Another Sci-Fi Battle: Stormtroopers v. Redshirts

Umm... fair use?

As my posts on the Borg Cube v. the Death Star were fairly popular (it's all relative - this is a noncommercial blog after all), I think treatment of another cross-franchise conflict is in order. This one was suggested by a friend of mine, and I've decided to consider the question carefully, despite it being a little absurd. Why absurd? Well let's consider - Stormtroopers and Redshirts are the cannon fodder of the Star Wars and Trek universes respectively. Both have a talent for ineptitude. Stormtroopers (despite Obi-Wan's comments regarding the accuracy of blast points on the broad side of a Sandcrawler) have no more ability to hit what they are shooting at than Death Star engineers have of building a space station without a glass jaw. Redshirts, on the other hand, are famed for dying more easily and in more contrived fashion than the hero of the original King's Quest games (dude could trip over a cat and fall to his death. Seriously). Stormtroopers do die by the truckloads, but usually because of something a Jedi-related, and in mass casualty Death Star explosions that have little to do with their own inability. Redshirts have no particular reputation at all regarding an ability to shoot, kill, maim, or otherwise influence any part of combat. This is generally because they die of fright when the blasters come out. Or when a Tribble coughs. You know. Whatever.

So, taking all of this in to consideration, the question is not really one of who would win in a fight. I don't think there's much of an argument to be made that Redshirts (singular or in huge numbers) could take down a like force of Stormtroopers (but by all means if someone has an argument for them, please make it). Rather, I think the better question is, which set's seeming supernatural ability would prevail in a fight? The Stormtroopers' ineptitude (which would result in a draw) or the Redshirts' deathwish (thus Stormtrooper victory)?

I'm tempted to answer the question with a resounding "who cares?" but that would defeat the purpose of sparking nerdy discussion. Needless to say, the battle would be one of the most painful to watch in the history of science fiction. It would almost certainly take hours, and involve Redshirts jumping out from behind cover while dropping phasers as Stormtroopers fire into the ground, or behind themselves. I'd estimate there is a roughly 5% chance of the Redshirts prevailing outright due to massive "friendly fire" casualties in the Imperial ranks. Ultimately though, I think the Redshirts resort of falling on jagged rocks or giving in to congenital heart defects even as the blasters continue to miss them by miles, and the Stormtroopers would prevail in spite of themselves.

Feel free to discuss in the comments, or suggest any other sci-fi faceoffs that need to be considered.

On Father's Day

This weekend represents the first time I have been a father on Father's Day. Last year at this time, the Wife was showing, so I will admit that I pressed the definition of technical fatherhood with a local restaurant's "Dad's Eat Free" Promotion. I think I heard the waiter cursing lawyers under his breath the whole time, but I got my free hot wings. This year is a little different, what with the baby being on the outside and all. I may or may not take advantage of the free wings again.

Fatherhood has been a frequent subject, directly and indirectly, of the posts in this blog. It is not the whole of what a man is when he has a child or children, but it certainly does its share to define him as a person. Fatherhood changes you. Hopefully, if you are a father, you have experienced love before - love for your parents and family, and ideally love for the woman you share a child with. But the love of a father for his child is completely different from these other loves. Not to say greater, but different. Unlike a parent or a spouse, a child is a child -  completely helpless and dependent on you for survival, knowledge, skills, affection, everything. A father's love for his child is as deep and resounding as it is because it resonates with hopes and dreams you have for that child's future, with our responsibilities, with the joy of watching that child grow day-by-day, and the delight of seeing them develop into the person they will become. These are all things that, by and large, are not all that similar to our love for our parents and spouses. Adult parents and spouses don't need our help to survive, they have their own hopes and dreams, and, by the time we meet them, they are generally far along the path of character development. But a father has great power in shaping a child, morally, ethically, spiritually, physically (although this latter aspect is mostly genetic). As Stan Lee is credited with saying, with great power comes great responsibility.

