Springtime: First robin, daffodils blooming and roller derby mayhem!

Another interesting weekend in Chicago (motto: "One toll booth is plenty to handle the driving population of China!). Our reason for returning to the scene of the great "Greektown Easter Bread Caper" (see my last blog) as it has come to be known in Greektown, was to witness another first for our daughter. The first roller derby bout for YOUR Windy City Rollers!! While normally her mother and I would not go out of our way to see our precious little girl get the snot kicked out of her, our other pride and joy, Dustin (I never met a Mimosa I didn't like) Coyote flew in for the inaugural bout from Mexico City. I guess we could hardly bow out. How often do you have the opportunity to be ridiculed by both your children at the same time? By the way, it is evidently the law in Illinois that if you are related to a roller derby girl, you lose birth surname and take on the name given your daughter. So now Sandy, Dustin, Dave and myself are known as the Coyote family. It could be an improvement. You never know. OK, sometimes you do.

Anyway, we decided to surprise our daughter by showing up for the bout even though she insisted for weeks that she didn't want anyone closer than a fifth cousin showing up as she didn't think she would be very good. She needn't have worried, becase at one point, my sweet, charming PhD of a little girl took out a skater on the other team with roughly the same physique as a municipal stadium. Now let me see. She didn't think she would be very good, even though she has the capability of knocking someone into Milwaukee. Makes sense to me. I wasn't surprised as I had seen her use similar techniques when confronting her mother and I for money (I think maybe Dave has seen this side as well. By the way Dave odds are good you'll heal by summer.).

We got to the derby bout via something called a "party bus" which was organized by one of the retired roller derby girls, I believe her name was "Sledge Hammer". You greet her by saying "hello, Ms. Hammer, how's Mr. Hammer and all the little Hammers?" She kindly took our $8 per person to put us on one of those "rides smooth as silk" yellow school buses. I think they use the term "party bus" a tad loosely as your ability to drink beer from a plastic cup while riding in a school bus through the town of Cicero, Illinois (motto: "Anyone could drive if there were no potholes!") is a feat that ranks up there with trying to win a Nobel prize for having invented a more efficient apertoire. Just ask Donald Rumsfeld, George Bush and the rest of good folks that brought you the Iraq war. We finally arrived at the half built, Aztec ruin called the "Cicero Stadium for an evening of entertainment watching fit, pretty girls skating in a circle, trying to kick the bejeesus out of some other poor defenseless skater. Ah, the fun of youth. Parents this is what you get for telling your kids "Stop playing those damn violent video games and get out there and get some physical exercise for God's sake!".

A word, if you will, about a crowd of roller derby fans. To the untrained eye, and mine is as untrained as they come, you might first get the impression that only massively pierced, tattooed, drunken wierdos attend roller derby games. Nothing could be further from the truth, as I left out the adjective "homicidal". I swear this is true, I saw two little girls roughly 5 or 6 years old, made up, by their proud parents I presume, to look like a cross between Marilyn Manson and Alice Cooper. The Cicero "stadium" was packed to the rafters with these folks and I felt extremely under dressed in my jeans, and "Manic Attacker" t-shirt. One saving grace, I was wearing a baseball cap which said "Fish the Smokies" so at least I had an image of a hook on me, if not in actual fact through my nipple or some other random appendage. At least Sandy had the good sense to wear earrings. They weren't straight pins or anything, but I suspect they gave her a pass.

Oddly enough, (or not) they start a roller derby bout with the national anthem. This probably could have been dispensed with as the crowd seemed to have the patriotic fervor that God gave gravel. One mental defective, who shall remain nameless, although his real name is Doug Manley, sang the anthem in roughly the same register as Phoebe Snow on helium. I told his wife Charity that she should dump his sorry ass in favor of a more distinguished, 50'ish man with an abundance of scalp, unburdened by height and the physique of a Greek god's bowling ball. (OK, maybe it was begged, rather than told). There was also a crowd of about 30 "goths" who ignored the anthem altogether and sat through it with their hats on. I think they were all cranky ex-Bush supporters.

