It's November Already

November means a lot of things to this blog.

Of course, it signals the end of baseball season, which is the start of a difficult period of five months without any meaningful baseball games. 

On the other hand, the offseason also brings with it Hall of Fame season, the time period which culminates with the announcement of next year's Hall of Fame inductees in early January. Obviously, the ridiculousness of last year's writers' ballot, in particular, and the realization that the entire process is deeply flawed, in general, has made these announcements a little bittersweet, but it still remains one of my favorite baseball subjects to obsess over. 

November also is the calendar year's penultimate month, not that you needed me to tell you that. So, for the past 18 years it has meant the beginning of the time that I try to get my thoughts together regarding my top albums of the year. 

Frequent Spins appears to have gone by the wayside this year, but that doesn't mean I don't have my usual dedication towards the annual best-music-of-the-year countdown. It still remains to be seen what I'll do regarding the outdated CD compilation I've had less dedication to in recent years, but the albums-of-the-year list lives on. 

Last, but certainly not least, November is my son's birthday month. Little Chuck will be two this year, which brings me to my main point for writing this. 

This year has proven to be a bigger challenge than last year, in terms of finding time for my writing hobby. I'm not exactly sure why. I don't necessarily think the second year provides a tougher parenting challenge than the first. 

In some ways I think it's gotten easier, while in other ways, it's been harder. But, I think witnessing LC enter the stage where he's starting to express his own individuality has reinforced my own identity to some extent. That is, I'm simply putting less emphasis on making time for writing and more on my responsibilities as the patriarch of the family, so to speak.

That's not to say I'm phasing out the blog and/or the writing hobby. However, my goal for 2014 will be to decide how better to prioritize my time so I can continue to enjoy this part-time endeavor.

Speaking of which, next month–December 22, to be precise–actually marks the 10th anniversary of this blog.

Part of this refocusing of effort will be an attempt to recapture what it is I love about writing in general and this blog in particular. To that end, given that the blog's first entries were a countdown of my top ten albums of 2003, I'll be celebrating the tenth anniversary by returning to the blog's roots. 

Beginning on December 22, I'll be devoting one entry per day to one of my top ten albums of 2013, starting with #10, of course, and working my way down to #1 on New Year's Eve. 

It's not a major departure from what I've done in past years, I realize. The difference is the emphasis on the top ten, which is what the list was all about when this annual tradition began in 1996, and continued that way until 2004. 

An Anniversary Tribute to KJ

I've written here several times before that I think of this blog as a way to share my thoughts and the events of my life without getting too personal. These stories are usually wrapped around adventures—as I like to call them—frequently related to my three main interests: baseball, music and craft beer. In doing so, there have been many, many references to my better half, of course.

So, I thought on the occasion of our second wedding anniversary, I'd write a little post about KJ and why she is the best wife I could ask for.

Don't worry, this is not going to be me telling you why my wife is the best in the world, in effect saying mine is better than yours. No, this will be more about how my wife is the best woman for me. So, your spouse may very well be the best possible partner for you, because you and I are different people, of course. In an ideal world, that would be the way it works.

I also don't plan to stray too far from the philosophy about this blog I just mentioned, and get all mushy and sentimental. I just thought I'd share a little about our history together, and in some cases, the brief stories will have a connection to this blog's typical subject matter.

I met KJ in October of 2008. I still have a pretty vivid picture etched in my brain of that moment and the first time she smiled at me, because I'm reminded of it each time she's done so since. In addition to her thoughtful and generous nature—which, if you're not aware of, you'll learn about shortly—her smile is right up there among her best qualities.

As you can imagine, we hit it off pretty much instantly. There was really little doubt that things would continue, so fairly quickly, there was a second date, third date, a party where she met a lot of my friends, etc.

Only a couple months later, Christmas was approaching. Christmas presents are a difficult proposition when you've only been dating someone for two months. But, KJ had the perfect plan.

Disguised by a mid-December evening out to dinner and to get a taste of the season by checking out some Christmas lights, KJ sprung an early Christmas gift on me. At the restaurant, I opened a box that contained a piece of paper. Mind you, this was not an ordinary sheet of paper, but rather it was email confirmation of two tickets to a Neil Young concert that was to take place that very evening. On it were written the words "WANNA GO?"

Now, as I just mentioned, KJ and I had been together barely two months at this point. She had already been exposed to many of my obsessions, but for some reason, I had yet to reveal that Neil Young was my absolute favorite musical artist. At some point prior to that she had learned I liked Neil Young, but she really had no idea to what extent.

Needless to say, I was shocked, excited and impressed all at the same time. You could say that meeting her was fate, but if you did based on just this story, you too would have no idea to what extent.

A couple months later, we were discussing Cooperstown and the fact she'd never been, but had always wanted to go. Since I'd visited Cooperstown over 20 times up to that point, I suggested we should make it a weekend getaway. There was a three-day weekend coming up (Presidents Day), so that seemed as good a time as any. Except, it happened to coincide with Valentine's Day.

This, it turns out, was not a problem. The woman of my dreams was happy to spend our first Valentine's Day together in Cooperstown. We booked a cozy B&B and spent the long weekend exploring the quaint upstate New York village. This adventure, of course, included three consecutive days inside the Baseball Hall of Fame & Museum, and visits to two breweries. Needless to say, virtually every male I know was envious.

Another three months later, my birthday gift was a trip to New York City and my first visit to the new Yankee Stadium. You could probably say I was getting spoiled by the gifts at this point, especially since I neglected to mention another Christmas gift was labels for my latest home brew.

