Riding the L

I spent much of my time at Loyola trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life. There is no way someone can figure anything out at college in between the sleeping and the drinking and the sex and the sleeping and the drinking and the sex and the occasional studying.

When I started school, my intention was to be a “pre-law” student. I had no idea what that meant, specifically. There wasn’t much planning for me when it came to higher education. I was the first one in my family to go to college, so I was sent out into the “real world” without a map, without directions. I had applied to a few other colleges—Purdue University, Northern Illinois University, the University of Arizona—all of which sent me the big fat acceptance letter.
I ultimately chose Loyola because it was located two blocks from my grandmother’s apartment in Roger’s Park on the North side of Chicago. I thought it would be cool to be living so close to her. I figured when I got sick of the dining hall food, I could simply walk two blocks to my grandmother’s apartment and get a home cooked meal. My grandmother was a fantastic cook. Her meals were never a surprise and always came in courses: Chopped liver, chopped turnips or chopped avocado; Matzo Ball soup with big chunks of carrots and celery; gefilte fish; latkes; challah bread with honey and soft butter; kasha and varnishkes; sweet and sour chicken and beef brisket; canned corn; homemade pickles and pickled peppers. She would cook elaborate meals like this whether she was preparing a meal for one person or twenty. The time I spent alone with her was an added bonus to my college experience. My grandmother taught me how to play poker, she taught me how to say cut and go to sleep in Yiddish and she taught me how important laughter was in life. We always laughed together.

Picking Loyola also meant I was somewhat familiar with the area, at least from a Point A to Point B perspective. Roger’s Park was recognizable to me because I had been visiting my grandmother there all of my life. I knew how to get from my parent’s house to my grandmother’s subsidized high-rise apartment. I knew the storefronts on Devon Avenue; Brown’s Chicken, The Bagel Restaurant, the Cover Girl clothing store (my other grandmother worked there as a bra fitter), and Weinstein Brothers Memorial Chapel. I also knew the Thillens Stadium field which was about ten minutes west of campus. I knew the field, not from actually playing baseball there, but from driving by it countless times over the years. The Stadium was marked by an impressive landmark—a giant baseball. As a child, I was convinced that people lived in the big baseball. I’m not sure how that thought was born, but I remember being devastated when I learned that it was simply a sign.

I had a great deal of familiarity with the particular part of the city where Loyola was located. I wasn’t, however, versed on public transportation. Growing up in the suburbs, public transportation was defined as riding your bike on the street or asking your parents for a ride to the mall. I needed to learn how to ride the “L”—Chicago’s subway system—which at the time consisted of A and B trains that were designated by colored lines. The Loyola stop was on the Red Line and was an AB train, which meant both A and B trains stopped there. The Red Line could take you from as far north as Evanston, an affluent suburb where Northwestern University is located to as far south as 95th Street, a lower income section of the city. Whenever we had to get around the city, my friends and I never took the bus. We preferred taking the L because it was fast and it was fun. You were sure to see a half-naked, completely drunk, homeless man sleeping on the train. You were sure to see the man who was tragically burned in an apartment fire, walking up and down the cars asking for handouts. Legend had it that he made over $100,000 a year begging for change. Riding the L, you were sure to sit on someone’s bodily fluid, sure to smell someone’s sour odor, and if the timing was right, sure to be solicited by some street hustler looking to cheat an unsuspecting passenger. These were things and people you’d never see in the suburbs.

It was all so disgusting and exciting all at once.

Mark Coon...Country Companies

Several months before I graduated from Loyola, I began contemplating what I was going to do with the rest of my life. One thought was to become a full-time volunteer with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. Another thought was to get a job. The only problem with option two was I didn't really have any marketable skills. My time at Loyola was spent trying to figure things out. I changed my major at least a half dozen times, and I was about to graduate with a degree in creative writing. It's not like you can become a published writer overnight. I went to career days, filled out applications, took tests, and weighed my options. I was leaning toward going the volunteer route, but I had to have a back-up plan.

During the time I was waiting for my JVC application to be evaluated, I was contacted by Country Companies insurance agency. They told me that I scored one of the highest results scores they had ever seen and asked me to schedule a personal interview with one of their agents.

When I called my father to tell him about the pending interview, he was excited. “That’s a great opportunity!” he said. He whistled with excitement. “You can be set for life if this goes well. You’d be your own boss and everything?” he asked.