Fatherhood gives you new perspective. In an ideal world, it gives you added patience. At a minimum, it frequently exercises the patience you already had. Children need all the time. They are the definition of consumers. They consume time, energy, resources, and until they reach a certain age they are unable to communicate what it is that they need to consume. Hence the patience thing. Objectively, they give you nothing in return. Subjectively, nothing they could ask of you is too much for the joy they bring.

I cannot fully describe what it is like to be a Dad. Even if I could it would mean nothing, because despite shared experiences most fathers would have, every experience of Fatherhood is unique. To anyone who hasn't yet experienced fatherhood, my descriptions would be inadequate in any event. All I can say is that there is nothing like it in the world. Olivia's laughter brings me more delight than the view from the heights of a  mountain, her smile is more beautiful than a sunset, and the simplest demonstrations of her ever-expanding set of skills - gripping a spoon, standing, throwing toys on the floor - are more awe-inspiring than the greatest feats of man's ingenuity. Watching every single "first" as she experiences it is priceless. I love this child more than words can say, and she has me utterly and completely at her mercy. Thankfully, she is still too young to fully understand that.

It is humbling to think that there are people who loved me this way as well. Intellectually we all know, unless we are from a rough background, that our parents love us. We see demonstrations of it all our lives. You never doubt your parents' love for you, but you do not fully appreciate it either. It is something else entirely to go from conceiving of a parent's love for us in the abstract, to experiencing it, and realizing that your own father and mother experienced that for you - had those hopes and dreams for you, felt the same pressures and fears, delighted in you the same way you do in your own child.

So this is my twist ending - this post is only ostensibly about my own experience as a father. As yet, I am too inexperienced with the concept to have anything more to say than rambling sentiments on the subject. But what my experience has taught me is, I think, a better and deeper understanding of my own dad. Somehow, socks and ties seem an insufficient gift this year, and in any case, the Wife does all the gift buying anymore because she's better at it than I am. The only gift I could come up that seemed appropriate for my old man this year was the public embarrassment of a blog post sappier than any Hallmark Card I could ever hope to buy. Happy Father's Day Dad. I love you too.

requiem

I don't normally spend much time on this blog on things that are very serious. There's enough seriousness in mainstream media that I think there are better ways to spend my efforts on a glorified vanity page.

But some things should not pass without being noted.

Tonight I lost a friend to cancer. Fred was diagnosed a little over a year ago, but by the time they found it, it was metastatic. He fought, and he kept living life to the fullest extent he could. He traveled. He did projects around his house I'm not sure I could have managed with a healthy body thirty years younger. He spent every moment he could with his friends and family. Two weeks ago he went into the hospital, and he never left. Today was his birthday.

Fred was a good man. That phrase gets thrown around, but the truth is there are too few good men left. He expended himself for others more than most people I've ever met. He was a committed Christian, and even in facing this disease he would tell anyone who would listen that he was not afraid of dying - just the suffering beforehand. I'm a Christian too, and I believe we are promised eternal life, but I'm not sure I could honestly say the same thing were I in his shoes. In any event, even the part that worried him is behind him now and he is better for it. This side of heaven just feels a little emptier now.

I met Fred through the Orangeburg Part-Time Players, a community theater group in my home town. He was a founding member, had served onstage or off- in every capacity possible at one time or another, and had literally built the stage the group called home with his own hands.  I was a stupid teenager who got talked into trying out  for a musical by a girl. Despite that, Fred still thought I was worth calling a friend. We worked on many plays together, and he gave me my first summer job during college. We stayed close and I saw him nearly every time I came home to Orangeburg, even when I no longer considered Orangeburg home. He was at my wedding, and my sister's, and he got to meet my beautiful daughter Olivia, for which I am profoundly grateful. He called out the best in the people around him, probably in large part because we knew there wasn't a thing in the world he wouldn't do for us. We wanted to give our all in return.