Now, let's fast forward another five months or so. With our first anniversary approaching, it was time for me to try and see if I could even come close to matching the fantastic surprises she had previously sprung on me.

I got her to agree to let me plan our anniversary trip, and keep the entire four-day excursion a surprise.

When we embarked on our journey and headed north from Boston, she pretty much knew our destination was either New Hampshire or Maine, since I hadn't instructed her to bring along her passport. Of course, that suspense wouldn't last long, as just an hour later we beared right around Portsmouth, meaning we were headed to the state that likes to refer to itself as "Vacationland."

But, Maine's a big place, so there was still some surprise left. An hour or so later, I exited the highway at Portland and drove into the downtown area of the state's largest city. I kept her in the dark a little longer, though, as we headed to Gritty McDuff's, New England's oldest brewpub, for lunch.

After our meal, we walked around the port city, enjoying a misty, overcast day on the ocean and taking a few photos in the process. After a several-hour stop-off, I broke the news that this wasn't our final destination. That, in fact, we weren't going to get there until tomorrow, so she'd have to continue in suspense for another day.

We spent the evening at the home of an old friend of mine and her family in Freeport, just north of Portland. KJ was loving the idea that she still didn't know where we were headed, but the following morning the secret was kind of spoiled when a friend of our friend (a complete stranger to us) off-handedly mentioned our ultimate destination to KJ.

In her defense, she didn't know the information she'd been made privy to was to be kept a secret. KJ brushed it off anyway, and we continued on our journey pretending there was still a surprise in order.

A couple hours further north (or northeast, actually) and it was time to take a hard right and head south to Mount Desert Island and Bar Harbor. Since she basically knew where we were headed, I decided it was time to give up the ruse and admit the information our friend's friend revealed was correct.

We arrived at the Shore Path Cottage, our Bar Harbor B&B, for a two-night stay, but the weekend's surprise didn't end there.

Of course, KJ—as she always does—let me devote part of our weekend to visiting a brewery, or rather the in-town tasting room of the Bar Harbor Brewing Company. But, it's not as if she's just submissively allowing me to do whatever the hell I want either. You see, KJ is a craft beer fan as I am, just as she shares my love for baseball and music (although her taste for the latter has been somewhat influenced by yours truly).

But, as I said earlier, the weekend's surprise wasn't over just because we'd arrived at our destination. Our actual anniversary was the following weekend, but our good friends were getting married then, so we chose the Sunday night of this particular weekend for our anniversary dinner.

Afterwards, I popped the CD I had made for the occasion into our car's stereo and we went for a moonlight drive. KJ's always had a thing for the ocean, and she'd previously remarked that the Maine coastline kind of reminds her of her native Oregon. At least, as far as east coast beaches go.

So, we drove south towards Acadia National Park, or so I thought. My memory was a little foggy from the times I'd been there over ten years prior, so I forgot that, to enter Acadia, you actually have to take an exit off the main drag. So, while the park was on both sides of us as we drove, we weren't actually within its boundaries.

That detail didn't really matter, except the plan was to check out the shore at night, and I was counting on Acadia's east coach beaches. But, before I realized I'd missed the park's entrance, we reached the island's southern shore, and were lucky to find a small beach with a well-lit parking lot just across the street.

We were kind of dressed up as we went for a walk on the beach of Seal Harbor, but that was kind of by design. I asked KJ if she'd been sufficiently surprised by my plans for our weekend. She answered yes, to which I replied that she hadn't seen anything yet as I got down on one knee and reached into my jacket pocket.

You can probably guess what happened next, and that it's the reason I'm writing this little story to commemorate our two years of marriage so far.

It took me a long time to find someone so perfect for me, a woman who complements me as much as KJ does. Honestly, I had previously thought I found that person a couple times, even almost settled for someone I knew wasn't. But, a friend who's more religious than I'll ever be once said to me that things seem to work out for a reason. In this case, I truly believe that, and I think our soon-to-be four-month-old son is pretty good evidence of that.

So, on this occasion of our second anniversary, I can say that I'm happy that my life's journey has led me to this place. Because today, and every day, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

120 Minutes

No, this post isn't about the former MTV show dedicated to alternative music, a show whose major highlights included the world premiere of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" in 1991. Nor is it about the approximately two hours that passed between the time KJ's and my son was born—less than two weeks ago—and when I finally got around to calling our parents.

That seems like a long time, right? Or, is that normal? Anyway, it's kind of a long story that I won't be getting into right now.

What this post is about is my first ever tasting of Dogfish Head's signature extreme beer, 120 Minute IPA. It was, in fact, in celebration of the birth of Little Chuck, as my pal and brewing partner AB (not August Busch) and his wife stopped by our house to meet the little guy.

AB works at the hospital where LC was born, so he was the first to visit us after the delivery. We got to talking about the cigar tradition, and although said tradition is that the father passes out cigars to his friends, somehow it was decided he would try and find me a bottle of 120 Minute instead.

I didn't really think he'd come through, as it's brewed only a few times a year and sells out fast, despite it's hefty price tag of $10 for a 12-ounce bottle. But, wouldn't you know it, he showed up at my door with not one, but two bottles of the "holy grail for hopheads."

I was surprised that it tasted more like our own 21st Century Schizoid Ale than any beer I've ever tasted. It's stronger (15-20% ABV) and better, of course, but its similarity to one of our own creations was a point of pride for us.