“That’s what they said,” I told him. “It could take a couple years but, yeah, they said I’d own an office.”

“You can’t mess this up,” he insisted. “I mean, come on, being your own boss AND making money. Looks like that expensive education is going to pay off.” My father laughed. “We’ve gotta get you a suit,” he said. “You can’t go to this thing without a suit. Or maybe you can wear one of mine.”

I refused to wear one of his suits. He was always insisting that I wear one of his suits. Growing up, when we went to formal family gatherings, I had to wear his clothes. Whenever we flew standby on American Airlines, he made me wear one of his suits.

I agreed to meet my father—at JC Penney—to buy me my own suit. I went with a navy blue pin-stripped three-piece suit with a white collared light blue pin-stripped shirt. I also bought a pair of maroon loafers, a maroon belt and a blue patterned tie. Whether or not I had the passion to be an insurance salesman, I was sure I looked the part.

My father was pleased. So pleased, in fact, he bought me the suit. “Go get ‘em,” he told me. He truly wanted me to succeed, and he was proud of my effort.

I went to my appointment to the Country Companies office in Vernon Hills, Illinois. The office was owned by a guy by the name of Mark Coon. For as long as I live, I will never forget Mark Coon.

When I arrived at his office, even though I was standing in a Country Companies office, meeting with the man who invited me, when I shook his hand, he said, “Mark Coon…Country Companies.” It struck me as being an odd thing to say to someone, but I remembered that it was exactly what he said to me when he called to schedule the appointment: “Mark Coon…Country Companies.”

Mark Coon…Country Companies became a joke amongst me and my friend, Andy Palombo. We would repeat his name over and over and make ourselves laugh. We’d use deep, over exaggerated voices. Mark Coon…Country Companies, we felt, was appropriate to use at any situation.

Question: “Do you want to go to lunch?”
Answer: “Mark Coon…Country Companies.”
Question: “What do you want to watch on TV?”
Answer: “Mark Coon…Country Companies.”

We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at the expense of a man who was prepared to help me start a career in the insurance industry.

He's still around too: http://www.countryfinancial.com/mark.coon/rep/myBioAndTeam

Hebrew School

I never attended Hebrew School, but my oldest brother, Darrell, did. At an early age, Darrell connected with Judaism because it, he has told me, brought him a sense of peace. He enjoyed hearing the stories his teacher would tell and was making friends with children in his class. He loved to go to attend classes at the school and it was the first time I remember being both envious and jealous of my brother.

We went with Darrell whenever he had class and had to wait in the lobby. The school was in its infancy at the time, associated with a new synagogue, so classes were held at a store in a strip mall. I was always very curious about what went on, but was never able to sit with him during a session.

One afternoon when I was four years old, I got my wish. I had to use the bathroom and my mother let me go by myself. She was reading an article in a magazine and the bathroom was just down the hall. After I finished, I could not get my pants snapped. No one was there to help me, so I opened the bathroom door with one hand and held my pants up with the other. I walked out to the lobby so my mother could straighten me out, but she was not there when I returned. I panicked. The only other room I knew in the school was the classroom where my brother went each week. I quickly ran toward his door, hands in the air, pants at my ankles, opened it and shouted, “I need my mommy…I need my mommy…my pants are down…my pants are down…”
This was my first—and only—experience with Hebrew School. The dues the synagogue suggested families pay were being increased. My father complained that he did not have to pay to pray and that he could teach his children what it meant to be Jewish. My brother was devastated and I was sad because I would never be able to see what it was really all about.

Dialing it in

Today, I received an opinion. Since I have been in creative writing programs for the better part of 20 years, criticism is not only acceptable, it is welcomed. Writers have to have thick skin, otherwise, there is little chance for improvement. When I teach workshops, I explain to my students that feedback is an essential part of the writing process. I encourage them not to take the criticism personally, and to look at it as a positive step toward becoming a better writer. I practice what I preach, and believe in the process.

Jason Cooper, whom I've written about in the past, offered the following bit of information to me: "The last two weeks," he said, "I feel like you've been dialing your blog in...I realize," he continued, "that you are what, 300 or so days into this?" This is post 299 to be exact. "So you may be getting a little burned out. But, I'm just not feeling them, man. And I'm a fan, don't get me wrong."