The worst part of growing up, I think, is that time isn't trucking by for you alone. Everyone else is getting older right along side you. If you live life at all, if you love and share your life with other people, then inevitably you open yourself up to hurt when time takes it's inevitable toll on those around you. And cancer is one of the more pernicious ways this happens. I've lost family to it. Recently a wonderful woman who was a surrogate mother to half my high school class lost an incredibly long battle to cancer. And now Fred.

The last few weeks, visiting Fred in the hospital, a line from one of my favorite bands has played on loop in my head:
There is God in the way that life comes to an end; in the way we all draw to a close; 
In the saying of soul to the house of the skin; you're too weak now to really oppose...
It has kept repeating not because it was easy to see God in the way my friend died, but because I had to remind myself that God was in it even though I couldn't see it. Fred is home. The loss felt by those of us still here does not change that at all.

There will probably not be any grand media coverage, no CNN updates about Fred's passing. He was not a celebrity except to the patrons of the OPTP. And the passing of good men is rarely noted as it should be. But he will be remembered, and those of us who remember him are better for having known him. I am, truly, incredibly grateful to have been able to call him a friend.

Requiescat in Pace, my friend. Until we meet again.

Who needs sleep?

Parents who are fortunate enough to have infants that sleep through the night (that being defined, in parent-speak, as a six hour window while it is dark outside) are both envied and despised by the rest of the parenting population. For a brief, magical period of time, we were those despised parents, who woke every morning at five a.m. to our daughters gentle nonsense coming over the monitor only a little bleary-eyed.

Then, one day a few months ago, Olivia decided to wake up at three. Then two. Then three again.

We were in denial for a while. Just a phase. Just a few off nights. She got thrown off by going out of town, by the change in time, by teething, by the state of modern political discourse. Ultimately, we had to admit, she was not sleeping through the night anymore. We got a night here or there, but nothing consistent.

As I have noted previously, Wife is the most awesome wife ever. While these middle of the night wakings are a bit of a pain for me, it is she who gets up to deal with them the vast, overwhelming majority of the time. Our usual midnight dialogue: Me: "grumble grumble work in the morning snore"; Wife: (as she stumbles to the nursery) I hate you." Yet, awesome as she is, Wife is not superhuman. When faced with a choice, at three a.m., between rocking our infant for an hour to soothe her back to sleep in her own room, or plopping her between two warm adult bodies in our own bed, keeping a firm finger on her pacifier, and going back to sleep immediately herself, Wife will choose the latter in 99 out of 100 cases. (The 100th being the "kick the husband until he fixes it solution.") The other alternative is the "cry it out" approach, which we were grand proponents of before we had a real live kid. This approach has the added disadvantage over the rocking solution of interrupting both parents sleep equally. I therefore reject it out of hand.

This is how we have come to the tradition of having the baby in the bed with us when I wake up in the morning.  Or, put another way, having a baby in the bed wake me up in the morning.

I'm usually a snooze alarm guy. I know, intellectually, that I am not getting useful sleep after that first alarm goes off. My response is "shut up, my bed is warm and cozy." But now, when I roll away to hit the Snooze, I run into an issue. In that instant, my sleeping infant daughter, so sweet and gentle, who is normally the rough diameter of a large roll of bounty paper towels and fits neatly between the Wife and I... that daughter expands instantaneously to take up the entirety of my side of the bed. While still asleep. So....I guess I'll take my shower ten minutes earlier...

I've also discovered how tall my little girl is getting in the worst possible way. While her tiny head still rests neatly at shoulder level with Wife and me while she sleeps in our bed, her feet are now in a position to do serious damage to her future siblings should her dreams call for tremendous kicking. (I think she replays the 1994 World Cup in her dreams about once a week). Awesome way to wake up. Really.

The best though, is when she wakes up in our bed, happy and bubbly, at 4:13 A.M. wanting to play. These days will never come again, and she's so cute and happy, and just wants to play with Daddy's hair and taste his nose and it's adorable. BUT IT'S 4:13 IN THE FREAKING MORNING.