Its huge maltiness up front masks the hop bitterness, at first. There's no denying the presence of extreme hops, however, as considering the high alcohol content, it would be unbearably sweet otherwise. I tasted the hoppiness a little later than expected, but even still, it's not overwhelming. In fact, it's probably just right, the perfect balance of a beer's two most important ingredients, hops and malt.

Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA wasn't the first beer I consumed after the birth of my son, but it certainly was worthy as an extended celebration of a moment I'll never forget.

Sad Days and the Road to Recovery in Happy Valley

In my four years at Penn State, I attended every home game but one, which I missed to attend a cousin's wedding. I also traveled to away games at Pitt, Maryland, West Virginia and Syracuse (twice). In fact, the first game I ever witnessed was their first of the 1985 season, a road game at College Park, Maryland. In total, this adds up to somewhere around 30 games in just four seasons.

I haven't been to many games since I graduated, and now I kind of regret that.

This weekend marked the end of an era, and certainly wasn't the joyous, special occasion I always imagined it would be. Although, in reality, I didn't really think Joe Paterno would announce his retirement in advance. I honestly figured he would go out without fanfare, making the decision public only after his final game. Well, as it turns out, there was no official farewell game anyway.

I don't have a lot to say about the scandal at Penn State that hasn't already been said. I will admit to being upset that the majority of people stampeded to judgment of Paterno and the other secondary figures in this mess. I've since come to better accept the gravity of the situation brought out a lot of emotional responses, on both sides of the equation. And it's not wrong for either group to feel the way they do.

I did, however, appreciate this blog post written by Sports Illustrated writer and Paterno biographer Joe Posnanski, although he has since taken a lot of heat for it. Check out the 1500 or so comments. Or don't.

But, I'm not writing this as a defense or a condemnation of Joe Paterno or anyone else, although obviously there is at least one person who most likely deserves the latter.

The angle I want to discuss is that of the Penn State alumnus, which is not meant to discount the real victims in this tragedy, of course. I certainly realize I'm one of hundreds of thousands of people who are way down on the list of those who deserve sympathy here, but this is my blog and it's a place I choose to share my personal feelings from time to time.

This scandal is the most devastating heartbreak I’ve ever experienced as a sports fan, as it goes far beyond sports, and far beyond being a fan. It has to do with being a Penn Stater and being proud of what that means.

As I said to an old friend—who's also a fellow New York Giants fan—last week, "If we learned that Bill Belichick did this, it's not necessarily a black mark on the '86 Giants, but this incident is a black mark on an institution I'm otherwise proud to consider myself a part of."

Honestly, if you had asked me to rank my favorite teams across all sports, it would probably go like this:

1. New York Yankees
2. New York Giants
3. Penn State Nittany Lions (Football)
4. Penn State Nittany Lions (Basketball)
5. New York Knicks

So, Penn State football is not the team I live and die for. Maybe I did while I was in school, but that was over 20 years ago.

Still, despite the fact sports fans love to use the word "we" when discussing their teams, I've always been against that practice, except when it comes to Penn State. I'm not a member of the Yankees. I'm not a member of the Giants. Although I'm not, and have never been, a member of the Penn State football or basketball teams—except that I used to joke I was going to try to walk on as the placekick holder—I am a Penn Stater.

So, I take some personal ownership in this one, even though I know in reality, it has nothing to do with me.

Let's go back to those four years I spent in Happy Valley for a few minutes, though. They included the 1985 to 1988 football seasons, which means I was there for the 1986 National Championship. That season, and the 1987 Fiesta Bowl that capped it, is one of the most important sports memories of my life. In fact, if you asked me to rate my favorite championship teams, that list would look something like this:

1. 1986 Penn State Nittany Lions (Football)
2. 2007 New York Giants
3. 1996 New York Yankees
4. 1978 New York Yankees
5. 1986 New York Giants

The only championship parade I've ever attended was the January 1987 celebration of Penn State's 14-10 Fiesta Bowl victory over the University of Miami. I still pretty vividly remember taking a photo of Jerry Sandusky waving to the crowd, and considering him the real hero of that championship game. It was his defensive game plan that stifled the vaunted Miami Hurricanes offense, led by Vinny Testaverde, although it was also the players on that defensive squad who executed it.

I no longer know what to make of that memory. While my Penn State pride may eventually fully recover, I don't know that I'll ever look back on that tremendous year with the same level of reverence. I certainly won't ever look back on Sandusky as such.

I was going to end this post by sharing a Posnanski observation from Wednesday night, one that he tweeted shortly after the announcement that Joe Paterno was fired:

"I saw a girl crying tonight. When I asked why she said: 'Because everybody lost.'"

But, Saturday's game made me feel like ending this on a positive note instead. In their highly emotional return to the playing field, the team fell behind a good Nebraska squad 17-0 in the second half. It would have been easy to pack it in and write it off as a game they really had no chance of winning due to all the distractions. However, they persevered and launched an impressive comeback—for an offensively challenged team—that fell just a little short in a 17-14 loss.

Of course, there are many who felt the game never should have been played, and I can't fault them for that. But, they did play the game, and it was one that obviously meant a lot to 100 or so Penn State players who had absolutely nothing to do with this recent tragedy.

It was the fans who most impressed me, though. Following the embarrassing chaos of Wednesday night, Penn State fans—including tens of thousands of students—were well behaved throughout the game. And their post-game gesture, in which they gave the team a rousing ovation, followed by the patented "We Are...Penn State!" chant, made me feel once again that there are plenty of reasons to be proud to be a Penn Stater.

