Thursday, May 27, 2010

Classic card of the week

Bob Tewksbury, 1992 Score/Pinnacle “Sidelines” series

When faced with something unusual that does not fall within the context of my own perceptions, my natural instinct is to laugh, point, and make fun of it. This is called “maturity.” Thus my first reaction upon reintroducing myself to this card was to laugh at Bob Tewksbury because baseball players are not supposed to draw cartoon caricatures of other baseball players. They are supposed to play baseball. And maybe hunt elk in the offseason or something. Any talent that transcends playing baseball and hunting elk should be exhibited only at an appropriate time post-retirement. If the talent in question involves cartoon caricatures it should never see the light of day.

But Bob Tewksbury was like, “Screw it. I play baseball and I also draw cartoons. Deal with it. I’m Bob Tewksbury.” The ultimate result of this courageous self-acceptance was: me having a Bob Tewksbury baseball card in which he is featured drawing cartoons. So I am the real winner here. To wit:

Bob has a fine touch when he pitches, nibbling at the corners and inducing ground balls,

Is there anything more exciting to consider than making a trip to the ballpark and watching, in person, a pitcher who nibbles at the corners and also induces ground balls? One time I was asked, “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?” and I responded, “Watching a pitcher nibbling at the corners.” Then the person who asked that question was like, “What?” and I was like, “I don’t know.” True story. Anyway, I can’t see how this fine touch and nibbling relates to cartoons…

and a fine touch with the pen and ink

Oh! His talents are relatable in that both his profession and his hobby require a fine touch. Cool! If he ever nibbled on his pen while drawing, well…that’s just too much for me to imagine right now.

So we know Bob Tewksbury had talent. But talent undiscovered is meaningless, and so the question remains: Who is responsible for discovering the talent of Bob Tewksbury? This card does not say. I’ll have to ask the only reliable source:

Tewksbury’s talent was initially discovered by Andy Michael in Concord.

Familiar story. However it doesn’t specify whether the talent in question involved baseball or cartoons. Although, considering the context and that Tewksbury’s wiki page is absent of even a mention of his cartoon skills, I am left to assume that Andy Michael discovered Tewksbury’s pitching talent. Although it was fun –- albeit for a brief moment –- to imagine Andy Michael walking down the Concord boardwalk (?) and spotting a crowd surrounding a 13-year old boy furiously drawing hilarious caricatures of random strangers. This would prompt Andy Michael to rush to the nearest payphone and contact the person responsible for further developing such kinds of talent. He would say, “Brett, you gotta see this. I got a kid here who just a drew a picture of a 40-year old woman with a giant head jumping on a trampoline! You need to get down here now.”

But alas, we are only left with this: “Brett, it’s Andy. I got a kid here who just induced 8 ground balls and he’s nibbling his ass off. Call the Yankees.”

Did you know?
A Tewksbury-inspired Saturday morning cartoon series entitled "Seventh Inning Catch" featured a clumsy elk named Felk and a sacrastic cat named Nibbles, who starred for their Little League team while also solving tax crimes.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Iced coffee, cookies & HD: America’s hard work pays off

Note: This column appears in the 5/27 issue of The Glendale Star and the 5/28 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife and I have been watching this really great series on the History Channel called “America: The Story of Us.” The show traces our nation’s history chronologically, and does so in such an interesting way. It delves deeper into historical events that we haven’t thought about since the seventh grade –- and thus, never had a full and mature understanding of –- and tends to focus also on certain influential details of both major and seemingly minor events that many of us probably never considered before.

It is an enthralling series to watch, but it has also been a humbling experience for me. Because it has reminded me that I am not necessarily carrying the torch of those great Americans before me.

For one, being reminded of the realities and gruesomeness of warfare never ceases to make me squirm. Not only because it’s gross, but also because it reinforces the fear that if someone were ever running at me with a musket that I would respond by running the other way. And then there are the aspects of war that we rarely consider –- the weather, lack of food and clothing, and disease. Having to endure just one day in minus-10-degree weather on the warfront with a bunch of smelly dudes who just gave me smallpox would be the one thing that would prevent me from running away from a musket. I have, after all, written whole columns complaining about a 24-hour stomach flu.