Sleep loss is part of the package deal, and it creeps up on you in all kinds of subtle and not so subtle ways. The 2:30 kick in the boys being one of the less subtle ways. Nonetheless, it's worth it. I wouldn't trade it for all the sleep I could ever want.

Still...when the grandparents come to town, I'm taking a damn nap.

Nine Months

Obviously, regular posting has gone right out the window, along with predictable sleep patterns, and interruption free se- uh, sessions of Trivial Pursuit (yeah, that'll fool 'em). This is parenthood.

Despite the rather cliched complaints about having kids (all of which are true, which explains why parents are all, to a greater or lesser extent, terrible cliches themselves), Olivia is in a pretty fantastic age right now. We are approaching nine months - that magic point at which she has been an outside baby for as long as she turned the Wife's insides upside down. This gives me, as the dad, a new perspective on pregnancy. It lasts forever.

Some science types, attempting to make a name for themselves, have opined that human babies actually have a gestation period of 18 months - not nine. This is really me grossly oversimplifying their doctoral theses, but since none of us are going to care enough to read them anyway, I feel like I'm allowed. The reasons for this theory of human development are simple. Unlike most other animals, which are born with some basic abilities that might give them a possibility of survival, humans are born more or less useless (in a purely anthropological sense). It is only at about nine months (give or take) that a human infant begins to show the level of survival ability that other animals generally have within hours or days of birth. The theory goes that we are born in this underdeveloped state  because our far greater intellect (as compared with, say, a boll weevil) would require a head circumference at eighteen months too large to permit childbirth. So, we come out half-baked, and do the rest of our cooking on the outside. For nine more months. Give or take.

Nine months or so also happens to be a pretty fun age. Babies have a lot of personality at nine months, and provided your baby isn't a total jerk (some are) they can actually be a lot of fun at this point.  Olivia can crawl now, which means every morning, after her first feeding session of the day, my Wife and I get our blood pumping by playing hockey goalie to keep her from stage diving off of our bed. She is also much stronger, faster, and more curious than she has been previously. Glasses of liquid within her eyeline are fair game to go in Daddy's lap. The only time we can safely stop paying attention to her for three seconds is in her playpen, where Beagle lays nearby staring at her, confused by the human version of his crate. If she is anywhere else, and we turn our attention away, we inevitably turn back to find her with baby wipes, power cords or dirty shoes in her mouth. This is an astonishing ability, really, since it doesn't matter if any of those items are even in the room with her when we set her down - she will force them to materialize.

We're expecting the letter from Hogwart's any day now.

The only real downsides to this age as far as we can tell are baby-proofing (see above if you are confused about why) and teething. Your average baby has six teeth between six months and twelve months. Some spread them out. Olivia is still sporting her toothless smile, but they are getting close, and will probably be coming all at once. She is not amused.

Got no creative closer this time - gotta get back to baby proofing. Hooray.

Home Improvement

Homeowners uniformly understand the pain of home improvement projects. Sure, they all seem like they'll be great fun, and the house will look so much better afterward, and you'll be increasing the value of your home... then someone loses a hand on a borrowed circular saw, you make three hundred trips to Lowe's and still have the wrong drill bit, and things in general start to go downhill.

I am like most men in that I like to think of myself as a DIYer (that's a "Do It Yourself-er" for the uninitiated).  What I mean is that most men like to think of themselves as someone who can handle most any task, but would rather not actually be bothered with the handling of anything more difficult than changing a light bulb (I currently have at least four burned out in our house, and will get to them when I get to them). DIY sounds great - most guys equate power tools with fire and red meat in terms of thing that elicit primal bliss. But most DIY projects are undertaken less for the masculine joy of the thing, than for the very practical reason that it's a lot cheaper to do it yourself. This  is borne out historically. The very concept of being a DIY homeowner - someone who handles all but the most arduous of home improvement and maintenance tasks themselves - is a relatively new concept. Fifty years ago, it was just called being a homeowner. If you bought a house in the fifties or sixties, it was more or less understood that you had some basic mechanical proficiency and you would be taking care of your home and wouldn't need any damn professionals to fix a leaky pipe or change out a ceiling fan. Much the same with cars "back in the day." Sure, you could take your Chevy to a mechanic, but if it was for anything less than a thrown rod, you handed in your man card with the keys. 