I'm glad Jason said something. I welcome his opinion. He's a good guy, and I appreciate his honesty. And he's right. To a certain extent. While I'm not really getting burned out, I am finding it more and more difficult to keep digging into my life. Maybe I'm just not that interesting of a person. Maybe I've taken much of what I find interesting in my life and have shared it. Sometimes the blog comes to me. Sometimes I struggle. Sometimes, like today and the next couple days, I am at a convention and am mentally drained (and ready to drown myself in adult beverages).

So, I ask you, dear readers, am I dialing these in? Is there something about me you'd like me to explore. I'm not going to stop this until day 365, so the feedback I get can be fuel and inspiration. Something you recommend might trigger a memory. I'm ready to stop dialing and start writing. Won't you join me in the process?

Foul smells, filled with LOVE

My brother, Ira, has this disgusting habit. It's something he may have done when we were kids, but I don't remember it. And when I say it's disgusting, I'm not using the term lightly. This thing clears rooms.

When we were kids, our parents encouraged the complete opposite of what my brother does. A loud one here, an SBD one there; every time we tooted, laughter ensued. It was the kind of parental lesson kids love. Dad farts freely, well, then I can too. Who cares what's socially acceptable or not. Worked for the Fosco Family.

When I was in sixth grade, I was picked as captain of the kickball team during recess. It was an unusually warm fall day, so Mr. Kropp offered an impromptu/unscheduled recess. However, everyone had to play. After teams were picked, we had to come up with a suitable name. Some kid yelled, "How about the Fosco Farts!" Everyone laughed, including me. I was actually proud of the suggestion. Much to our surprise, Mr. Kropp approved the team name. Briefly. It wasn't until everyone on the team, including the girls, were making fart noises. With their mouths, with their hands cupped over their mouths, with their hands and armpits, and yes, some even with their fart instruments. We tested Mr. Kropp's patience, and lost. The only thing that came out of it was that it confirmed my reputation as a farter.

My brother has a reputation too. As a burper. Before our father was in the hospital for six weeks, I didn't get the opportunity to spend a lot of time with Ira. Of course, there were the occasional family dinners, but nothing remotely as close as watching a family member die. To help break the tension/sadness (so I thought), Ira would quietly belch, and then blow. After a moment, the area in which we were sitting would begin to sour. Ira would begin to giggle. Like a teenager. Like a schoolgirl. Like a man barely able to contain himself. It brought so much amusement to him that he proceeded to do it, repeatedly. No matter how many times you would beg him to stop. I honestly thought it was just something to keep his spirits up during the trying time we all faced. And maybe that's what happened here, with this last particular incident. At his mother-in-law's Shiva.

In the Jewish religion, after a person dies, the grieving family "sits Shiva." In many cases, Shiva lasts for several days. In this case, it was two. Since Cyndi and the kids did not attend the funeral with me, and did not get to the chance to express their condolences to our extended family, we attended last night's Shiva.

Toward the end of the evening--more specifically, toward the end of our evening--Ira began his shenanigans again. If I thought the smell was bad 2+ years ago, I was wrong. That was brown sugar and cinnamon compared to what was coming out of his body last night. I'm starting to think he's either got something seriously wrong with him medically, or he's swallowing dead animals. As I wrote, he cleared the room; cleared this side of the Fosco's, at least.

While this may not be the most flattering portrayal of my brother, he's really an admirable guy. He's a giving man. And so is his wife. They often put other people's needs before their own. When someone needs help, Ira and Amy never think twice about offering what they can. Including their home. It began with Merle, Amy's mom, nearly ten years ago. When my mom needed shelter, a permanent place was made. When it was discovered that a man from their synagogue, who has been down on his luck for quite some time, was living in a tent, Ira and Amy made room for them. And it's not like they don't have a busy and active life. They've got three kids to boot. Giving.

At Mass this morning, the pastor talked about giving. He talked about not only giving money, but our talents and our time. Behind every "give" there is love. In Ira's case (Amy too), it's more like LOVE.

While Ira may know how to clear a room, it's very apparent that he also knows how to fill one up.