The western expansion part of America’s history also hit home for both my wife and I, as it’s been almost three years since we moved here from back east. I remember how stressed out both of us felt from packing and making the necessary arrangements for a cross-country move. As I watched reenactments of early settlers embarking on the same trip, except with different stresses –- like, “Are we going to get eaten by lions?” and “Where are we going?” –- it made me extremely thankful that braver people than us blazed this trail.

Then there’s the literal construction of this country, which I have always marveled at. Last week the show focused on the construction of something I had never thought about before – the Statue of Liberty. I knew it was a gift from France, but had always assumed that they just floated it across the ocean. No. They dropped it off in hundreds of pieces, and we had no money to put it together. (Side note: Thanks, France.) Realizing the work, money, and sacrifice –- many construction workers, suspended on beams with no support, died –- that went into this American landmark reminded me of the dread I feel at bringing home a box from Ikea.

It doesn’t help that we typically watch this show while drinking iced coffee and eating cookies, which kind of adds to my embarrassment. Nevertheless, this series has given me a whole new appreciation for our country. And while it’s true that each generation faces its challenges –- what’s more difficult: building your own house or programming a Blackberry? Tough to say -– I’m happy and grateful that I grew up in this one.

Besides, when they re-film this series a hundred years from now, future Americans may marvel at my own bravery. “They still had the stomach flu then?” they will say in amazement. Yes. And scorpions.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Classic card of the week

Travis Fryman, 1994 Upper Deck

Get up, Travis Fryman! The future is now. You are 25 years old and a shortstop for crying out loud!

Oftentimes our epiphanies arrive at our lowest point. As it has happened to many of us –- while on our backs, hatless and confused, with some dude’s head on our shoulder –- it happened to Travis Fryman.

Fryman, who had always assumed that the future was later, got his wake-up call in 1993. He was 25 years old. A shortstop. Going nowhere except for the fact that he was playing professional baseball, and playing it well. But the voice motivated him. It was now or never. Fryman responded dramatically by continuing to play baseball, albeit at a slightly lesser success rate than his peak year of ’93. But hey, what are ya’ gonna do? In those days, the future was then.

Let us discover more:

Detroit fans have been spoiled

I would like to pause here for effect. Sorry, Detroit fans.

with the likes of Lou Whitaker and Alan Trammell in the Tigers infield, but Travis Fryman has not disappointed the Motor City faithful.

No doubt every Tigers fan in the early 90s felt utterly spoiled by not only their 1984 World Series Championship, but also the illuminating gloss of success that comes from boasting an infield that includes such major league heavyweights as Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker. Growing up a Yankees fan, I always lamented the fact that I could not openly root for Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker. They truly transcended the sport in the way that they, ya’ know, did things. For example, who can forget Alan Trammell’s famous accurate throws? Or Lou Whitaker’s whatever?

In fact, Detroit fans felt so spoiled by Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker that they had no need for other baseball players on their team, especially some hotshot 25-year old shortstop who was bound to disappointment with his inability to be Alan Trammell or especially Lou Whitaker. That Travis Fryman was able to not disappoint under this immense pressure is a testament to both his talent and his realization that the future is now, which in this context means 1993.

Wikipedia, thoughts?

With 5 trips to the All-Star Game, Fryman is the most distinguished alumnus of the Fayetteville Generals.

I am almost certain this is humorous to only me, but in my head I am picturing a post-Civil War epic film, where Travis Fryman is introduced to a group of political elites –- all wearing monocles –- as “the most distinguished alumnus of the Fayetteville Generals.” Also, in the movie the whole point of the war was to go to the All-Star Game. Then, after Fryman is introduced, the Senator of Virginia turns to the Head of State and wryly whispers: “Yeah, but he’s no Alan Trammell.”

Did you know?
When pressed for his thoughts about being eligible on the upcoming Hall of Fame ballot in 2007, Fryman responded, “I have no comment. That’s all in the past.”

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

The best laid plans rarely account for kids

Note: This column appears in the 5/20 issue of The Glendale Star and the 5/21 issue of the Peoria Times

One of the interesting things about parenthood is adjusting mentally to the fact that you are, indeed, a parent.

This has been a slow process for me. For I am a planner. I am always thinking ahead to the specifics of how the plans I have laid forth inside of my head will play out. For example, on Monday morning I am already thinking about the possibilities, and then the details, of Friday night. I will think, “Friday is supposed to be really hot. Maybe we can go to the movies. Westgate or Peoria? Westgate. We could park in the east lot. I’m not getting the large popcorn this time -- that was too much popcorn. That new documentary about the dangers of plastic is supposed to be good. Very romantic. It starts at 7:25. We should leave by 6:30, the latest. I’ll wear my yellow shirt.”