That fact won't be changed by the actions of one man and the inaction of several others, and I can say for damn sure it will not be affected by the folks out there who have decided to use this occasion to denigrate Penn State and all Penn Staters rather than take aim at those culpable in this ugly situation.

Those folks do not define Penn State. They are not Penn State. We are Penn State!

Where Have All My Friends Gone?

I first saw The Jayhawks live on the Tomorrow the Green Grass tour back in 1995. It was at a place called Saratoga Winners, in the Albany, New York suburb of Latham. The venue took its name from the fact it's on the drive back down-state from the race track in Saratoga Springs.

That Jayhawks show was one of only two I saw at the now-defunct club, which burned down in 2009 in an incident that resulted in its owner being convicted of insurance fraud, but acquitted of arson. Go figure. Both of my visits to Saratoga Winners were for shows I consider to hold a special place in my personal history. The other was a Wilco/Scud Mountain Boys performance that still stands as the best double-bill I've ever seen, not the least important reason for that distinction being it was my introduction to the brilliant—in my opinion—Joe Pernice.

The Jayhawks show was so important to me because it was the only time I'd seen their classic lineup, including both Gary Louris and Mark Olson. Olson left the band only a year or so following that show, and all the subsequent times I'd seen them live—and there have been many—Louris was the lone front-man. Of course, you can probably guess where this is all leading.

Sorry, I'm not a great photographer.

Last Tuesday night marked the occasion of The Jayhawks reunion tour's return to Boston, and my first time seeing them live, with Olson, in over 15 years. The Jayhawks' visit to the Paradise Rock Club was also KJ's first time seeing them, not to mention it was our future son's first concert ever. Well, sort of. But, it almost didn't happen for us.

You see, KJ is 8+ months pregnant, and as the date of the performance drew closer, we came to the realization there was no way she was going to be able to stand for the duration of a club show. So, I called the Paradise and inquired about their limited reserved seating for persons with mobility issues.

Long story short, they took care of  us, and I can't express how truly grateful we are for how accommodating they were. Every member of their staff that we dealt with was extremely helpful and polite, and I want to thank them for allowing us to see this show from a pair of chairs set to the right of the stage.

Unfortunately, this also meant we had to split up from the four friends who attended the show with us—including el-squared, who it seems has gone to about a dozen Jayhawks shows with me, although that's probably a slight exaggeration—but that was an understandable price to have to pay.

Although Louris has proven to be a more than capable band leader, nothing beats the version of the Jayhawks that features the lead vocal harmonies of Olson and Louris together. So, while this performance probably fell short of the magic of seeing them for the first time in the mid-'90s, it sure brought back some pleasantly nostalgic memories.

The show also gave me a greater appreciation for their brand new material. Prior to the show, the consensus among my friends was that the new album rates as solid, but falls far short of Hollywood Town Hall and Tomorrow the Green Grass. Last week's performance didn't necessarily change that assessment, but that's more an acknowledgment of the brilliance of those two albums than a negative reflection of Mockingbird Time.

Seeing Olson, Louris and company perform this new material live highlighted how truly strong songs such as "Closer to Your Side," "She Walks in So Many Ways," and "Black-eyed Susan" are.

But, of course, the set's real highlights were the old standards, particularly back-to-back renditions of "I'd Run Away" and "Miss Williams' Guitar." The former is one of the many songs that KJ and I consider "ours," and realizing how apt the third verse of that song now is reinforced our feeling of ownership.

One day, I suppose, we'll tell the little boy about the first concert he attended, and how much he seemed to enjoy it, judging by—according to KJ, of course—how much he was moving and shaking during the show. Depending on how old he is at the time, he may roll his eyes at the notion, but we'll know we couldn't have made a better decision.

Teach Your Children

KJ and I attended our first Yankees-Red Sox game together on Wednesday night, and the occasion marked Little Chuck's introduction to the long-standing rivalry as well. Well, sort of.

It was also the first time I've paid to park in the Fenway neighborhood since my first visit there back in the summer of '88. Since KJ is under doctor's orders to take it easy, we decided to suck it up and shell out for parking at Fenway's most convenient location, the Lansdowne Street Garage. $44 later—and that's actually a competitive price, I kid you not—we arrived just across the street from the park.

This, of course, did nothing to change my perception of Fenway as the worst value in baseball, but in this case, it was well worth the price.

We also sat in the right field box seats for the first time ever, and they were actually pretty good seats by Fenway Park standards.

The game took place the night after the ridiculous Cervelli-Lackey fiasco, in which Francisco Cervelli broke the long-standing and well-known unwritten rule that dictates only pitchers—even when they're showing up their own teammates—are allowed to show emotion on the field. But, that's all I'm going to say about that incident. I may revisit it in another post, but don't count on it.

During the game, David Ortiz was intentionally walked in front of Jed Lowrie. The crowd, predictably, booed the move, prompting me to tweet:

Of course, this quick list was missing a couple other important examples that I thought of a little later.

So, since I'm soon to be a brand new parent, I thought I'd share my list of the five things you (and I) need to teach your (our) children about being a fan with a clue. Because, honestly, most fans at the ballpark are really lacking in that respect, and the Fenway faithful are no different from anywhere else.

Without further ado, I present these in my favorite list format...as a top five countdown, even if I've already given a few of them away. I suppose you could call these my unwritten rules of fandom (otherwise known as the top five stupidest things baseball fans do that you should avoid).