Our society has gotten more specialized, and as a result it is more than acceptable to pay someone whose time you value less than your own to do unpleasant tasks like painting your trim, putting up fences, or de-pooping your backyard if you have pets or free-range children (I kid you not, this service is now being advertised on the radio locally). It has become increasingly quaint to actually do significant manual tasks  around the home yourself. There is a reason for this, as I have recently discovered. "Significant manual task" is just a fancy way of saying "hard damn work." All other things being equal, I'd rather pay someone to do that kind of stuff and spend my free time playing with my kid. Or playing Mario Cart. With my kid. Who is six months old. Shut up. 

Before

Despite this recently acquired insight, the Wife and I, along with a sizable portion of our social circle, have recently completed (mostly) the single most significant home improvement project of our relatively brief home-owning life: we replaced the twenty year old carpet in our downstairs with hardwood flooring. Among other minor projects thrown into the mix just for funsies. The flooring thing has been a long time coming, but the fact that Olivia is getting closer to crawling everyday kind of forced the issue. The carpet was bad, and the fact that Auxiliary Dog had three or four dozen favorite accident spots downstairs did nothing to help matters. So it had to go.

Sans Flooring

We rolled out the padding last Friday night, after the carpet and original pad were taken up. We started the process of putting the flooring into place, but didn't get very far that night. We basically put down four rows of snap-and-lock flooring, just to get the feel for it. We were glad for that the next day. On Saturday we had a group of friends come to pitch in on the heavy lifting. With a few exceptions, actually placing the floating floor boards is a (forgive me) snap. The tongue and groove generally lock together pretty well, and you use a vinyl block and mallet to close the gaps periodically. The hard part is the constant measuring and cutting, which itself isn't so bad, except that the various tasks require you to constantly get up and down, kneel on hard surfaces, and avoid losing digits to a table saw. Over a twelve hour day, this can wear on you. I have always thought I had respect for people who do back-breaking labor for a living. I woke up Sunday sore in places I hadn't known about. Next time I will pay someone and thank him for the privilege. And yet, sore or not, the show must go on.

Thought about keeping the blue motif...

Saturday we nearly finished the installation of the floors, and I thought we were about 90% there with the whole project. We did manage to polish off the floor installation on Sunday in a matter of just a few hours. This, I thought, meant we were nearly done, with nothing left but a few hours of finishing work. Hah. Right. Finishing work is a cute little euphemism for the final 2/3 of any given project. In this case, the finishing work involved the installation of about 200 linear feet of quarter-round (shoe molding, if you prefer) and several floor transitions (thresholds or floor molding - pick you poison). The problem started with the fact that I hadn't bought any of this stuff in advance, assuming that our local home improvement warehouse would have an ample selection of everything we needed. True for the quarter-round. Not so much for the thresholds. See, being the amateur installers that we were, there were several places in our floor where the standard three-inch wide floor moldings offered by Home Depot weren't quite sufficient to cover our "creative solutions" to the more intense installation problems. We needed something wider, and it was nowhere to be found.

Table-sawing by lamplight. Brilliant.

In the meantime was the quarter-round installation. This is relatively straightforward, if a couple of assumptions hold true: (1) you are at least mildly competent with a power saw that can cut at 45 degree angles, or have a hand saw and miter box; (2) your house has straight walls; and (3) you've done everything with your install completely correct up to this point. I'd love to say one out of three ain't bad, but here I'd be lying. Needless to say I needed some guidance on this part of the project, and there was much weeping and gnashing of the teeth when it came to certain cursed corners of our home. While we are generally very happy with our house, it is obvious in a few places that this house was part of a planned development and some of the subs cut corners to move on quickly to the next house. The curved wall in our hallway wasn't all that obvious until we had to work around it. Stupid wall.