After all the pregame hoopla, the bouts got underway. The main event, I think was between the "Hells Belles" and the "Double Crossers". During the bouts the arena announcers, a couple of guys in Liberace Reject wardrobes, whipped the spectators into a frenzy with colorful "play by play" and clever anecdotes. The main event was very exciting as the Belles stormed from behind to overtake and defeat the hated Crossers on the final jam. I was thrilled beyond repair.
Then there was Mel's er, sorry, I mean Riley's bout. It was a close one, but The Fury squeeked by Riley's Manic Attackers by a final score of about 83 to 12. As they say in other sports, it wasn't as close as the score would indicate. However, in a credit to the popularity of the sport, the arena stayed fairly packed to the bitter end of the bout. Riley played blocker and jammer to get her feet wet as she is technically a rookie. She played with a kind of reckless abandon that brought tears to Sandy's and my eyes. Primarily because we could see the wasted investment on her braces going right down the drain. Just kidding, Sandy and I were not the least bit concerned when she was blocked into a cement wall by a Fury player the size of a Buick, which was the case of all the Fury, or when she took one of several spills.

Following the merciful conclusion of the Manic Attackers bout we all boarded the party bus for the return trip to our point of departure for some post bout libation. Our host emporium was a little tavern called "The Cobra" (motto: One barmaid can serve approximately 3,000 customers. We're not only proud of that, we're smug about it). Many fans, and a little later the players showed up for post game festivities and stitches. Sandy and I proudly looked on as our precious little roller derby queen signed actual autographs for adoring fans. Several of these fans were clearly blowing about .40 BAC. We sat at a table near the bar which meant we were able to order and get our drinks in a little under 2 hours. I felt bad for those seated in more distant booths, several of whom had skeletonized by the time we left. During the course of the evening, several of the other Windy City Rollers girls stopped by to chat and tell us how much they loved our daughter. We frequently had to make sure we were all talking about the same person. Some girls seemed genuinely surprised that we would make the trip from Cleveland and I heard many express their admiration for parents foolish..., I mean dedicated enough to come all that way. Several players said they wished their parents showed so much spirit. This was coming from girls whose sole purpose in this activity was to split lips, break bones and cause mayhem in general. These same girls then had the nerve to act surprised when their parents had a little trouble showing up to witness the carnage. Anyway girls, don't be too hard on your parents for lacking the capacity to watch their offspring beating or being beaten to a pulp.

I guess that's enough of a rant for now, I'm still recovering, as usual, from the trip and tremendous change of sleep habits.

By the way Dustin, if the Manley's ask for my address or phone number, tell them I'm deceased.

Love Dad

Unsung Heroes

I want to sing a particular group of professional's praises. Well, not literally, as I don't so much sing as mimic a rusty hinge. But these folks labor day in and day out in a thankless and, for the most part, low paying profession. I am talking about those women (men are extremely rare in this profession for reasons that will become apparent), that are charged with the task of educating our preschoolers. That's right, educating. I say this because if you are foolish enough to call childcare "babysitting" the ladies that do it for a living will immediately set their phasers on "kill". For those that work with children with special needs, that goes double.

Although I am reluctant to admit it, I recently discovered, despite all evidence to the contrary, my wife is a saint. Actually my wife and her colleagues everywhere are saints. OK, maybe not Sue K, but the rest are spot on! My discovery stemmed from my "volunteering" to help out at one of her classes. This is an activity that I highly recommend for any adult, especially those that no longer have any use for their shins, kneecaps or various other joints and muscles that you don't even know exist. My wife teaches preschoolers that focuses on integrating children with special educational needs. What used to be known as "mainstreaming" which has evidently become politically incorrect so I don't know what the current jargon allows. The children in the class I visited have various learning disabilities which make education a particular challenge. ADD, ADHD, Autism and Asperger's (which, it turns out, is not the name for a new sandwich at Burger King) are involved with some of the children in the class.

Anyway, while mothers are common volunteers for these classes, fathers rarely venture in. That's because most men truly fear working with little children. It's no fun being outwitted by your average 3 year old. Male teachers in this line of education are even more rare. Why, you ask? Because male teachers are genetically incapable of teaching anyone that can't be ordered to run laps or do pushups (swats used to be included until those damned lawyers got involved).

Being a rarity in a classroom can have its advantages. For about 3 milliseconds the children hold you in a kind of reverent awe. After that, you become fair game for endless streams of questions and observations ranging from "Do you really live with Mrs. LaForce" to "My dog gets eye boogers!" And that's the easy part. Most of your time is spent bending, squating, sitting cross legged on the floor on a carpet made up of various shapes in a circle. I got to be on the triangle, and heaven help me if I would sit on the circle, for God's sake. Then there is the matter of hitting. Every once in awhile, one of the children gets frustrated beyond his or her means to cope and wallops someone, usually the nearest adult, with a force that get's you to thinking "DOWN GOES FRAZIER, DOWN GOES FRAZIER!"