5. Don't boo the opposition's attempted pickoffs.
When you boo the opposing pitcher for attempting to pick off your runner, you're basically complaining that the other team is trying to win. I know you're rooting for your team to win, but this is supposed to be a competition. I can, however, understand booing an excessive number of pickoff attempts against the same runner. I guess that's why this one is #5.

4. Don't boo when the opposing team makes a pitching change.
Again, what you're doing here is protesting the fact the other team is trying to win. I get that pitching changes drag out the length of the game, but if you're going to be a baseball fan, it's something you'll have to learn to deal with. Besides, if you're frustrated that the game is being delayed, why don't you boo your own team when they change pitchers?

3. Don't boo when one of your players is intentionally walked.
First of all, the intentional walk is generally a foolish strategy. This is not intended to be post about SABRmetrics, so I'm not going to over-analyze this one, but more often than not, the intentional walk improves the offensive team's chance of winning. So, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, alright. Also, since your opposition at least thinks they're doing it for their own benefit, see #4 and #5 above.

2. Don't yell "balk" at things that aren't balks.
First of all, you'll need a lesson about what is and isn't a balk. I once wrote a post—exactly three years ago today, in fact—that my pal Lee called the ultimate blog entry on balks. But, that's a little more detail than is necessary here. What I'm really talking about is when fans call for a balk when the pitcher fakes a move to second or third. News flash, folks...THIS IS NOT A BALK. It's legal for a pitcher to fake a pickoff throw to second or third, but not to first. OK, got that? I'm not even going to confuse you by explaining when it's legal to fake a throw to first. Concentrate on understanding this difference first.

1. Don't do the wave.
If I even need to explain this one, then I'm sorry, but you're a hopeless cause and probably shouldn't have little baseball fans in the first place.

Oh yeah, the Red Sox beat the Yankees 9-5, so our family tally now stands at Red Sox 1, Yankees 0...obviously.

Back to Blogging Basics

The term "blog" was coined in the late '90s as the short form of "weblog," when a particularly clever blogger broke the latter term in the two words "we blog." Back then, the weblog or blog was typically used as an online diary of sorts. Nowadays, bloggers are writing about more diverse subjects than their innermost feelings and/or what has happened to them over the course of a day.

When I started this blog, back in December of 2003, its initial purpose was to be the vehicle to count down my top ten albums of the year. With no clear ongoing purpose, though, I then posted a grand total of 24 times over the next three years, mostly about baseball, but I also revisited the best music of the year concept at the conclusion of 2006.

Then, in 2007, as my 40th birthday approached, the blog became about a 40-part series I wrote discussing the 40 musical artists who had meant the most to me during my lifetime to that point. After that momentum died down, I slacked off for a while, but successfully resurrected the blog the following year to chronicle a pretty serious baseball road trip.

These two projects are what really defined the blog from that point forward, and I can now say I'm approaching the third anniversary of writing on a fairly regular basis in this space. That is, the blog became about my life as seen through the lenses of my major interests, primarily baseball, my mostly non-mainstream taste in music, and my enthusiasm for craft beer.

So, for some time my challenge has been to write about myself—what I'm listening to, concerts I've attended, ballparks I've visited, breweries I've toured, etc.—without making the subject matter too personal. While I don't have a problem sharing some of the more personal details, I've tried to only occasionally do so, but in a veiled way. 

Late last year, I joined a group called the Baseball Bloggers Alliance. Doing so has given me the opportunity to network, and even establish a few new friendships, with some of my many fellow members.

For a while there, from seeing all the great work being done by so many other baseball bloggers, I felt motivated to try and take my baseball writing to the next level, but it hasn't been in the cards. This all happened to coincide with many major life changes that, while all very positive, haven't really allowed me to devote a lot of time to writing.

The latest change is, perhaps, the biggest one of all. Since I just got married last year, I'll let you figure out what I'm talking about.

Anyway, my point is I've resigned myself—and, honestly, I'm quite happy with the decision—to the idea that I'm returning to blogging basics. By this I mean, I'm remaining focused on what the strengths of this blog have always been, and those strengths seem to correlate pretty closely to what the original purpose of a blog was.

So, what I'm really saying is, stayed tuned for more of the same...just maybe a little less of it.

Assimilation and Conversion

My wife is a Red Sox fan. I'm a Yankees fan. This doesn't cause conflicts as I imagine it could in other households, but it's an interesting topic to write about nonetheless.

Part of the reason there's no tension between us in this area—besides the obvious—is that she doesn't have as much invested in the Red Sox as I do in the Yankees. I've been a Yankees fan for close to 40 years. My dad's been a Yankees fan for about twice as long as I have.

KJ's only lived in Boston since 2001 and, like many other transplants, she got swept up in the excitement of the hometown team pretty quickly. And, why not? You certainly have to admire the dedication of sports fans in this town. I doubt there are such statistics available, but if there were, I'd be willing to bet Boston has the highest per capita rate of rapid sports fans—pink hats not withstanding—than anywhere else in the country.

During the 2009 World Series, in which she rooted for the Yankees, I was beginning to think she was going to become a Yankees convert. She really seemed to want to root for the same team as I did, and I believe I even told people—perhaps a bit over-confidently—that it was only a matter of time. I've since realized I was probably wrong, and I'm fine with that.

In fact, I don't know that I want her to change loyalties just because of me. Despite the fact she hasn't been a Red Sox fan all her life, she's still got some serious time invested in them. Plus, they've won two World Series during the time she's been a fan, and I can't imagine changing teams and being conflicted when looking back on the past glory of your former team.

