only to a point. He agrees with the first assessment and tells us we will indeed deliver.

Tonight.

We are to be at the hospital at 4:30pm. We should go home and pack for a 4 day hospital stay. The delivery is going to be a C-section, as inducing traditional labor would put too much strain on the little, possible weak baby. Inducing labor would take 12-14 hours. The C-section will be under an hour.

So you can imagine the chaos. Prepare to be parents in 2 hours. We had thought, at worst, they would schedule us for Thursday morning. Aye-yai-yai. We pack, we take out the trash, clear the sink, feed the pets, call the parents, I eat. (Candy can't, because of the surgery.) We pause to take some final pictures of Candy in the nursery, at her most splendiferous. Then it is throw the bags in the car, and off to have our lives turned permanently upside down.


Sitting in a Recovery/Prep room in Labor and Delivery, I read section's of King Lear to Candy, doing my best to do a different voice for each character. Occasionally I stop and summarize what I think happened in that scene, as it can take a bit of digestion to fully get all the nuances of Elizabethan English written in Iambic pentameter. I am doing this for two reasons. First and foremost I am trying to calm/distract Candy and myself from the fact she is about to undergo major surgery. Second, one of the top 3 names we are considering for the girls in Cordelia, who is the good daughter from King Lear. The room is shared, so I try to keep my absurd over-acting to a minimum.

Finally they come to wheel Candy away. While they are prepping her and starting her spinal block anesthesia I am not allowed in the operating room. They hand me scrubs and tell me to wait for approximately 15 minutes, at which point they will call me in to witness the event.

The waiting room is actually just a single chair sitting in a hallway out side a large set of double doors marked "Authorized Personnel Only". There is nothing else there, except a single still from Dumbo framed on the wall exactly opposite the chair. St. Joe's medical center is basically across the street from Disney Studios, so they have decorated all up and down Labor and Delivery with Dumbo themed paraphenalia. The picture exactly opposite me shows Dumbo flying joyously with Timothy the mouse dressed in his bandleader outfit atop his head. Clutched in Dumbo's trunk is the magic black feather that allows this little baby elephant to escape the bounds of gravity and do the impossible. Of course, the trick [spoiler alert for anyone who hasn't seen Dumbo. Seriously?!] is that the feather is nothing special and that Dumbo is doing it all himself.

It is hard to describe my feelings at this point. Adrenaline cranked to the max. Palms a little sweaty, clutching the video camera. This was clearly one of those BIG life moments and it was not dissappointing. I put it up there with asking my wife to marry me as one of the most intense experiences I have had. I think what heightened it was that at this moment of significant life transition I was forced to sit and wait. Staring at that little baby elephant and doing everything in my power to concentrate on getting from one breath to the next.

When they finally call me Candy is strapped down to an operating table, crucifiction style. A curtain has been placed at just about her armpits, blocking a view of her lower body. She was shivering, mostly from adrenaline I suspect, although I think there was also shock involved, as by the time I had arrived she was paralyzed over more than half of her body. I do my best to comfort her. I think I tell her how proud I am of her. Then I am told I should stand up and look behind the curtain and that is where I see my girls enter the world.

I had watched enough birthing shows to not be surprised by the tugging out by the head of two white, gooey babies. The white goo is vernix, something the babies produce to protect their skin from the amniotic fluid. I don't know how many people get to see a birth live and close up, but it is truly astounding. Something from nothing. Spontaneous Generation. One becomes Two. Or in our case Three.

After they clean the babies and I get to cut the cord, Candy is allowed two quick glances at the babies she carried in her womb for 36 weeks and then we are all whisked off to the Nursery. The whole process I witnessed could not have taken more than 15 minutes.

But as you might suspect, I was far from done.

My Daughters, the Smurfs



That's Kayla, or Kaylee to her friends. I think she is just smurfy.

Below is Candy (the night of) holding Rylie for the first time.



Again there will be a lot more to come, but for now I got to run back to the hospital.

S.

ATTENTION, ALL SHIPS AT SEA

dee deedee dee deedeedee

Two new baby Colberts have been sighted in the Pacific Quadrant.

Rylie Jayne Colbert

&

Kayla Mackenzie Colbert

Both are pink, hungry and assumed to be extremely dangerous...To my sleep patterns.

Born Oct 18, 7:00 and 7:01pm.

More will soon follow, including pictures, but things are still a might crazy now.

That is all.

deedee dee dee deedeedee dee...

Satisfaction



I got the Chair Rail molding up and painted this weekend, with an assist from my mother who was passing through. I did the touch-ups and voila!



The best looking room in the house. While it was a tremendous pain in the posterior, now that I have executed my lovely bride's master plan I must admit it looks damn nice.



Check out the fish "wallies", stickers designed to stick to your walls without destroying your walls. We might add some sea turtles or doplhins or something, but have to make sure it doesn't get too busy.

It wasn't all sugar and light.