Not surprisingly these plans rarely play out the way I had envisioned. There are many reasons for this, not the least of which is the fact that I rarely include anyone but myself in the thought process, and usually fail to consider many other determinable factors. In making grandiose plans inside of my own head, the one small detail I have most recently neglected to include is the fact that we have a child.

Don’t get me wrong –- I am not forgetting that we have a child. I am merely underestimating how having a child influences the plans I making. Case in point: After a long week of cooking and then cleaning up afterwards, we usually enjoy going out to eat at least one night on the weekend. Because I have no social life, thinking about where we can go excites me to no end. But by the time that day arrives, and the realization sets in that it will be past our little one’s bedtime by the time we are ordering appetizers, we usually end up staying in and ordering pizza. If we do actually make it out, only one of us really eats, something gets spilled, and an unwelcome guest typically shows up named poop.

Even formerly simple things become somewhat complicated. I used to be able to think/say, “Let’s go to the pool.” And we would go to the pool. Now we must organize pool trips around feeding and napping times, and even then the process of going to the pool is like preparing to embark on a three-week trip to Maui. By the time we are actually ready to go to the pool, it is wintertime, and the pool is closed. Also, it’s past her naptime.

The thing is, none of this is disappointing in any way. Even though it’s not about what we want to do anymore, all we really want to do anyway is be with her. The point is that I need to relax with the plans I make inside of my head, and consider the circumstances. But I think I am learning.

In fact, just this morning I thought, “Maybe we’ll go out to breakfast tomorrow. If she wakes up at 6 and eats then, we could leave at 8 after her nap and feed her again there. I’ll bring her pig toy in case there’s a wait. I should wear that one shirt that kinda blends in with spit-up. Actually, maybe I’ll just make pancakes.”

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Classic card of the week

Frank Pastore, 1986 Topps

Considering he sent the card my way with accompanying comments, I’m going to let Sean take the lead here:

“No, no Frank – sweatier. Yeah, that’s good. Make your whole leather warm-up wet. Now do the ‘molester face.’ Yeah. It’s a wrap!”

Normally I’d say that I have nothing else to add, however I went on Wikipedia and as it turns out, I have something else to add.

On 5 January 2004 Pastore became the host of The Frank Pastore Show on KKLA 99.5 FM in Los Angeles. It is the largest Christian talk show in the United States.

Wow. This guy? Really? Okay. But for various reasons I think it’s warranted that we now retire the term “molester face.”

On 5 November 2004 an opinion piece Pastore authored, entitled Christian Conservatives Must Not Compromise” was published in the Los Angeles Times. In it, he references Leftism as “the evil ideology” and says that “the Left must defeated in the realm of ideas,” and has provoked a strong reaction on some message boards.

I enjoy how the reaction to these comments was felt “on some message boards,” as if Internet message boards are at the very heart of the human consciousness. I also want to add something here without venturing into deep waters and straying too far from baseball and general silliness: As a Roman Catholic myself, I have never seen the purpose in “the religious right” separating itself so dramatically from “the Left” –- and, to be fair, vice versa –- much less labeling any facet of the other as “evil.” When you do that, I think, it just doesn’t allow for the kind of discourse required to attain results and change hearts. Also, that “the Left must be defeated in the realm of ideas” is a curious concept. It makes me picture a group of priests armed with swords attempting to smash all the light bulbs that go off above the heads of hippies.

But hey, enough of that. I bet you were wondering about “The Big Texan” aspect of Frank Pastore’s life. I know I was!

Pastore held the official record for completing the 72-ounce steak meal challenge at the Big Texan steakhouse in Amarillo, Texas, having eaten the entire meal in 9 ½ minutes in May 1987 (this was his 7th successful completion of the feat) until March 24, 2008, when competitive eating champion, Joey Chestnut, finished the meal challenge in 8 minutes & 52 seconds.

This is just…I don’t even know. It seems as though there are three different Frank Pastores –- the former baseball player, the conservative talk-show host, and the steak-eating champion –- and Wikipedia opted to lump them all together in a clever attempt to save wiki-space. But there’s more:

Pastore is a graduate of Damien High School, La Verne, California. His nephew, Nick Pignotti, now plays soccer at the University of La Verne just down the street.