She did, however, tell me the other night—at Fenway Park, of all places—that she thinks she wants a Cano jersey. So, I'm pretty much happy with the fact that she's a Yankees fan only when they're not playing the Red Sox. Now, if there's ever a repeat of 2003—or 2004, for that matter—I'm not exactly sure how it will play out in our house, but I'm sure we can handle it.

On the other hand, does it make me a bad husband that I just can't bring myself to ever pull for the Red Sox? Obviously, considering they're the Yankees' division rivals, this is somewhat understandable. But, if the Yankees are eliminated from the playoffs and the Sox are still playing, what then?

Thinking about the subject of conversion further, I don't think I know a single person who's converted from being a Red Sox fan to a Yankees fan, or vice-versa. The closest example I can come up with is my good buddy El-Squared, as he likes to sometimes call himself. I've known him for about as long as I've been a Yankees fan, and he actually used to be kind of a Yankees fan as well, but not really.

I recall going to a game at the stadium with him, his younger brother Bernard, and their father, but El was one of those kids who was a fan by default, until he got a little older and realized he really didn't care.

Then, he moved to Boston to go to grad school a little over 20 years ago, and he's never left. During that time frame, he's developed more of an interest in professional sports than he ever had as a kid, and has become a Red Sox and a Patriots fan.

But, I consider his more of a case of cultural assimilation, rather than religious conversion.

It was once suggested that, if I lived in Boston long enough, it would only be a matter of time before I became a Red Sox fan. Well, I've been here 14 years now and that inference couldn't be further from the truth. I guess it's just that, as Steve Wynn or Scott McCaughey might say, my soul can't be rearranged.

The Inevitable

There's a certain inevitability that we all face. We see it coming, more and more with each passing year, although we try to deny it, or at least to postpone it. We rationalize that it's only partly true, but then witness partly turn to mostly, until one day we give in to the realization.

This is a little off topic from what I usually write about here, but it's only taken me two-plus weeks of living in my new home to realize the inevitable. That is, I am my father. Actually, it's only true that I'm much more like my father than I even realized. There are still a few distinct differences, but I expect these will be erased over time.

What makes me say that I am my father? First of all, let me admit that I began noticing these tendencies many years ago, but several new factors have really driven this point home. I'll get to those in a moment. First let me share a few of the responses I got, from those who know my father best, when I made the following declaration on Facebook:

Only two weeks into living in and owning my first house, and already it's obvious how much I am my father.

• "You fell asleep in the comfy chair watching TV and snored so loudly the next-door neighbors could hear it?"
• "Oh how scary!! Are you fixing everything with duct tape? Just wait 'til it's time to put up the Christmas lights."
• "Have you mastered the deep throat grumble grandpa always does?"

But, of course, none of these are what I was talking about, although the first two have the most potential to come true. No, actually, the behaviors that have convinced me of how I've become my father are as follows:

• Religiously checking that the thermostat has been lowered to the proper temperature, and the bolts on the doors have been locked, before going to bed.
  (Actually, I don't have to turn down the main thermostat before going to bed, because it's programmable, but programming it was one of the first things I did after moving in.)
  
• I explained to KJ how a leaf could cause the garage door sensor to activate, resulting in the door reversing direction.
• I offered to back the car out of the garage because only I could possibly understand the precision with which I parked the car in the first place. 

While we're on the latter subject, in my childhood home, I was the only driver (out of four, including dad) who never hit the basketball pole due to cutting the steering wheel too quickly while backing out. Of course, I was the youngest and was off to college only a year or so after getting my license, but this is still a point of pride for me.

While I haven't completely become my dad just yet, these are among the future behaviors of mine that KJ has to look forward to:

• Walking around the house turning off the lights in rooms that are not in use, asking the question, "Are you done in here?" in the process.
• Preaching against leaving the water running while lathering up the soap on one's hands.
• Rolling up towels against door crevices that could be letting just the slightest bit of cold air in.
• While reading the newspaper and magazines, underlining certain parts for emphasis and writing notes to no one in particular in the margins.

I just have to say that it's a good thing KJ finds my dad adorable. We'll see how she feels when she's living full-time with an exact replica of him.

Chet Laabs Moves to the South Shore

This past weekend, as furniture and boxes were being packed up and moved from the old place to the new, an item of sentimental value turned up, one that I didn't even know was missing. As we pulled a bookcase away from the wall, behind it we found my framed Chet Laabs baseball card. Why would someone frame the trading card of a mediocre outfielder who played in the first half of the 20th century, you ask? Well, it's a long story, but one I'm more than willing to tell.

When I was a kid, growing up in a small town about an hour and a half north of New York City, my next-door neighbor and best friend, Brian, found his father's old baseball glove in their garage. The signature on the relic was that of the aforementioned Laabs. When Brian asked his father about the player whose name was on his childhood baseball mitt, it turns out his dad knew nothing about him.

So, they asked my dad. "Chet Laabs...oh yeah, pretty good power-hitting outfielder. Played for the St. Louis Browns during the war years," was his assessment. Of course, our next-door neighbors were dumbfounded. Brian's father and his brother had actually shared this glove as kids, and the obscurity of the player they had never heard of had become a life-long running joke. From that day forward, Brian developed an unusual fascination with a player whose career was over almost two decades prior to this birth.

In today's internet age, this may never have happened. The kid in the story would have simply Googled Chet Laabs, and that probably would have been the end of a story that became legendary due to all of these factors coming together. Our era of connectivity would later contribute to this continuing saga, however.

