In defense of the new alleged doosh

Robert Gibbs is the new White House Press Secretary. No news in that statement. But I want to step forward and say that I think he's the smartest person to hold that job in quite a while. Dana Perino was a Barbie doll. Scott McClellan was always out of his proper depth. Ari Fleischer was the single most unwatchable prick in the history of the gig. Even the Clinton picks were mostly off the mark (although I always had a crush on Mike McCurry). Gibbs, however, seems like a guy tough as nails and able to talk on any subject as the situation merits. That's not to say that he's not taking some shots - The Daily Show was especially harsh this week and the impossible dooshiness of ABC's Jake Tapper veered into a undeserved tiff with the Gibber. The news networks are carrying his pressers live daily and it's like news crack for those with a pipe. Can you imagine being on point to answer questions in these anarchic days? Still, I see great things coming from the podium these days. Just needed to say it. Go Gibber.

For those that are unaware of our daily life, Sarah's in Africa. As a result, Maya's a social experiment that I can't quite yet gauge. We're doing loads of playdates/dinners with friends, and Maya starts another ballet class tomorrow morning. Distracting interactions rock. And we're using Skype to keep in touch across the continents. But with only the Pro Bowl scheduled as an utterly empty football snack this Sunday, we'll be doing lots of home improvement projects in the near term to fill the gap in proper parent interaction. Or maybe I'll just buy Maya a BB gun. Given how much the neighbor dogs (on BOTH sides) are yapping, I think it will be the best way to multi-task.

Hope your own press secretaries have plumped up briefing books today. Rock on.

Please wake me when it's time to be an artful dick again.

OK, OK - I get it. All the bloggers in the world are fixated on the Democratic National Convention in Denver this week. And, yes, everyone worth a stray pixel or a binary bitch fit has something to say about what they've "observed". But you know what? I'm not going to go there. Sure, I've watched more coverage than you (sorry, it's true). I've bored my wife and daughter to tears with blow-by-blow commentary on why things appear to be going well but not too well, doncha know. Still, I'm sick of this whole charade. The Clintons forever lost me at their most recent invocation of "hello, we believe in the votes of 18 million Americans". McCain's Veep pick lamer-than-all-lame counterpunches rollout tomorrow is a joke I just can't bring myself to laugh at anymore. And Barack's big speech tonight? Well, I just hope he realizes how much I'm waiting for a fart joke or tasteless "Mile High Club" reference. Because otherwise...I don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to blog about anything until the start of the NFL Season. Or if Larry Craig gets caught doing a reach around in the Senate shower.

Hope your own ability to type through the hopeful boredom is stronger than my own. Rock on.

Freewheeling ain't always so guiltfree

After a few days meant to absorb the trauma of a Maya incident of note, I'm finally ready to dump my story on the entire World. I'll be brief. Maybe. But honest. Unquestionably. For those that check in for Maya updates, this one's for you.

We've got a new house that we adore already. Maya's hit the ground running at full speed, which in this was part of the foreshadowed problem. She adores the backyard/back deck/sandbox, and sleeps like a drunken hippie in her new room. 'Nuff said 'bout that. But we're also in that crazy mode of organizing that requires certain moments of poor parenting. Cough. As in Wednesday afternoon when I was trying to put things into our garage storage space while Maya played in front on her tricycle on our slanted driveway. Bear in mind, we've begun to see an adventurousness in her demeanor that wasn't really in full bloom until rather recently. So picture me fully distracted sorting out a few decades worth of camping equipment and untenable luggage. And Maya pushing her trike up the incline of the driveway. And then mounting said trike. And pushing off. Rumble rumble CRAAAASH! Scream! Picture me instantaneously expecting the Seattle Police or Child Protective Services EMTs being dispatched to our house. Blood. Cedar bark everywhere. Sadness. And...scene.

So here's the good news - Maya's fine. Better than fine, she's undamaged. She drove her renegade crotchrocket into the landscaping just off the otherwise more ominous concrete driveway. I felt like the worst Dad EVER for a few days, hence the posting lag. But she's healed amazingly well. A bloodied and abrased nose, no broken teeth, no permanent scars, no lawsuits. Yet. She is pretty young to be appropriately lashing out, after all. Still, I had a ringer up my sleeve that had nothing to do with Larry Craig's lawyers. Maya's grandparents and aunties arrived in the days after "The Crash" on a pre-scheduled visit to check out our new digs. I've learned Maya heals like a club fighter. She even hugged me somewhat recently. And she wanted me to tell y'all she's rockin' and rollin' like never before. We may even buy a new trike sometime soon. Of course, it will be one that only works on the flat until she's 16. If it ain't been invented yet, I'll make it. That's the kind of Dad I am.

Hope your own guilty moments do nothing to diminish the beauty of the opening Weekend of the NFL Season. Rock on.