Wait, the Nick Pignotti? Just down the street? Get out of here! What does the back of Frank Pastore’s baseball card have to say about all this?

The first player in Reds history to wallop a home run in a night game was Babe Herman with a 4-bagger, July 10, 1935.

You are useless, Talkin’ Baseball head.

Did you know?
To say that you "walloped a 4-bagger" will currently get you killed in six countries.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Because parenting and drugs don’t always mix

Note: This column appears in the 5/13 issue of The Glendale Star and the 5/14 issue of the Peoria Times

Parenting is a crash course in many things. Changing diapers, feedings, understanding the bizarre brilliance of “Yo Gabba Gabba,” just to name a few. For me personally, parenting has become an important lesson in a field that wasn’t mastered even during college: drugs and pharmaceuticals.

I personally try to go to the doctor about, well…never, so my knowledge of ailments and their respective remedies is lacking indeed. Because children are, generally, a disease-ridden species, being a foster parent and now (hopefully) a parent of my very own child has afforded me the opportunity to learn many things about the wonderful world of sickness. But this newfound knowledge really just involves the basic, technical methods necessary for treatment. For example, I can draw a plastic syringe like a cowboy –- sometimes I wear them on my belt just to show off -– and I can also give a child a breathing treatment with one hand and surf the MLB channels with the other.

But when it comes to the medicine itself, or what is actually wrong with the child in question, I am oftentimes willfully ignorant. Sometimes I will ask my wife why our little one is still taking a certain medicine and she will ask me, in a frustrated manner, what was going through my head when the pediatrician was explaining everything and I was nodding intently. The answer is probably baseball, but I don’t say that.

This ignorance has manifested itself several times recently. Our little one has been battling acid reflux, and I was put in charge of refilling her prescription of Zantac. Now, last year I could not tell you the difference between Zantac and Levitra, but amazingly I somehow knew that she wasn’t taking Zantac per say, but its generic or some alternative form. My mistake however was not checking the bottle before the pharmacist got on the phone, and assuming that I needed to be exact and technical when refilling the prescription said: “Yeah, I need to fill her prescription of (just now looking at the bottle, squinting)…ran-a-tititidine. I mean, rana…titididdidi…Zantac.” My wife looked on in bewilderment and then broke out in laughter when I hung up. Also, the name of the drug is ranitidine, but in our house, to my dismay, it now goes by the name I gave it.

Just last week our little one –- surprise! –- became sick with a bad cough and my wife took her to the pediatrician. She called me on her way back and told me the doctor said she had croup. Over the phone I heard this as “trupe” and, not having any clue what that was or what she was talking about, did that thing that I like to do where I pretend I know what she’s talking about. (It should also be mentioned that I had never heard of croup either. It sounds like something that 17th century American colonists cured with boiling water and pig urine.)

When it came time for me to pick up her prescription I took it upon myself to ask the pharmacist this question: “So, is trupe contagious?” She looked at me strange, so I elaborated by spelling it out. “Ya know, t-r-u-p-e, trupe?” Amazingly, for a pharmacist, she did not know.

Because she had forgotten to ask the pediatrician this question, I thought my wife would be impressed that I had asked the pharmacist, even though she didn’t know the answer. “Wait, what did you call it?” she said.

I am no longer in charge of filling prescriptions. I can still work the syringe though. I can draw 2 mls of trupe juice, as its now called, in no time flat.

Troop knows what I'm talking about

Thursday, May 06, 2010

Classic card of the week

Chris Brown, 1987 Classic Baseball

There’s a lot to cover here, so let’s get started.

The name Chris Brown has its connotations these days, and while this particular Chris Brown was never accused of assaulting his pop-star girlfriend, he may in fact be more interesting than the Chris Brown we all know and dislike today.

Of course, if you’d like to know more about Chris Brown the baseball player, you’re going to have to dig deeper than this, his 1987 Classic baseball card, which couldn’t be more boring on the front, and which is information-less and largely bizarre –- which we’ll get to later -– on the back. So where did I go for Chris Brown-related info? You guessed it:

Brown was a notable graduate of Crenshaw High School in Los Angeles, California, where he played high school baseball with Darryl Strawberry. The 1979 Crenshaw High Cougars baseball team was the subject of Michael Sokolove’s The Ticket Out: Darryl Strawberry and the Boys of Crenshaw.