For one, I installed new breaker electric outlets. The kind that trip themselves off in they feel a surge (faster and with a lower threshold than your fuse box). In addition to being slightly more complicated than your normal outlet (you have to connect the wires to the correct leads or it can't "break" the current) these are grounded sockets where my previous ones were not. The previous ones were literally falling apart, so some change had to be made, so why not upgrade to the latest in outlet technology? Anyway, grounding a socket simply requires connecting it to the outlet box, the steel box the outlet is sitting in inside your wall. The steel box is grounded, so anything connected to it will be as well. To ensure a tight connection, I like to drill a hole in the box big enough to put in a screw that I can then attach to a grounding wire. Needless to say, sometimes drilling into a steel box recessed into the wall can be a thankless task. In this particular instance it led to one broken drill bit and, worse, a slip that pulled about an inch of plaster off the wall. Already painted plaster. Arrgh!!!

Fear not, I have already repainted the area. But between the initial incident and the final latex painting, there was some swearing and tossing of dustpans. You can tell when I am really angry at myself for doing something dumb, because I start inventing new swear words. In the interest of not having this blog blocked by parent filters I will repeat none of them here. Let me just say I combine the standard dirty seven words in combinations with objects that just don't make much sense... bubble gum, kazoos, whatever pops into my heated brain. Usually I also mention donkeys.

Another problem I had was that one of the closets refuses to dry properly. Every time I think it is completely dry I close it. After an hour it creates a strong, superglue-like bond with the door frame and when the closet in opened again, it rips the pain off. Presently we are living with this issue as dealing with the oil paint any further is more than I can bear... although now we are considering the painting of bureau.

So, what I would like most now is that the room not be used at all, but instead declared off limits using a velvet rope. Tour groups will be brought by, but they may only gawk inwards longingly.

Apparently this is an unreasonable request.

Instead we are filling the room with baby gear. More on that next blog. In the meantime, please enjoy this photo of me and my dog, Pismo, which looks wholely inappropriate, but is in actuality, not:




I'm scratching her back people! It is either this or more pictures of animals wearing hats, I swear!

S.

Do Not Touch The Trim!


Behold the wonder that is fresh painted trim! Know that while beautiful, it must always be remembered that oil-based paints produce fumes that make the head throb and ache. Ventilation, my child, ventilation.

Seriously, I had to get some serious fan-action going to keep the fumes out of our "temporary" bedroom last night. The room got a little cold, but I put the down comforter back on the bed so it felt quite warm and snuggly. Wife and childs appear none the worse for wear.

Painting with water-based latex paints is so relatively pleasant, that I had forgotten what a bitch-fest oil stuff can be. Right now, as I speak, there is a fan in the nursery-to-be window, producing negative pressure in the room to ensure whatever fumes are still being outgassed go out altogether. Important mental note: In future set up fan FIRST, so that throbbing temples do not ensue. Also, do not talk with the Space Bunnies. They are not real.

So I am truly in the home stretch, needing only to hang the trim and do final touch-ups. Hopefully with as little oil-based paint as possible.

Now, as it is Friday the 13th.... DEVIL CAT!!!!



...and mildly Satanic turtle.

The Great Leap Forward



Yes, today's post has been inspired by the Chinese Communist Party's 5-year plan circa 1958, in which they tried so hard to throw the country into collectives while increasing production on all fronts that the entire country essentially collapsed. It is really a classic example of why running an economy from the top down does not work. Everyone got pressure from the next level up to produce results, so each level lied/exaggerated to the next and therefore the entire country began to starve while the upper echelon thought things were going so swimmingly that they started pulling farmers to make more iron or steel. Since the farmers weren't exactly metallurgy experts they did the next best thing and melted down their farm implements. By the time Mao and company realized what a disaster they had created they were in deep trouble, as they had been claiming just the opposite. So they continued to act as if everything was going swimmingly, hoping it would eventually fix itself. For instance, over most of this time period that people were starving, China continued to export large quantities of food to the world. Because there was such plenty in China. Because Mao was a genius and collectivism worked. You get the idea. Long story short, 20-30 million people starved to death and Mao lost a great deal of power and credibility (temporarily, it turns out... but the Cultural Revolution is a subject for another do-it-yourself project).



So in that spirit I announce the successful launch of stripes and waves on the walls of my nursery. This was done without outside intervention (except for Nan...thanks Nan) and demonstrates the indigenous wisdom and mad paint skills of our people. Pictures now follow. All hail our great leader, Sherman Williams.





For those of you keeping score, I still need to do the trim, touch-ups and hang the new chair rail molding.

Here is some evidence of the wear and tear this nursery painting has exacted on my poor, tired bones. Either I have decided I can't take it anymore and have decided to end it all by driving my head into a pile of plastic sheeting, or I am masking stuff at floor level. Or both. Quite possibly both.



Blessed be Zod.

S.