Years later, when Brian was out of college and on his own, his parents moved to Texas. Unfortunately, the glove did not make it with them, nor did it remain behind with Brian. Somehow, it was lost in the process and gone forever as far as we were concerned.

Five or so years ago, I was struck by the urge to search for Chet Laabs memorabilia on eBay. When I found a bat inscribed with his name, I immediately contacted Brian, and we ended up purchasing the item for $50 as a surprise Christmas gift for his uncle.

I handled the eBay transaction, and the subsequent shipping of a bat that was described—probably overly optimistically—by its seller as possibly having been used by Laabs himself. To show his appreciation the following Christmas, Brian's uncle sent me the framed card, as shown in the photo here—not the greatest picture I realize, but my camera is "flash challenged," so it will have to do for now. Like I said, I didn't even realize the item was missing, although there probably were a few occasions when I wondered about it. Regardless, it was really nice to be able to bring Chet with us to our new South Shore home.

Due Brunos

It's been almost a month since we returned from Italy, and I'm just now writing my final post about the trip. What can I say? It's been a busy time for me and KJ, as we finalize plans to move into our new home south of the Charles River. That latter detail is quite significant, as in my 13 years in the Boston area, I've always lived, and been partial to, north of the river. Of course, that had much to do with my Cambridge snobbery, which I abandoned over five years ago anyway.

OK, back to Italy. After picking up a rental car in Florence, we headed to Tuscany, where we stayed in a fantastic agriturismo called Torraccia di Chiusi, located just outside of San Gimignano. In case you're not familiar, an agriturismo is kind of like a bed & breakfast on a farm/vineyard. For five days we toured Tuscan hillside towns, then returned each night to a fantastic five-course meal—prepared by chef Bruno—usually accompanied by a bottle of their homemade house red wine.

Yes, it's true that I drank my fair share of red wine during our Italian vacation. However, the discovery of Domus Birrae in Rome wasn't our only experience with craft beer on the trip. While exploring the nearby—to San Gimignano—town of Colle di Val D'elsa, I spotted a store window sign advertising homemade beer. What we found inside were several offerings brewed by Birrificio L'Olmaia in Montepulciano. I couldn't decide between their amber—LA 9 (Birra Ambrata)—and their dark—BK (Birra Scura)—so when KJ suggested we get both, how could I say no?

I enjoyed L'Olmaia's LA 9 a little more than I did the BK, although the private terrace of our Venice hotel room (pictured to the right) provided quite the setting for my consumption of the latter. The former was a nice, pleasantly malty, somewhat yeasty tasting amber. The yeasty taste reminds me of a home brew, a charming quality in a beer, in my opinion. BK tastes a lot like a typical German dark beer to me, which raises the question: are these ales or lagers? There was no way of telling based on information on the labels, but checking their web site later, BK is described as top-fermented, which means it's an ale. My guess is that the LA 9 is an ale as well.

Other than the four Italian craft beers I stumbled upon, my alcohol consumption on the trip consisted mainly of red wine. I honestly don't think it's an exaggeration to say that wine was generally cheaper than water there. I did, however, get a taste of the two most widely distributed Italian beers as well. In fact, at one point I ordered a Peroni in a restaurant, and the waiter brought me a Moretti instead. It didn't matter, as when I drank a Peroni several days later, I was unable to make a decision as to which one is better. There's really no distinguishable difference, as far as I'm concerned.

Just before we headed to Italy, I wrote that I thought baseball was what Italy does best, in terms of my blog's three major subject areas. It turned out that our time there proved me wrong, as I underestimated the Italians' abilities in the realm of craft beer. Regarding the other two subjects, it was great running into a couple serious baseball fans in Florence, but we couldn't find any endearing qualities in the Italian music scene. In fact, our experience was mostly negative, as we were forced to repeatedly listen to the Lady Gaga atrocity "Alejandro," as well as to revisit other American songs that I would just assume never have to hear again, such as Aerosmith's "Pink" and Phil Collins's "Another Day in Paradise."

But, I digress. Upon returning to the states, we adopted a three-year old orange tabby from Mid-Hudson Animal Aid's Essie Dabrusin Cat Sanctuary in Beacon, New York, which we named after the wonderful chef at Torraccia di Chiusi.

Don't worry, I don't intend to turn this into a blog about my cat, but I thought I'd take this opportunity to introduce my readers to the newest member of our family, the adorable—if I do say so myself—Bruno.

So Much to Write About

I try to make this blog about my personal exploits without actually getting overly personal. That way, it's actually an online journal of sorts, particularly with respect to my three major areas of interest: baseball, music and beer. But, since most of the regular readers here are people who know me personally, you probably already know KJ became Mrs. CS last weekend.

After a couple weeks away, there's so much to write about I honestly don't know where to start. The problem is I've done so many things over the course of this month so far that fall into the realm of what I typically write about. That's a nice problem to have, I realize. So, as I attempt to get caught up in the upcoming weeks, here's the subject matter of upcoming posts to look forward to:

• Bachelor party trip to the Yankees Spring Training complex in Tampa, including Rock Star Fridays, a night of karaoke at a place called Stump's.
• Grafton BrideAle, our wedding brew.
• Song-by-song breakdown of our wedding CD (maybe).
• Surprise performance by Anders Parker at our reception.
• Visit to Lake Placid Pub & Brewery on our mini-moon.