Thankfully, the teachers have learned to recognize the warning signs and can usually nip such contacts in the bud. The untrained, inexperienced observer is usually not so lucky. As a consequence, I find the occaisions where some parents, either through blissful ignorance or outright denial of their child's condition, berate, belittle and criticize these professionals and their recommendations or activities. I know of these parents because once in awhile, when Sandy comes home and tries to tell me about her day, a few molecules of actual information make it into my brain and sinks in. Just a general tip to Sandy's colleagues and women in general. Husbands say they are listening, and in actual fact they are listening, as best they can. But men are hard wired by nature and thousands of years of evolutionary programming to allow about 2 syllables of the spouse or girlfriends comments enter into his pea brain, before that brain, acting wholly on its on, refocuses on things like "Who are the Browns going to lose to this week" or "I wonder if Anna Nicole Smith donated her hooters to science. If not, she should have!"

Anyway, I tip my hat to you ladies that are in the trenches, doing the dirty work of educating our toddlers because we men are damn sure not going to do it! And, if you want to make sure that your man is really listening, you might want to open the conversation with something like, oh, I don't know, maybe...

"That Jayne Mansfield had some big breasts!"

Love
Dad

My daughter be jammin'

I blame myself. I was the one that took up SCUBA at the ripe old age of 54 and encouraged my offspring to take up the fun and adventurous activities while they were young and their bodies had not yet put one foot on rigor mortis and the other on a banana peel. First of all, most parents recognize that their children generally take their advice about as often as the U.S. Congress gets anything worthwhile accomplished. Which is never.
Even so, I thought, well, the kids are smart, both college graduates and Melanie, has spent more time and money on education than God. Surely, my thinking was, they will take up something more strenuous than text messaging and get out there and get into physical activity. I knew that my intelligent, fun loving children would have the sense not to get into something like being money couriers in Baghdad, or go duck hunting with Dick Cheney. No they would never do anything dangerous. I am of course, a total moron!
Melanie, aka Dr. LaForce, called us to proudly announce, not that she is expecting our grandchild, no nothing so mundane as that, but that she is, and I hope everyone is sitting down, going to play on a Roller Derby Team. Get it? That's ROLLER FREAKIN' DERBY! For those of you too young to remember or those old enough but whose brains have been fried by recreational drug use, roller derby is a "sport" where teams of roller skaters fly (and that is somtimes literally the case) around an oval track. The object of the "game" as I understand it is to skate as fast as possible, while rearranging the various anatomical features of the opponents all the while. The first team to make most of their opponents look like a painting by Dali wins.
Is it me, or does someone else out there think this is a tad, uh, risky? First of all, anyone who knows anything about skating knows that the whole premise was dreamed up by someone with two basic characteristics. They were:

1. A guy.
2. Blowing somewhere between three times the maximum legal alcohol limit and dead.

A possible third characteristic may have been he was either a frat president or a phys ed major. I mean think about it. Who else would be sitting around one day, after consuming large quantities, and come up with the major brainstorm of "I know, let's put wheels on shoes and see what happens. That should be fun"!
To give you an idea of how much "fun" this roller derby stuff can be is, Mel sent me an email seeking advice. Was it "How do I get in shape for this"? Or "How do I keep my balance while some 300 pound gorilla is treating my face like her own personal game of whackamole"? No, she asks "Hey dad, do you know where I can get some disability insurance"? DISABILITY FREAKIN' INSURANCE! Are you kidding me? She's not even 30 for God's sake!
But, that is the price you pay for being a parent. You love, nurture and teach your kids not to go out and do anything stupid and the next thing you know, they're getting married. Just kidding Dave. However, this is confusing, I don't know what to say to my kids anymore. I was thinking of recommending more education to my son, but he is liable to run off and go to law school or something.
I just need some time I guess to get used to this. I got used to the kids leaving home, moving to Chicago, and to some extent, body piercing and tatoos. I want to be supportive of my children even when they decide to do things that make my own skin crawl. Like eating sushi. Anyway, be careful out there and know that your mom and I are behind you. We damn well aren't going to be participating, but we're behind you.

For anybody interested her team is the Windy City Rollers www.windycityrollers.com/league/


Love
Dad