P.S. I believe I have activated the "allow anyone to post comments" option. So, go for it, anyone.

Tom Sawyer was a Genius.



While the lighting was not exactly optimal, this is what the room looked like after the initial painting of the ceiling. Notice the snazzy dropcloth on the floor, part of my Home Depot birthday present. A cloth drop cloth is roughly 4000% better than plastic, except for the fact that at the end you need to clean it instead of just throwing it away. It doesn't rip, paint dries uber-quick on it, it doesn't slip much on the floor, etc. This drop cloth is just slightly too small for the room, so I had to put plastic down on one stretch and it is just not as good. Plastic sheeting is definitely cheaper, but I say invest in the cloth drop cloth. Everything will go much smoother.

Anyway, now that I have made my plug for the National Foundation for Advancement of Textile Paint Protection Materials (NAMBLA)...

This is how things stood Saturday afternoon: Ceiling painted. Check. Next 25 steps. Still to be done. Fortunately Candy had lined up a whole bunch of sucker-- er, I mean, helpful volunteers to come over on Sunday and make a good push on the whole project. Painting is fun. Why, it is so much fun you should pay me to be allowed to do it.

They didn't pay me, but thanks to Nan, Jacole, Marie, and my mom (Jane) anyway. Thanks to them we 1) Emptied the closets of roughly one ton of stuff, 2) Cleaned and painted the inside of the closets, 3) Painted the top 2/3 of the room (Nacre), 4) Painted the bottom third of the room (Honeydew), 5) Masked everything that still needed masking. This flurry of work even allowed me time to run out and get some chair rail molding to put in the room. I have two pieces cut to order, each ~13 feet in length. Even in my mom's SUV I had to stick them out the passenger window to get them home. It felt a bit like jousting. I was desperately afraid I was going to take out some poor pedestrian's noggin on the way back to my abode.

The room now looks like this:



Coming up Next: We get fancy. There are going to be stripes and waves. Stay tuned.








Oh, and the Dodgers rolled over and died without much of a fight, so I am no longer distracted by baseball. Just this baby any minute thing.

Holy crap, My wife is gonna have a baby!

No, not now. At least I hope not. No labor, no panicked rushes. None of that.

I did, however, spend a good portion of two days watching her hooked up to baby heart monitor machines. They average ~130 beats/minute which although squirrel-like, also happens to be very good for a in utero baby. My wife has even started having mini-contractions, or pre-contractions, or Braxton-Hicks contractions. Call them what you will, they are really Holy-crap-this-is-really-gonna-happen-soon contractions.

With my other mind-occupier, the Dodgers, just about circling the playoff toilet bowl, I have little else to obsess over. It doesn't look like the House re-model will start until after Thanksgiving, so no escape there, either.

So if I am going to run around like a father-to-be with its head cut off, I might as well get something accomplished. So begins the epic and heart palpitating tale of "Painting the Nursery". While it doesn't have the emotional complexity of "the Hole", it should end up being more colorful.

Here is what my bedroom looked like about a week ago.



Sort of a Where's Waldo game of messiness. Find the cat, the mouse, and the sheep and win a fabulous prize!

I can't tell you what it is, but I can guarantee it will be fabulous. If by fabulous we all agree means stuff I am trying to give away that is sitting in my garage.

The idea is to clear the bedroom and paint it into the nursery. This required we move out and into the back office. Which required clearing the back office and putting most of it in the garage (hint hint, fabulous prizes). If it all sounds very
complicated, well, it is. Needless to say it is sort of a musical chairs process that is less a whacky birthday party game and more like continually moving everything you own. In the end, we probably move the bed back in the nursery until the re-model is ready to start. Then we move to my Mom's house. Six years go by and then we have a bigger, nicer home. The End, trumpeting swans, fade to shimmery white.

In the meantime, someone had to clear that room. It now looks like this:



Holes are being patched and sanded. Next I will scrub the walls down with pre-paint, wall-cleaning soap. (TSP I think it is called. Total Soap Product? Try Something Porous? Tom Sucks Pe- No. Probably Not. Anywho...) Then comes the tarp, taping, and painting. Stay tuned loyal viewers, as this room goes from plain Jane to room of the future!!!!

S.

Happy B-day to me,

Thirty-Four, thank you for asking.

I am mighty distracted of late, which is not helping me get my stuff done at work. Because I definitely need to get my stuff done before the babies comes. But the fact the babies are coming is highly distracting.

And so it goes.

On the Home front I have been obsessed with cleaning up and clearing out our offices to put a giant room swap into play, whereby we move our bed into an office and start some hard core baby nursery decoration. This mainly entails boxing things we want to keep in some semi-organized fashion, and throwing away the other half. You accumulate a lot of crap over the years, I can tell you.

