Might as well be walking on the sun

Summer has brought me busy weekends, visits with out-of-town friends and family, and the onset of the Baby Heat Factor (BHF).

This is my first full summer with a kid on tow, a fact of which my sweat glands already are keenly aware. Those of you who've procreated know what I'm talking about: The BHF adds about 15 degrees to the temperature on any summer day.

Children present a host of heat-heightening activities, such as:

• Holding my son at barbecues while he thrusts his body to and fro like a Backstreet Boy.
  
• Keeping my body completely taut while lifting him in and out of the car seat in hopes of not waking him.
  
• Using one hand to hold my son, the other to feed him projectiles (sorry, that's "food" in layman's terms) and my hips to avoid said projectiles.
  

I can't believe I ever used to complain during the summer months, back when I could comfortably sit down with a cold Dr. Pepper and enjoy the warmth.  Now the heat is my worst enemy, a loud-mouthed fiend that deftly mixes sweat and deceit.

Oh summer, I will conquer you again — after school, at the flagpole, probably about 15 years from now. But for now the BHF rules with heavy-handed, formula-drenched authority.

Five funny things (that I can find online right now)

Because I'm a bookaphobic, strong-to-quite-strong dullard whose lone hobbies are sports and weightlifting, there's very little variety in my roster of often-visited Web sites. But among those that I frequent, here are the most funny items at the moment:

1) Newspaper Web sites seem to have made ridiculously inane homepage headlines par for the course. For example: "Doctors, cyclists recommend wearing bicycle helmets [www.idahostatesman.com, 09:49 a.m.]"

Be sure to catch tomorrow's front page for hard-hitting news such as, "Experts: Grass appears green in color," "Jesse Jackson speaks out on behalf of rich celebrity" and " 'Lifetime' appeals mostly to women."

2) The Seattle Times Web site's sports homepage features a story on the nuances of heckling. I'm a bit of a recovering heckler, thanks mostly to my wife's "suggestions," the presence of my 10-month-old son and my faith in God. Still, I must admit that this story's tips — including to research the opposing team's players and make sure the targets can hear you — gave me an itch that can only be scratched by informing Washington State University football players that they're quite unable to fulfill their on-field duties.

3) My checking account. 

4) I have no idea whether these stories are actually funny, but the fact that they're being touted atop Yahoo.com definitely is:

-- "Lindsay Lohan celebrates her birthday in grand style, and a Jonas brother gets engaged."

-- "Jon and Kate's family Fourth of July."

These are only funny because I think is absolutely hysterical that many people actually get the bulk of their "news" from Yahoo. That is hilarious.

5) CNN.com is reporting that "D.C.'s Marion Berry faces stalking charge." Let me be clear: Stalking is NOT funny. But you know what is? The fact that unflattering Marion Berry headlines don't even make me flinch at this point. Reading these is like eating my morning oatmeal.

I'm sure there are lots of funnier things out there in Internet Land. If you know of something in particular, please let me know.

I can't think outside the cereal box

I 'm not happy this day has arrived — the day Cheerios have become the item I handle the most.

Long ago it was my blankey. Then it was my outdoor basketball, a pad and pen (for drawing space ships, of course), my indoor basketball and finally a keyboard.  

Now it's Cheerios. Yes, I've become "that guy." You know, the poor dude who's constantly on all fours, trying to figure out why his son/daughter seems to actually be secreting these heavenly, whole-grain-oats circles.

Cheerios Guy, or CG, sprinkles them along the edge of the coffee table, hoping CG Jr. will occupy himself with this cereal buffet line long enough for Dad to grab a bathroom break.

CG carefully portions out these folic-acid-laden gems into plastic containers so he can tote them to sporting events, concerts, family barbecues and the like. CG proceeds to pick them up after CG Jr. spills them all over the [insert type of flooring or ground] at said occasions.

CG frantically offers the modified-corn-starch-rich beauties as a peace offering to his screaming offspring in moments of duress.

Now I am CG — probably retribution for years of making fun of CGs who preceded me.

But I can't help wonder whether it's possible for an particularly progressive father to buck the trend. In theory, couldn't a guy sprinkle Frosted Mini Wheats around the living room? Maybe this hypothetical father could coax his son or daughter out of a crying fit with Grape Nuts?

Imagine the possibilities.

Unfortunately, I don't have the guts to think outside the cereal box. I'm a slave to the status quo. I'm relegated to several more years of finding Cheerios in every nook and cranny known to man. 

Luckily, wherever there's a Labor and Delivery unit, there's a new crop of guys waiting to take the title "Cheerios Guy."

So happy I'm not an NBA rookie's father

As I'm watching the NBA Draft tonight, I'm suddenly aware of how nerve-wracking it would be to be the father of one of these young athletes tonight.

On one hand, it would be awesome to see my son presented with an opportunity to play a game and make a really, really decent living at the same time. To say I would be proud is an understatement.

But then I realize how I nervous I would be. These parents are sending their young-adult sons into the lion's den — a professional association filled with the ample temptations that stem from money and stardom. Not only that, but their offspring must navigate a subculture that — despite what many analysts say — is riddled with greed, excess and unbridled hubris.

What's more, many of these rookies-to-be have only been in college for one year, meaning if this pro basketball gig doesn't work out, there's very little or even nothing to fall back on. Some of these guys undoubtedly will end up living in their parents' basements within a few years.

It would be awesome if all these players were to become 10-year NBA contributors who save their money and set themselves up for a comfortable retirement. It would be great if they were to finish their coursework in the summers, obtaining degrees. And it would be encouraging if they all were to resist the temptations that come with incredible fame.

Unfortunately, a lot of these players are on their way to sad stories of failure. Each parent of a brand-new NBA player can only hope his or her son will cultivate a success story instead.