Of course, I still need to write the final installment in the Summer of '04 series, and I'm just about due for my second Frequent Spins of 2010. I also was thinking this would be a good time of year to get started on my Sports Fab 40 series, so it looks like I have my work cut out for me.

Music in the Key of Life

I recently came across a mix tape I made in 1999, which was aptly named "Welcome to Sorryville." The title was borrowed from the opening lines of Chris Knight's "It Ain't Easy Being Me," which went something like this:

"There oughta be a town somewhere named for how I feel. Yeah, I could be the mayor down there and say 'Welcome to Sorryville.' It wouldn't be on a map nowhere, you might say that it don't exist. But, if you make enough wrong turns, it'd be hard to miss."

In addition to the title track, that mix included songs such as "Everything is Wrong" (Gigolo Aunts), "My Old Friend the Blues" (Steve Earle), "Desperate Ain't Lonely" (Whiskeytown), "There is No Hell Like the Hell on This Earth" (Scud Mountain Boys), "Dying on the Vine" (The Jayhawks), and "Over the Cliff" (Old 97's). You get the theme, right?

Back in those days, when I was still relatively new to the Boston area, el-squared and I were frequenters of the Cambridge music scene. We virtually had the exact same taste, and often talked about the mood of the type of music we listened to. Depressing is the obvious word that comes to mind, particularly back then, when alt-country was our main thing and much of what was on our respective playlists tackled the subject of heartbreak.

After he met, and became happily involved with, the woman who is now his wife of ten years, he seemed to be of the opinion that he could no longer really relate to that sort of music. I didn't necessarily agree that people's life circumstances preclude them from empathizing with sentiments they've felt before. But, I do agree that one's current perspective can have a major impact on the way he or she feels about music. Personally, I know a lot has to do with whether or not I'm "feeling it." In fact, this concept applies more to shows, especially now that I'm a little long in the tooth. If I'm not in the mood, it just isn't happening for me.

But, now that I'm nearing the completion of the rare calendar year during which I've actually been in a relationship for the entire annum, I'm wondering if my year-end review of the albums I've really enjoyed this year will confirm my friend's theory or not. I've already said that 2009 didn't really measure up in comparison to prior years. Could it possibly be because I'm still in the process of making a transition, and that I wasn't really seeking out the right music that properly fit my mood this year?

I'm not sure that I really need to defend myself here, but the aforementioned mix did include a few songs that had a somewhat hopeful tone. Idaho's "Alive Again" and The Byrds' "I Trust" are a couple examples of that, although both of those songs do kind of imply getting beyond more difficult times. Anyway, not really being conscious of this angle during the year means I'm going to have to work my way through my 2009 catalog before passing judgment on whether or not my musical mood has been getting brighter.

Maybe some of you can let me know what you think after comparing this year's compilation to those from the past. I have a feeling there won't be a noticeable difference, but I'll let you decide for yourself if you're so inclined.

Unemployed in Vacationland, Part 1

As KJ and I headed to Maine this past weekend, I realized that I'm in the unique situation of being literally "between jobs." That's a funny phrase, in that it's most commonly used by people who are unemployed. In that situation, using the phrase kind of implies that you need to tell your audience that you do expect to, in fact, work again. In my case, my last job ended on October 2 and my new gig begins on October 13. So, it also occurred to me that, right now, I'm technically unemployed.

It's also somewhat analogous to when I used to respond, "not right now," when people asked me if I had a girlfriend. Did I feel that it was necessary to point out that I'd been in a relationship before, and that I hadn't resigned myself to a life of celibacy? I don't think so, although I will say that not being in a relationship is a little easier than not having a job. Of course, I have more experience with the former than the latter.

But, I digress. Since I generally try not to divulge too much information about my personal life here, I'll just say that this weekend was quite special and that I'm no longer concerned with having to answer such questions about my love life.

A stop-off for lunch at Gritty McDuff's in Portland got our weekend started. I'd been to Maine's oldest brewpub before, but it was over ten years ago. I recall being not all that impressed, and this visit did nothing but reinforce that. The food was solid, but the beer was a disappointment.

On Gritty's web site, they refer to their Halloween Ale as a robust brew, with a "...deep amber color, a bold, malty palate and a well-rounded hop finish." This got me excited to try it, especially considering my recent interest in fall beer styles. But, in all honesty, I'm puzzled by the use of the words robust and bold to describe this one. It's very much a semi-sweet, light bodied offering that's hoppy up front, but then the bitterness fades. I really had high hopes for it, but rating it above average is as high as I'm willing to go.

I thought that the Portland brewer's signature beer, Gritty's Best Bitter, would be their saving grace, but it was not to be. I apologize to Gritty's if I wasn't aware that this was their cask offering, but it was kind of flat. If it was cask-conditioned, I would have been nice if their menu indicated as such. Regardless, my opinion is that it just isn't assertive enough to serve that way. Cask beer shouldn't taste flat, as other qualities in the beer should compensate for its relative lack of carbonation.

On the plus side for Gritty's, I loved the rustic atmosphere, particularly the brick-walled interior and long communal tables. Additionally, the fact that it was very crowded at 12:30 pm, on a dreary Saturday with no great college football on television, tells me that my less-than-enthusiastic evaluation of the place leaves me in the minority.

After a brief visit with some friends in Freeport, it was on to Bar Harbor, a small touristy hot spot that can boast two small breweries and a brewpub. But, you'll have to wait for "Unemployed in Vacationland, Part 2" to hear what I have to say about one of my favorite New England towns.