Also highly distracting are the Dodgers, who are in the thick of a seriously entertaining playoff chase. Basically three teams, the Los Angeles Dodgers, San Diego Padres, & Philadelphia Phillies (Is that a crappy name or what) are in a race to go the playoffs. One will win the Western Division, one will win the free pass of baseball known as the Wild Card, and one will go home to sulk and probably develop a substance abuse problem. As of this morning the Dodgers lay exactly half way between the Padres and the Phillies, with basically a game separating them either way. You don't want to know what happens if teams end the season tied, but it is complicated and involves a white board to explain. I have all sorts of playoff tickets if the Dodgers can get there, as I am part of a Season Ticket pool, so that kind of makes this doubly distracting.

Fortunately the Dodgers just won their game this afternoon (19-11, a traditional Coors Field pitcher's duel), putting pressure on both their rivals who play later.

See, I told you I was distracted.

Breast Feeding Class: Less Hot Than You Might Think

Demonstrating I am well on my way to full middle-class, suburban husband-hood, I attended a Breast Feeding class last night. There is nothing young, hip, or edgey about learning how to breast feed. I am prefectly willing to allow that a totally cool, with-it hot chick might attend such a class (although I don't recall any there...uh, except my beautiful wife -- phew! that was close), but since my attendence was to learn about it so I could understand and help my wife go through with it, I think this clearly puts me into the mini-van man demographic.

Hell, I have even been talking about getting a mini-van. Mini-vans are so uncool, that they are almost cool. Especially if I could get a brand new one, fully tricked out. Maybe I could put those spinning wheels and some fluorescent under-lights on it. I could really cruise in one of those and have plenty of storage room for strollers and diaper bags. Yeah, bitches!

Anywho, the class was actually kind of interesting, sort of like the Science of the Breast 101. Apparently a breast is a lot like a stalk of broccoli. Seriously, the lecturer brought broccoli as a visual prop. I imagine afterwords she went home and boiled her breast before melting some cheese on top. Mmm.

I learned a newborn baby has a stomach the size of a marble, which grows to the size of ping pong ball over the first few weeks of their life. Again, there were props. Really, the lecturer was like the Carrot Top of lactation consultants.

I also learned TOR. Tickle the lower lip. Open the mouth wide. RAM it in.

Apparently the nurses have asked the lactation people to stop using this memory acronym. I am not sure if they find the ramming of breasts distasteful, or merely the linguistic faux pas of putting an acronym in an acronym, as RAM also stands for Rapid Arm Movement. All I know is breast feeding requires a good latch. I will probably check out Home Depot after work.

Finally I learned we are suppose to breast feed every 2-3 hours for weeks on end and that we should really wait 4 weeks before first trying to introduce a bottle. Yikes, that doesn't sound like much sleep. With two of the little rugrats we have to make sure they feed simultaneously, otherwise the little woman will never do anything else. Even as it is I imagine more often than not she will look like a shark with a couple of remora fish tucked under each arm.

T-Minus 5 weeks to destruction of decadent, lazy-do-nothing lifestyle.

For God's Sake, They Don't Hate Our Freedom!

I don't know who came up with that gem, but it has traveled back and forth across the American psyche so many times it has become gospel.

Muslim Terrorists Hate Our Freedom.

I mean seriously, a 19-year devote muslim living in Baghdad is blowing himself and a school-load worth of children off this planet because someone, far off in the United States, is enjoying an abstract concept like freedom. Oh yes, I want to fight and die because Jennifer Thompson in Long Island, New York is allowed to watch MTV. Oh, you person I have and never will meet, I hate your ability to travel freely throughout your territorial boundries so much that I will march and chant "Death to Israel".

It is absurd no matter how you look at it and is among the most blatant propaganda since we declared Saddam Hussein to be the next Hitler. Yeah, that level of rhetoric worked out well.

Muslims Terrorists do not hate freedom or liberty or puppies or apple pie. They may not be fond of Western culture or morals, but that is also not why they are lining up to die. Muslim Terrorists hate the way the Western nations and particularly the United States are interfering in the Muslim world.

Period. End of sentence. No further explanation required.

Now whether or not the West should be interfering in the Muslim world or even whether we have a choice in the matter is another question. I am not a proponent of packing up our diplomatic bags and going home. But that is where the hate comes from.

The U.S. created, armed and continues to support Israel.
The U.S. props up multiple repressive "friendly" regimes, from Saudi Arabia to Egypt.
The U.S. continually plays one Muslim nation against another, with Iraq vs. Iran being among the bloodier examples.
The U.S. attempts to extract the maximum amount of oil from the region, putting money into the pockets of an elite few.

And this is all pre-Iraq invasion, a completely bald-faced attempt to impose U.S. control on an Arab country.

You can add to all that the general (and quite accurate) sense that the United States thinks of everyone in the Muslim countries as second class citizens (of the world), and you can begin to get a notion of why a vocal minority would, in fact, hate us.