That is very interesting. I am interested now. Interest? Piqued. More please:

Brown was noted for missing a remarkable number of games (over 250 between 1984 and 1988) due to bizarre claimed injuries such as a bruised tooth, and he was nicknamed “Jake” by teammates convinced he was no more than a malingerer.

Let me just say this: Let he who has never experienced a bruised tooth cast the first stone. Back in ’92, I bruised my tooth after walking aggressively to the mailbox, and that thing was black and blue for days. I missed two months of school. So…yeah. Also, having no clue that the term “Jake” implied a malingering nature, I did a bit of research and discovered that the nickname is fairly exclusive to baseball, dates back to 1927, and is derived from a player named Garland “Jake” Stahl. I found this information on a website dedicated to Illinois baseball. I don’t know what has gotten into me, but don’t say I never researched anything for you! I also think that “Jake the Malingerer” would be a great movie starring Will Ferrell as a Tarzan-like shortstop who is also lazy.

The last straw for Tigers manager Sparky Anderson in 1989 came when Brown missed a game after complaining that he “slept on his eye wrong.”

In the annals of great injuries, my personal favorite was always when Carl Pavano missed a start due to “heavy legs.” (And I’m not alone –- “Heavy Legs” is the fabulous name of my friend Bill’s fantasy baseball franchise.) But nothing I have ever heard in my entire life beats sleeping on your eye wrong. I would argue that sleeping on your eye -– as a general rule –- is in itself wrong, but I am much more intrigued by the manner in which he approached Sparky Anderson with this complaint. Did he blink constantly out of one eye? Was an eye patch involved? Or did the excuse match his notorious lack of effort, and he made no attempt to make it seem as though his eye was adversely affected? The only possible thing I could think of that would make this better is if Chris Brown bruised his tooth telling Sparky Anderson that he slept on his eye wrong.

But now this:

In 2004, Brown worked in Iraq driving an 18-wheel truck delivering diesel fuel for Haliburton. He took fire on numerous occasions, including in a convoy that was attacked on April 9, 2004, in which six Haliburton drivers and one soldier were killed and another driver kidnapped and later released.

I am incredulous. Granted, I realize that I am obtaining all of this information via Wikipedia, but how does one go from Jake the Malingerer to American Badass? How does one go from suspiciously asking out of baseball games to willingly embarking on dangerous driving missions in Iraq? I told you this was one interesting Chris Brown! Now the sad part:

Brown died at Memorial Hermann Hospital in Houston on December 26, 2006, nearly a month after he suffered burns in a fire on November 30 at a vacant house he owned in Sugar Land, Texas. He was 46 years of age. Police have never determined if his death was a homicide, suicide, or an accident.

Man. Rest in peace, Chris Brown.

I feel like I need to take a deep breath. Okay…there.

Now...onto this Classic Baseball card:

Please note how, on Chris Brown’s stat line, walks are mistakenly abbreviated as “W” instead of “BB,” making it seem as though Chris Brown had 33 wins in 1986. Though, now knowing at least something about Chris Brown, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he did in fact, in 1986, drive in 49 runs, steal 13 bases, injure his shin while eating macaroni & cheese, win 33 games as a pitcher, and capture three Russian spies.

But hey, how about some “Classic Baseball Questions?”

(T-F) Sandy Koufax is the youngest player inducted into the Hall of Fame? True

Awesome. Thanks for giving me an opportunity to answer that question on my own before printing it in BOLD immediately following the question. There is literally no way to avoid seeing the answers to all of these questions, because by the time you realize that the answers idiotically follow each question in bold, it’s too late. You have seen the answer, rendering these trivia questions pointless. Except for this one:

Where does a hitter wait immediately before taking his turn at bat? In the On Deck Circle

Rhetorical question: If you don’t know the answer to that question, why do you have a baseball card? Also, I have no idea what the letters signify that precede each question. But I do enjoy the space provided for the “Autograph.” This card is courtesy of my friend Sean, and I can only assume that Sean had taken this Chris Brown card to the ballpark one day, with every intention of having Chris Brown sign it in the provided area, only to discover that Chris Brown was not playing that day.

Ear lobe stiffness.