I finally found a place that sold thresholds wide enough to cover all of my half-assery. This wonderful establishment had the audacity to hold the inconvenient hours of 9-5, Monday through Friday, and be located near Williams Brice Stadium, thirty-five minutes from my house. This is only relevant because, in my frugality, I bought precisely as much threshold as I needed and promptly ruined the first piece I tried to cut. I nearly killed a friend of mine in the process, but no actual blood was spilled. I think I ended up going to this place three times, all told. And, as I've intimated, we're not really all the way done yet. 

After multiple trips to every hardware store in the midlands, and a full week of working on the "finishing" work, the project is about where I said it was after the first full day of working on it - about 90% done. But this is actually 90% done as opposed to incredibly naive assessment 90% done - the downstairs is usable again, and the floors really do look fantastic. There are more nails to countersink and putty, and one last threshold to go in once the grout sets in the bathroom (one of those other "fun" projects thrown in for good measure). All in all the experience was a good one, though I do believe that weekend projects should never last beyond the weekend in which they begin. But they always do. Stupid projects.

The (more-or-less) finished product

Shortly, Beagle and Auxiliary Dog will come back from their exile to my parents house to a home that is wholly unfamiliar, and provides them with limited traction. This, by itself, should be worth every penny. I'll try and get video.

Super Bowl Edition

In the spirit of ESPN's ten takeaways from last night's game, I've decided to offer up my own short list of takeaways for the common man - the man who, like me, is from somewhere other than Boston or NYC, prefers college football to the overpaid, over-praised divas of the NFL, and didn't really have a dog in the fight last night. This sub-par Bud commercial is for you.

1.  The commercials really seem to be going down hill.

There were a few decent offerings. The Chevy apocalypse commercial was good fun, and the lack of any sense of humor from Ford's corporate office this week only makes the commercial seem more valid. Clint Eastwood for Chrysler was powerful in a whole different way, but the Seinfeld/Leno effort to sell cars was a forced, weak effort, as evidenced by the fact that I cannot now tell you which car company they were shilling for. The E*Trade baby made his customary appearance, which was good for a laugh, but he's getting a little long in the tooth. Time for some younger blood, perhaps.

Mostly though, the commercials were just kind of blah. I'm probably the only person in America not putting the Ferris Bueller car commercial into the elite category, but Broderick just kind of mailed it in (almost as if he called in sick...how meta). The typical beer and Pepsi ads were universally forgettable. Betty White's appearance (regrettably advertising reality television) was at least worth a laugh.

2.  The halftime show was (much) better than I expected.

I heard Madonna was performing and automatically thought "meh." She's not my cup of tea on the best of days, and her best days are behind her. I thought.

I stand corrected. While her music is still not going to top my playlist, Madonna proved to me that she is still a knock-out performer capable to delivering a high quality product. The visuals were amazing, and the quality of the sound and dance was top notch. Apparently there was a "middle finger malfunction" with one of the featured artists - clearly in poor taste, but I missed it. All in all a great show. Anything would have looked good after last year's Black Eyed Peas fiasco, but Madonna took it several notches above the talent we've seen the past several years.

3.  I am not as young as I used to be.

Eating my weight in junk food at a Super Bowl party used to be no problem. Now, like staying up past midnight and trying to work the next day, it's a sure way to wreck myself. Keeping a six month old up for the game and then trying to get a normal night's sleep? Also guaranteed to start your next day off wrong.


4.  The Giants won.

Turns out there was a football game on last night too. This might seem obvious to some, but since the Patriots' receiver corp missed the memo, I thought it was worth reiterating.