We disrespect them while at the same time constantly interfere in their lives. How would you think of that sort of person? Particularly if they make things worse 75% of the time (I may be being generous) and seem to be getting more belligerant and more controlling.

Using the Terrorists Hate Freedom propaganda is not helping us solve this problem. How do you fight that? Give them Freedom? Take their Freedom? Hide our Freedom? I think we need to publicly address the grievances, real and false, the Muslim world has with our policy towards the region, where they live. It is not giving in to terrorists to address problems that make the majority of Muslims unhappy, any more than it is giving in to inner city criminals to address the urban decay issues that led to their creation. In general, terrorism is a crime and terrorists are criminals and that is how they should be dealt with. You can't win a war on terrorism any more than you can win a war on crime. Or poverty. Or any other abstract concept one could name.

Like Freedom.

Anxiety

Now the main purpose of this blog is to blather on and on, like I am wont to do, about all subjects great and small. I have many opinions and the world (i.e. 4-6 people who irregularly read this blog) need to know them.

It is not meant to be a diary, except in that it gives me an excellent place to post progress on various projects that I obsess about but no one should be forced to hear about. Example 1: The hole. I figure once my kids are born this will be an excellent place to vent new father stuff without boring other people to death who really do not want to know about the latest adventure in diapers.

Having said all that, today I will post a more personal/diary-esque post and see how that feels.

I feel anxious. Not sure why. I have some very good reasons, I suppose. Kids on the way, behind in my work, major financial/logistical implications of consolidating my finances and re-modeling the house. Stupid air conditioning has some sort of issue with water collecting in the system, condensing and pouring water down into the furnace/blower. This is collecting down on the hallway floor, leading to both wood warping and mold issues. Called a repair guy this morning, the company that installed my A/C and repaired my blower. Apparently, they don't fix this sort of thing (?!?!??!). Then who does? Sigh.

Some days you wake up and feel ready to take on the world and others you wake up and want to crawl back into bed. Maybe I just need more vitamins? Protein? Less sleep? More sleep? I don't believe in biorhythms and it seems unlikely my hormone levels are changing by much, so why do some days suck more than others? Dropping air pressure? Am I a human barometer?

Ah phooey. I may not know what causes an anxious day. But I know what the cure is.

About three fingers, neat.

Winningest Pitcher Ever, A Modern Interpretation

Warning! Baseball ramblings to follow. Not everything can be celebrities and excavation, you know.

I have been thinking a bit about Greg Maddux and his career wins total, which presently stands at 330 (against 200 losses). This places him in sole possession of 10th best wins all time. He is 40 years old and while he is not the pitcher he was in the early 90s, he still is managing to put together some nice outings.

In direct competition for greatest pitcher of their generation, is Roger Clemens with a lifetime record of 347-176. Clemens is 4 years older. Their lifetime ERAs are almost identical (Maddux's is 3.06 vs Clemens' 3.11). Clemens was a strikeout expert and has 4575 strikeouts to Maddux's still impressive 3151. I think once you take into account that Clemens pitched mostly in the American League, you probably have to give him the nod. We will also have to see how they end their careers, as Clemens is still pitching at 44 and is arguably still one of the best pitchers in the league.

Before moving on I should give an honorable mention to Pedro Martinez, who is a bit younger than these two. My suspicion is that his arm is going to explode and fall off, preventing him from amassing the stats Maddux and Clemens have managed. He has made a career of defying those who believe his arm is going to come off at any moment, so if he is still mowing people down in 6-7 years, this issue can be revisited.

Now it may be unfair to place too much emphasis on wins and/or win percentage, as pitching is only half the equation. A pitcher can not control how good his team is at scoring. This has led to the baseball-geek controversy about Bert Blyleven, who had 287 career wins with some fairly mediocre teams. He is not presently in the Hall of Fame and probably should be, if it were not for his missing the arbitrary 300 wins total that many use to grant one HOF immortality.

Having said all that, the main purpose of any starting pitcher is to win games. Many pitchers seem to alter their game depending on the score. With big leads they are either careless or feel they should challenge pitchers more. I am not entirely sure what the logic of that is, except that they feel they are increasing the odds of 3 quick outs at the cost of increasing the risks of a home run. In a close game it is not worth the risk, in a blow out it is. Anyway, the point of all that blathering is that one can argue that ERA or WHIP or some similar stat may miss this fact, so a pitcher on a particularly good or bad team could have inflated these stats that are supposedly independent of team quality. My suspicion is this is a small effect at best, but there it is. I am sure someone has gone through and tried to gather ERA in close vs blow out games, but this has some fairly obvious biases that might be difficult to take into account.

OK, I am meandering. It is hard to think of something more masturbatory than baseball stats. Except maybe masturbation. On to my point, such as it is.

Let's say we are going to judge greatest pitcher of all time by his Wins alone. Probably not the best metric, but far from the worst.