11 Things a 39 a year old does not want to hear

1. "Oh, my God, your hair is really gray!" Heard yesterday at a funeral
2. "You look like you are shrinking!" Heard yesterday at a funeral
3. "Bend over and cough..." Heard earlier this year
4. "What time would you like to schedule your colonoscopy?" Heard earlier this year
5. "You've really aged..." Heard yesterday at a funeral
6. "...and we've given you the senior discount..." Heard by my 45 year old brother, last week at a restaurant...fearful I will hear it too...
7. (at a bar, after the bouncer has carded everyone else) "You're good, go right in..." Heard earlier this year
8. "You don't look so good...do you need to sit down?" Just waiting for someone to say...
9. (About music from the 80's and 90's)"...oh, so you like 'Classic Rock?'" Positive one of my nieces or nephews will spit out within the next 67 days...
10. "What's 'The Brady Bunch'?" (or any popular sitcom from the 70's or 80's) Heard earlier this year
11. "Are you done yet?!?" Enough said...

Turkey, motorcycles, and swimming pools

While they are sad events, funerals are always interesting. In a good way. I've always learned something new about the person who has died. Even when my father passed away, I learned things about him that I never imagined would be true.

One thing that comes to mind are the comments the people who worked with him made. My father always gave us the impression that he did not like his job. In fact, had someone asked me, I would have responded that he despised his job. He worked his ass off, throwing passenger's luggage on and off airplanes at O'Hare Airport for 35 years. He woke up at 3:00am every day, lugged his tired self to a low paying job. He came home exhausted. That was what I knew, and what I saw.

At his funeral, I learned he was somewhat of a prankster. At work. I never saw that side of him, but his co-workers did. And they proudly shared this fact with me at his funeral. It was a passing comment, made by a guy I've not seen since, but it made me smile. And it softened me to my dad.

Today, I learned something new. Not about my father, but about my sister-in-law's mother, Merle. I've known Merle since my brother, Ira, began dating Amy. I was on their first date with them, which began at my apartment in college. Two weeks later, my brother popped the question. This was in 1992. While I was certainly not as close to Merle as my brother, she was like a member of our extended family. She was always so happy to see us whenever we visited. She was always so interested in hearing about our lives. She was sweet to my wife, and soft with my children, and could carve the best damn turkey on Thanksgiving.

Here's what I learned about Merle today:

Merle's son, Sidney, was born with Cerebral Palsy. When Sidney was a boy, Merle formed a Cub Scout pack for kids with CP. To help with the kids disabilities, Merle and her husband, Shelly, built a pool in their backyard. Their home became a meeting place for everyone, including their other children and their friends. One day, when they were driving down the street, Merle and Shelly saw two hard-core motorcyclists driving down the road. Each of them were riding bikes with sidecars. Merle got an idea. She instructed Shelly to follow the two men, pulling in behind them when they veered toward a bar. Much to her husband's dismay, Merle got out of the car, walked into the bar, and returned moments later. With a promise. A promise that these two men would come to their home the following weekend, bringing their friends who also rode motorcycles with sidecars. The men and their friends showed up, and gave a group of boys, born with Cerebral Palsy, a day they all remembered.

While this was something new I learned about Merle, it did not surprise me. Putting others before herself, seeking pleasure and joy for others, and asking little in return, except maybe a promise of friendship and loyalty.

Merle is surely from whom we can all learn. Two things I know for sure: 1) She will be missed; 2) I'll never be able to carve our turkey on Thanksgiving Day the way Merle did.

A Friend of the Devil

During my sophomore year at Loyola, I converted from Judaism to Catholicism. When I made the decision to convert, it wasn’t as if I was this Orthodox Jew that wore a yarmulke on my head, went to the Synagogue on Friday nights and was part of Hillel, the Jewish ministry on campus. I actually tried to join Hillel my freshman year, but never felt a strong connection with the group. Jewish was really nothing more than a label to me. It was a quick response to the question what my religious identification was. I had a Bar Mitzvah, for example, but it was more like a big party my parents threw for me because I turned 13 (they gave a 19 inch color television and a jumbo sized jar of kosher pickles as my Bar Mitzvah gift). I had always placed my idea of religion in the image of my grandfather on my mother’s side—my Zadie. He was a very religious man, but he died when I was seven. When he died, he pretty much took the tenets of the religion with him. My parents tried to keep up with the traditions, but since my father was not very interested in Judaism, we more or less became nothing.

At Loyola, most of the people I knew were Catholic. Many had been attending Catholic schools all their lives. They found a community with one another when they went to church on Sundays. Loyola offered a 10:00 pm Sunday mass, officiated by one of the more popular, beer drinking, racquetball playing, philosophical priests on campus. The 10:00 mass was the best attended and I always felt left out.

“You coming to mass?” someone would inevitably ask on his way out, stopping quickly before I had the chance to answer. “Oh, shit, I forgot. You’re Jewish. Sorry, man.”

