Beer and Lattes, or, "You Think You Know Me ..."

The nights would seem like snow on a hot summer's day -- except for the fact that they weren't entirely that foreign to one another.

On Friday, I took my older son to WWE "Smackdown!" at the arena. The evening started with basketball practice, then eating at a taproom.

The following night, my youngest boy and I dressed up and went downtown to the concert hall to see "The Nutcracker." The evening started at a coffee shop, sharing an apple muffin and sipping hot chocolate and a latte.

The choice of entertainment is emblematic of their personalities.

My third-grader is a sports disciple, whether he's playing it or watching it or reading about it or dreaming about it. Balls were his teddy bears. He's uncomfortable with girls. Fiction frustrates him. And he told me flat out today that he doesn't listen to music for the lyrics.

My kindergartner is an actor. An ebullient type who will entertain anyone who will pay attention. He doesn't play t-ball, he acts like a player playing tee ball. He couldn't catch a cold if you threw it to him. He'd rather live in a world of his own making -- or of someone else's making as long as it's interesting.

My oldest wears faded sports jerseys on his nights out; my youngest wears knitted sweaters.

I can genuinely identify with both my children's interests. It's not in me to be interested in one in spite of the other.

If I had to choose one, I might say I would have chosen the pro wrestling -- but only because I'd seen "The Nutcracker" before.

Yet, while I identify with both, I don't feel completely in place with either.

I find myself deconstructing the scene -- the theater of it, the scripted acrobatics, the choreographed attempts to evoke emotion.

Which one of them? Both.

I cheer the bad guys in wrestling because I enjoy the sardonic wit of what they do. Staring down children as they walk to the ring. Running from the good guys, then kicking them in the balls when they're not looking. I like that they say they hate your town.

In theater, I'm envious of those who can enter a state of consciousness combined with an empathy to share what's inside toto inspire others to feel a sense of magic. It's the kind of thing we bother living for.

Yet, in both, I feel a little detached.

Is there something strange in wishing that you could see Triple H smash a trash can over the Russian's head ... but watch it from a luxury box so that you don't have to suffer the masses who obviously think it's realer than it is?

Is it odd for me to admire the elegant flourish of a ballet dancer ... but amuse myself, at least quietly, that dancers and wrestlers aren't so different when they both wear tights that accentuate their penises?

It's not so a strange, I guess.

I can see my sons growing up and understanding one another's interests and appreciating both the synergy and the dissonance between things.

And if not ... well, is obsessive meta-cognition the worst thing you could avoid?

De- ...

I close my eyes and I see a thousand bats flying in my head.

Swirling around furiously in the dark, with no purpose other than a blind, impulsive fear.

Every attempt to plead for an escape richocheting violently around.

With no way out.

The embrace of tiny arms feels like nothing more than the faint and distant vibration of someone trying to save you.

This is what happens when your body no longer belongs to you ... but you're still inside.

'Mmm, Mmm, Mmm, I'm Hungry. I've Got This Sweet Tooth'

I'm not a Raiders fan, but I am a newfound fan of Johnnie Lee Higgins.

I can't remember a more visceral, detailed, complex mixed metaphor to describe that tragic marriage of personal success balanced against team failure.

Here's what happened:

With little faith in the Oakland Raiders' offense to score a touchdown late in the game, Johnnie Lee Higgins took the punt from the 7 yard line and ran it back for a touchdown -- a back-breaker putting the Raiders up 15-14 with little time left.

It looked like the play would seal the Dolphins' fate -- and make a hero of Higgins -- but moments later he watched helplessly as the Dolphins moved the ball in the closing seconds and kicked one through for the 17-15 win keeping them unbelievably in the wildcard chase.

Here's how he described the feeling:

It's like you're a little kid, you're at a candy store ... and you can eat all the candy you want, all the muffins and cupcakes you want. But at the end of the day, your stomach is going to be hurting, and that's exactly what it feels like.

I did something great, I'm eating all this candy. Mmm, mmm, mmm, I'm hungry. I've got this sweet tooth. Later on that night, you're going to be crying for Mama. ... And that's exactly how I feel.

We all feel that way sometimes ... I think.

Man Struggles With Columbus Day Tradition

By Hugh Munn
STAFF WRITER
The Georgetown (S.C.) Tattler

SCUFFLETOWN, S.C. -- An area man said today that he's having trouble using the internet to find a Columbus Day present for his racist second cousin.

"I know I wanna to git 'em one of them screw-the-immigrants bumper stickers," Bill Boothauser said as he leaned over a desk trolling websites on a library computer. "He hates them Mexicans jumpin' over the fence and breathin' all the white man's air. But the Google ain't workin', and I ain't callin' up one of them Injuns overseas."

The recognition of Columbus Day in the Boothauser family is a tradition that stretches back generations.

Past presents have included a Toby Keith CD, several shotguns and a Native American dreamcatcher from "the Cherokee store."

"Me and cuz celebrate Columbus Day because that man was a great American," Boothauser said. "If he hadn't landed on Plymouth Rock, wouldn't nobody be here."

Earlier in the day, Boothauser said, he went to the Havana Leaves tobacco store to buy his cousin -- a self-proclaimed "citizen border agent on patrol" -- "some kind of 'cee-gar' they say's real fancy."

However, Boothauser said he left when the store attendant "smirked real suspicious-like" and asked him a strange question after he told the attendant the occasion.

"He asked me if I knew what a 'ironee' was," Boothauser said. "I told him I thought that was one them women what slid a iron over the clothes every mornin'. I figured he musta been a homo or somethin'."

There was no word late Monday on what Boothauser settled on.

Sleep Over

So my son has his friend over to spend the night, and it was a lot of work to get the deal sealed.

A lot of negotiating back and forth which house they'd stay at. The friend says his mom is making him some cake and he wants to be able to eat that, so it should be his house.

My son says he wants sleep in his own bed, but his friend says he wants the cake.

My son says he can bring the cake with him, but his friend says he's afraid of the dark and can't bring the cake.

And that he never has anybody sleep at his house.

Eventually, they end up here.

It was a lot of work. Particularly after a long day of playing "Guitar Hero."

Anyway ... they're back there playing around, two elementary school kids trading football cards and generally exploring the evening, and I open the door and tell them, "There's only one rule: You can't play the Playstation."

The looks on their faces were priceless.

What a great sense of humor I have.