The all-time wins leader is Cy Young at 511 wins. That blows Clemens and Maddux away. However, it should probably be noted that Cy also had 316 losses, giving him a winning percentage below both Maddux and Clemens. This would also be a good time to mention Cy played from 1890-1911, an era where baseball was so different from the modern day it hardly deserves to be called the same game. Pitchers pitched every few games and good ones generally pitched the entire game, removing the "No Decision" which costs so many pitchers wins (and losses) in the modern era. Cy Young pitched 749 complete games, for God's sakes! While the greatest of his day, it seems absurd to compare him to modern players.

Of the top ten pitchers in Wins (excluding Clemens and Maddux), 5 played at least half their career in the 19th centruy. [Cy Young(511), Pud Galvin(364), Kid Nichols(361), Tim Keefe(342), & John Clarkson(328)]. Another three played in the 1910s and 20s, only partially overlapping with the time of Babe Ruth, the true dawn of the age of modern homerun-driven baseball [Walter Johnson(417), Pete Alexander(373), & Christie Mathewson(373)].

It is commonly argued that one can not start to compare players across eras until the integration of baseball, starting roughly in 1947 with Jackie Robinson. That leaves only two in the top ten that can really be compared: Warren Spahn (363 wins 1946-1965) and Steve Carlton (329 wins 1965-1986). While Young, Johnson, Mathewson and the rest were great players of immense historical importance, it is really these win totals that a modern player needs to surpass to be the "winning-est" pitcher of all time.

Both Maddux and Clemens have already surpassed Carlton, meaning only Spahn lies between them and the modern "Wins" title. Clemens could give us another season, which would likely get him there. Physically he still seems up to it. Amazing. I think Nolan Ryan (324 lifetime wins, btw) slipped him some youth juice.

Maddux is 4 years younger, but it is unclear if he has the longevity of Clemens. His numbers seem to indicate some deterioration, although he has been quite good since his most recent trade to the Dodgers (ERA ~2.37). Small number statistics, but he may have been floundering partially because he was playing games for the Cubs that didn't mean anything. I also think the Dodgers are being more careful with his pitch count, stopping him in the 80s instead of the 100s more typical for younger pitchers. He is 33 wins from Spahn, a realistic total for 3 more years (pitching until 43) if his abilities don't fall off a cliff and, of course, he wants to keep pitching.

Be nice to see him do it in a Dodger uniform, especially if he keeps pitching like he has been...

I was so excited about the dramatic rise and fall of my Hole (If you missed it, check it out. It is Pulse-Pounding Action), that I found no time for my other big news from this past weekend. Stephen Colbert was in town for the Emmys and my lovely (but highly pregnant) bride and I were invited to his exclusive Hotel Roof shindig on Saturday night.

All the big stars were there... Well, OK, Jon Stewart was there and that was cool enough for me. He even mock pushed me aside to talk with the blushing bride, because she works in video games. Seriously, though I think Stephen and Jon may be a couple of the nicest guys in show business.

They are therefore doomed to failure.

I'm sorry, but somebody had to say it. If you swim with sharks, etc., etc.

The other folks in the photos are my parents and Stephen's lovely wife. I will leave determining which is which as an exercise to the reader.



Anyway, in the end the only Emmy Stephen won was for writing for the Daily Show, basically he lost to himself, which wasn't really so bad. However, he also lost to Barry Manilow, which is leading the rest of the family to return to pronouncing Colbert with a hard 't'.
I would like to believe that my father and I helped write Stephen's Emmy bit. It is not true, I don't think, but I choose to live in a reality in which I believe it to be so. When discussing the upcoming contest against Manilow, my father was almost screaming, "You can't lose to Manilow", while I added, "Wolverine, maybe, but not Manilow". I believe Stephen used that material and I expect a royalty check soon. In fact, in my reality, I got it already and used it to buy a new coat of paint for my Space Cruiser with optional Intergalactic Nav System. Sulu, set a course for Pleasure Planet 9.

Vrrrrooommmm!

The Hole is Dead, Long Live the Fence Post!

Well true believers, we all knew it would have to come to an end somewhere. One does not dig a hole just for the sake of hole-ness. Nature abhors a vacuum, even one filled with air. So after a full week of constant pick-work, digging and sweating, I completed my hole at about 10am Saturday morning. For the final hole images, please see the previous post which has the entire progress. From here on out this blog will post on the positive, seeing the hole half full, if you will. So we will not dwell on loss of the hole, but the fufillment of the dream of a world where dogs can run free without actually getting free.




So here is the fence post that was foretold in times of yore, both at a distance and close up where you can see the powdered Quikrete that was used to fill the hole. Oh, God... My poor hole... Sorry, sorry. I have pulled myself back together now.








This is what the hole looked like once I poured a bucket of water into the concrete/dirt/hole mixture, followed by what it looked like once the water had been fully absorbed and/or evaporated. I then waited another couple of hours for it to dry (it is called Quick crete), during which time I repaired a running toilet. Sadly, no footage of that exists. Let us just say that is was so beautiful that the angels wept.



