Did you know?
In 2010 Michael Sokolove filmed his sequel, which was titled: The Ticket Out: How Not to Feign Indifference Even in the Name of Charity -- Darryl Strawberry and 'The Celebrity Apprentice'

Tuesday, May 04, 2010

When dogs attack…I have no advice

Note: An edited version of this column appears in the 5/6 issue of The Glendale Star and the 5/7 issue of the Peoria Times

Wanna know something that is not fun? Getting attacked by dogs.

I say that because last week we got attacked by dogs. What happened was this. My wife and I took our little one and our other little one –- our dog Mac –- on a nice family walk in our neighborhood. As we approached the turn for our street on the way back, I noticed in the distance a woman walking with two big dogs coming towards us. Then, when she noticed us, she moved with her dogs halfway across the street on the median.

Now, with retrospect as a handy guide, this proved to be some serious foreshadowing. Because in moving off the sidewalk this woman was basically saying, “These are not friendly dogs.” So as we began to pass them, Mac, who is 13 lbs but thinks he is a Tyrannosaurus Rex, began barking. The two dogs, boxers, were barking. It was a cacophony of angry barking, the storm before the storm. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any testier, I turned and noticed one of the boxers had escaped his owner’s grasp and was now charging across the street at Mac.

Now, Mac is about as friendly as it gets. Even when he’s barking he just wants to sniff and be sniffed. (Don't we all?) Being optimistic and not wanting to make the situation worse, I let Mac stay. And when the boxer reached him, Mac let him sniff. The split second of relief I felt was interrupted when the boxer -– obviously not happy with what he had sniffed –- pounced on poor Mac.

I had to lift Mac –- who is now going bonkers -– up in the air by his harness and hold him over my head. This dog is now trying to get to Mac through me and scratching me up with his big claws. Meanwhile, the other dog is now literally dragging his owner across the street to join in. It was now officially a party. My wife is just behind us with the stroller looking on in horror and not knowing what to do, though she would later admit that the theme song from “Apocalypse Now” was playing in her head.


It was mayhem, and everything was happening so fast. This woman could not control her dogs. Just as I was debating whether or not I should kick one of the dogs in the head -– yes, I thought about it and yes, it would have definitely backfired -– she managed to corral them to the point where she had their leashes and was being dragged on the rocks. I was then able to get Mac to the corner.

Now, one of the things that really bothered me –- besides being attacked by a dog -– was that this woman displayed little to no sense of urgency throughout the ordeal. Stuck in my brain is her calmly saying, “Down, Jazzy,” as if Jazzy is on his hind legs begging for a treat and not trying to kill a small dog and also a human being. She should have been screaming bloody murder at her dogs, but seemed utterly content getting dragged around like a ragdoll. Besides initially moving across the street, her ho-hum reaction to this attack was, for me, another indication that this had happened before. Maybe she was scared herself or embarrassed, but she simply did not display the adequate indignation that I required of her. Even as I was walking away after finally removing myself from the situation, I heard a faint voice say, “Are you okay?” Am I okay? I would be much better if you weren’t a dog owner, but yeah, feeling great!

My shirt (my favorite shirt!) was torn to shreds and I was bruised and bleeding from the arm. I couldn’t have possibly looked more like someone who just got attacked by a dog. My wife and our little one safely reached us. And thus concluded our least enjoyable family walk ever.

What actually happened was traumatic enough, but my wife, who has embarked on walks before with our little girl and Mac, could not help but imagine what would have happened if she were alone. Now we will walk only to the mailbox and back, and we bring a bat in the stroller. I’m not kidding. Who said suburbia isn’t rough? In fact, while recounting these events to my dad over the phone, he told me how to break a dog’s legs should one ever lock its jaws on something or someone. Armed with that information, and a bat –- neither of which I ever plan on using -- I actually think we’ll just stay inside for a while.

Regarding the attack itself, I realize that protocol is to get the owner’s information, but the situation did not make that possible. Nevertheless I later ventured out in my car to find her and tell her to either walk her dogs in the living room or call Caesar Milan, but could not locate her. No doubt she was getting unwillingly dragged throughout some remote section of our neighborhood.

The thing is, we all love dogs here. Some of us are better equipped to own them, however, and use better discretion when deciding what kind of dog to take in. Just as a hypothetical example off the top of my head, if I’m a 60-year old, 95-lb woman, maybe I’m not taking in two humongous and angry boxers. Because those who cannot control their pets pose a constant threat to everyone around them. And to those people I say: There are other pets.

Fish, for example.