From the standpoint of disliking these phrases, I dislike these phrases

One thing I won't let my son become, no matter how great he is at sports, is one of these ridiculous ex-jocks who constantly spouts meaningless, needlessly wordy analyses.

Sure, I continue to listen to these blockheads on the radio every time I drive anywhere in my 1994 Park Avenue (jealous?). But does that mean I have to enjoy listening to it?

The majority of these former athletes and lifelong announcers have become comfortable with a vernacular including these painful go-to lines, among many others:

• "From the standpoint of ..." — At some point a commentator — I'm assuming we have someone like Merril Hoge to thank — must have decided that adding "From the standpoint of [insert description of opinion) before actually stating the opinion makes people sound smarter. Now everyone does it, but NBA "expert" Jalen Rose is far and away the worst of the bunch. By the way ... from the standpoint of Jalen Rose sounding like an uneducated athlete who's trying to sound more intelligent than he is, I think Jalen Rose is an uneducated athlete who's trying to sound more intelligent than he is.
  
• "When you talk about ... a guy like ... you have to talk about ..." — Maybe I'm thick in the head, but I think when analysts proclaim their points, they don't need to first tell us they're talking about it. Just get the point. Because when you talk about TV and radio personalities prolonging their sentences so they can fill more time and buy more oversized neckties that they'll proceed to tie in that weird way that forms a huge triangle for the knot, you have to talk about guys like Jalen Rose and NFL super-dud Jesse Palmer.
  
• Further, it would be great to see a committee, comprising analysts and players from various sports, meet several times to decide on a list of phrases that shouls no longer be used in postgame interviews. Mainstays such as "the game of [insert sport]," "the offensive end of the [insert type of playing surface]," the defensive end of the [insert type of playing surface]," "playing our game" and "coming out and playing for four quarters" would have to go. Another caveat is that NBA-players-turned-absymal-TV-sidekicks Charles Barkley and Hubert Davis would not be allowed within 200 feet of the meeting room. That's a deal-breaker.
  

Of course, if my son can make a bunch of coin as a color commentator, I'll probably embrace all of these overused phrases — from the standpoint of liking something you wouldn't normally like.

I'll be proud — even if he isn't a Montana

When I found out the son of one of my boyhood sports heroes had committed to play college football for my favorite team, my enthusiasm was tough to veil. But I couldn't very well jump on my desk and sob for joy at my work desk, so the professional in me took over right quick. 

But suffice it to say I am thrilled that Nick Montana will take his late-blooming frame to the University of Washington campus in 2010. Even more so, I am acutely aware of how proud I am and will be of my son, now matter what he ends up being good at (please, please, puh-leese not opera, though.). 

I haven't always thought this would be the case. As I progressed through high school and college, I half-gleefully accepted the notion that I would be one of those ultra-pushy sports dads, force-feeding my son defensive slide drills and ladder sprinting drills — all in the name of a college scholarship. After all, my boy would be joining my life, not the other way around, so he would need to take on my hobbies and goals as his own? It worked for Todd Marinovich's dad, right?

Uh, bad example.

OK, buy I could pattern myself after the Williams' sisters' father, couldn't I? Let's see ... I'll take "self-serving childhood-ruiner" for $500, Alex.

Now that I'm a papa, I look at my 10-month-old son as he pulls himself up to the entertainment unit with the off-limits DVDs for the upteenth time, and I'm just so freakin' thankful that he's healthy and apparently happy (Who really knows, though, right? He could be harboring some seriously scary deep-seeded anger, and I'd have no clue.).

It would be absolute gravy if this little dude were to morph into an athletically gifted, hard-working point guard or 400-meter runner in about 15 years.

The meat and potatoes is simply getting to watch him learn and interact day after day. 

FD wish list: seven games and doody-free evenings

Considering the tight budget at the FK(T)B household this year, I don't want much for my first Father's Day.

Besides, expensive stuff is wasted on a simpleton such as me. I order a plain cheeseburger 90 percent of the time, no matter how fancy the restaurant; I wouldn't know a fine wine from a low-end wine cooler; and impressive suits make me a nervous wreck (I'm the guy who moves like a robot when wearing sweet togs.).

Here are a few affordable things I really want:

• A seven-game NBA Finals series. I'm not ready for the high-drama 2009 playoffs to end.
  
• More moments of shared laughter with my son. When I get my 10-month-old boy cackling with my variety of juvenile-yet-effective maneuvers, I forget about everything that ails me — for example, the NBA referees.
  
• Pau Gasol's nasty hair on a platter. No, I wouldn't donate it to "Locks of Love." I would bring it to local junior high schools as a personal hygiene motivator — much like all those photos of the gross lungs that people develop from smoking. Believe me, between fits of greasy-tendril-induced vomiting, the children would get the idea.
  
• Coupons for poopless evenings. Hey, moms always get "free massage" IOUs from their cheapskate kids, so I don't think this request is out of line. Now that my son is downing copious amounts of formula and other foodstuffs, the value of doody-free has expanded like Charles Barkely's [insert your word here — anything from waistline to blood-alcohol content to rap sheet].
  
• To see the first pick in the MLB Draft actually become a Hall of Famer. Is there a more inexact science than predicting big-league baseball performance? For once I'd like to see a super-hyped No. 1 pick actually fulfill his expectations. Is that too much to ask? B.J. Surhoff and Phil Nevin evidently think so.
  
• 6-foot tall EVERYTHING. Coffee table. End tables. Couches. Stools. Desks. Entertainment unit. I mean the works. I'm so sick of moving stuff out of my paper-eating son's reach. If it were up to me, we would move to a land of giants, buy a slew of well-made ladders and call it good.
  

If none of these ideas are doable, I'll settle for a ghastly tie covered in pastel-colored basketballs.