Then up with the fence. For this phase of the project I got some help from my mother, who came over for logistical and moral support. Things went really well for a while, until it became clear just how badly the tree had pushed up and bent the previous fence, particularly the left side in these pictures (North for those of you using a compass). Even after I reassembled every piece of fence, a substantial gap remained. Fortunately Pismo the uber-beast has been deemed "portly" by her vet, making a wriggling escape highly unlikely.



Finally I grabbed a spanking new fence board, cut it to fit the gap, and fit it seemlessly into the fence. You can't even tell where the odd hole was. I mean, at night you can't. If I leave the porch light off.

Oh, dear readers, I am afraid this is the end of the epic tale of Hole and Fence, although I am in negotiations with Stan the Man himself to have it adapted into graphic novel form. I think in the new version, I will be a buxom warrior princess with an aversion to clothing and the Hole will become some sort of Hentai, multi-penised monster, but other than that all things will remain true to my original vision.

Now, because you demanded it: Dog with a baseball cap on its head. Good Night!

Here is the entire progress of my hole, minus the first 3 days, when it was really more of a depression rather than a full-fledged hole. Enjoy. I recommend playing something nostalgic while viewing, like the perhaps the theme from Cheers or When We Were Kings.

August 23:

Still eating root. Sawdust trimmings falling in. This is a clearly still a substandard hole.

---

August 24:

Now this is getting somewhere. That is sweet, sweet dirt you can see on the bottom. That troublesome new root is coming in the top of the frame...




This is the same hole, but 180 degree different angle.

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August 25:

Hey now... Starting to look nicely cavernous.











Same reverse shot as yesterday. Just look at the serious foot of solid hard wood I have gone through so far.

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August 26:

There she is, in all her depthly glory. A post hole for the ages!











Final depth: 27.5 inches. I decided against shooting for the full 30 as it was going to make the final post too short. So this is closer to 30% underground rather than 1/3, as recommended on bags of Quikcrete everywhere.

The blog went a little screwey earlier today, so if you checked before -- and I am sure you did, as no one can get enough hole news -- you might have seen roughly six thousand copies of yesterday's final post. This has now been corrected.

So the latest update on the excavation (even I get tired of typing "hole" a thousand times... damn it, I typed it again!): I made an initial attempt at taking out the root cutting into hole from the bottom side of these photos. The root is actually coming in from the East if you want to orient yourself that way. The umbrella is to the east, my yard to the west, the street to the north and a round mother-to-be lies roughly North by Northwest. Insert George Kaplan reference here.

Anyway that root turned out to be a great deal of trouble. It kept going and going, leading me to suspect it is less a root and more the remains of the bottom of the tree. Even after excavating a large space to the east side of the hole, allowing swings to reach the pernicious root, I was able to do little more than knock a toothpick sized scrap off the bastard with every full pick swing. This lead rapidly to a tired and extra surley Colbert.

So I switched to a new tactic, widening the hole by about 1-2 inches to the west. This required chapping through another 12 inches of solid root, but because most of it was at the top of the hole, it was actually a much easier task. Easier, not necessarily easy. This does push the future fence out by 1-2 inches, but:

a) It is quite likely that I won't be able to notice 1-2 inches over that extent,
b) I can cut the fence down a little on the backside to make it fit better,
and
c) It is equally likely I didn't have it properly lined up in the first place. This could be a problem if it is now 4 inches out of line, but I eyeballed it and that doesn't look like that is the case.

If you are having trouble reading the measuring stick, the hole depth is almost 20 inches. 30 inches is the approximate target goal, although I will need to do some follow-up measurements of the surround fence posts for a final estimate. I feel good about Saturday.

Real good.

Don't forget to check out the latest progression of deepening hole pictures in the following blog entry, updated for today.

Now finally, for your viewing pleasure, a cat with a baseball helmet on its head:

Good news on the hole front today. I got out there a half hour earlier and really put my time to good use. Got down to a level that was 100% dirt! Sadly, as I descended I discovered a root that was sliding in diagnally into the downward path of my hole. At the depth I've reached that is going to be a tough nut to crack (i.e. pick), but I got some ideas I will put into place tomorrow. In the meantime, here are some photos:

Well I got some complaints that I have neglecting my blog. And I have. Something about trying to get work done and being highly distracting by my upcoming twinzapalooza.

Right now my focus in life has narrowed, laser beam-like, on digging a post hole in my backyard.

What follows is an epic tale of man against nature, in the tradition of Jack London. It is also a tale with strong existential overtones in the thematic style of a Camus. It will also contain at least one dick joke, just like an Eddie Murphy routine. Plus there will be pie.

Recently we came to the conclusion that the beautiful, old ash tree in our neighbor's yard had just grown too big for its britches. And more importantly, our smallish lots. Its roots were starting to undermine my foundation and the tree had already taken out the adjoining fence, which was being held up by nothing more than the giant tree. So, sad as it was to kill such a magnificent specimen of of the vegetable kingdom, it was my home or it. $2000 bucks and the scariest wood chipper I have ever seen (I am fairly certain you could toss a Buick Skylark in there without a hiccup in its rhythmic rrrrmmm) and the tree was gone. As was all the shade it provided. Nicely timed for August.

Anyway, as I already mentioned the tree had left the fence in tatters. As I had relatively recently constructed a small stretch of fence from scratch (which still looks good, I might add), I felt entirely confident I could sink a new fence post, attach the surviving piece of fence and then repair whatever holes remained. Bing, Bang, Boom, fence problem temporarily solved until we finally get around to replacing it entirely (the wood is not in good shape, crumbling at the edges).

I buy my 4x4 fence post. I buy my Quickcrete to secure said fencepost in place. I prepare my electric drill and screws for the attachment, securing of new fence pieces, etc. I warm up the power saw table and take inventory of the 2x4s I can use as needed. I am ready to tear this old fence a new one!

Now fence post digging can be a pain, as you need to place roughly 1/3 of your fence post underground to ensure it is properly anchored (i.e. won't tear a foot deep hole in the ground if you lean on it). So for a 5 foot high post, that is a 2.5 foot hole. This is also approximately the length of my arm if you throw in a bit of shoulder and the edge of a garden spade, something I verified experimentally when I put up the successful (and did I mention handsome?) fence. Now you can rent something call a post hole digger, but I only needed one hole. I figured I would be done in an hour. Tops.

Now someone with a bit of foresight might already have forseen the problem I rapidly developed. When digging a hole within a foot or two of a previoulsy existing 100-150 foot tree (it was damn big), it would not in the least bit be surprising to find some roots. Big, thick roots. Like logs, buried in the ground. After approximately 5 minutes of shoveling, it became clear there was no root free place along the line of the fence. I would have to cut through the roots or abandon/rethink the project.

I made the wrong choice. Cutting through roots basically requires a pick axe, which I borrowed from my father. I think it had been in my family for a generation, as it lasted about 5 minutes before the wood in the handle split. One sad attempt at repair later (I tried reattaching the head with screws...it sorta worked. It also sorta put me in constant danger with each swing of the pick axe of losing a toe). So to OSH I went, returning proudly with my spanking new pick axe, which now uses plastic to reinforce the wood around the pick head. Thirty sweaty minutes later (did I mention it was August and not cool and my shade tree was gone?) and 2 inches of excavated hole later, I knew this was going to be a substantial undertaking.

A weaker man (i.e. smarter) would have again taken the opportunity to abandon the project, hire someone to complete it for them, reworked the problem... really anything would be better than going forward. But I was determined.

And by determined I mean bull-headedly stubborn. The hole would be mine!

So now it has become my morning exercise. I get up, watch 20-30 minutes of TV to shake out the cobwebs, throw on some work clothes, and pick that hole for all I am worth (~30 minutes). When I feel close to collapse due to a combination of fatigue and heat exhaustion (something I could avoid by getting up earlier... file that under thing #2456 that would be better if I could get my ass out of bed earlier), I crawl back inside, shower and head off to work.

The hole is now nearly a foot deep, and its diameter is over a foot, depending on where you measure it. The roots get softer and less dense as I go deeper, but it gets harder and harder to swing the pick axe. So I have to widen the hole to allow for the pick axe swings. I think by the time I am done it will look like a blast crater. My latest excavation definitely uncovered several square inches of pure, easily removed soil, so I am greatly encouraged. I am hoping one more day of picking will allow me to get down deep enough so that the roots are soft enough that they can be attacked with a garden spade. After that, it should finish very quickly. Kock on wood. I have plenty of that, anyway.

I am not sure what I will do after I complete this crazy little project. It is certain to leave a vacuum in my life. Or dare I say, a hole?

No, I really shouldn't have dared, but that is what you get for reading a blog entirely about digging one hole. And sorry, I lied about the pie.

Yes, I have been negligent. But I am finally out from under the crushing weight of Spitzer program reviews. Hurrah! In celebration I will consider a bit of "did-you-know" trivia.

Gadzooks. It is a real swear word that used to be very offensive, but is now quite cute.

It is short for God's Hooks and refers to the crucifiction (or specifically, the nails that put Jesus there). It is similar to many swear words that Shakespeare liked to use, like 'Zwounds and 'Sblood (God's Wounds and God's Blood), which were also considered pretty salty at the time. It is why they were mostly said by his Falstaff character (although other's were known to lose it from time to time).

Anyway, for some reason Gadzooks has become a cute, Ay Caramba! level phrase, while the other's have faded into history. I like to think of it as something offensive I can say without anyone realizing. Like talking about being gypped. Fucking Romany.

S.