Converting to Catholicism was more meaningful than my desire to be part of a community.
Part of Loyola’s core curriculum requirement, was to take three classes in theology. It was the first time in my life I was being forced, offered—whatever the right term is to describe my participation—to study and understand organized religion. The theology requirement did not insist that people study just Catholicism. There were courses offered on all religions. In fact, the first course I took as a freshman was on the Old Testament. It was the first time I ever opened a Bible and the first time I contemplated spirituality.

Attending a Jesuit university did lend itself more opportunity for me to lean in the Catholic direction. I started regularly reading the Bible, speaking with priests and, although I do not consider myself “found,” for the first time in my life, I began formulating a religious belief. What became very clear to me was that religion—in my case, Catholicism—made me feel very good. I felt cleansed, relieved, excited, important, inclusive. It was those feelings I carried with me when I made the decision to convert.

Before, during and after my conversion, I was very involved with the church on campus. I also spent quite a bit of time at the Ministry Center. At church, I was a Eucharistic Minister, which meant I offered the consecrated body and blood of Christ to the members of the church. Loyola priests used actual fresh baked bread in place of the circular hosts that most churches offered. Each time I held a chunk of Jesus in my hands and offered “the body of Christ” to my fellow congregants, I felt honored to share the moment and make a spiritual connection.

I was also a Lector at mass. I would either recite one of the weekly readings, or occasionally several students and I would act out a passage for affect. One time, a priest asked me to perform a scene from one of the readings. I was supposed to be in a paddle boat unsuccessfully fishing. I called out to Jesus “help me Lord, I am yours” and a school of imaginary fish began jumping from my imaginary lake into my imaginary boat. At the very moment I performed the reading, I truly believed that I was in the middle of a lake and oodles of fish were gracing my boat. My belief was in the expression of emotion on my face. I was told this by several people after mass. I made the connection.

Being involved in the church helped me feel connected to my chosen faith. It brought me a comforting feeling that felt cleansing. Each mass I attended, each discussion I had with a priest, each expression of faith confirmed my conversion. I made the right decision.

Even though I was very involved in student ministry, I was hardly a pious person. In fact, I was a hypocrite when it came to a very basic tenet of the Catholic faith—pre-marital sex. It was a side of my personality that was a struggle, mostly during times of introspection, like when I was at mass. I never looked down upon myself when engaged in a sinful act.

Whenever I was out of the element of the church, in the dining hall, at class, at the gym, and especially at the bars, I was a downright libertine. I wanted to hook-up with the women on campus, and I was relatively non-selective and uncaring in the process. I loved scamming for women. Whenever I got lucky—which was often—I was satisfied.

Loyola was a very small school and the ratio of women to men was 6:1. It made the game of chase so much easier. The pool of women was always so plentiful, and the opposite was the reverse for them. It was almost as if the girls had to take what any of us guys were offering.
There just weren’t that many of us to go around. Great odds when you’re a guy.

During the time I was going through my conversion, I started having doubts about my lifestyle. On one hand, I enjoyed the attention and sexual gratification a hook-up brought. But, I knew what I was doing was counterproductive to my faith. I wanted to be a better person not just religiously, but as a whole. It didn’t matter if I actually had sex with the woman or not. I just needed female physical companionship. The more I could have it the more I wanted it. I was not interested in any long-term relationships with any of the girls I met.

My carelessness was even present immediately after I converted. I was tempted by the devil within hours after my soul was cleansed.

The week before I was baptized, had my first communion and was confirmed into the Catholic faith, my mother had set me up with a girl, Sabrina, who worked at her office. Without even trying very hard, Sabrina and I had sex on our first date. I picked her up at work, drove her back to my dorm room, we flirted with each other and then we had sex. It was passionless, it was quick, and it meant nothing to me. After I dropped her off at home, I decided that was the last time I would see her. She was nothing more than sex. I‘m sure we talked, but the only thing that remains in my memory was how easy it was for me to sleep with her.
Sabrina, however, had a different conclusion to how the night went. She got my phone number from my mother and called me a lot over the course of the next few days.

“I really enjoyed last night,” she had said to me. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Are you thinking about me? Do you miss me?”

I didn’t know what to say. “We just saw each other last night,” I said. I wanted to get off the phone.

“Want to get together?” she asked. Sabrina did not own a car, so getting together meant me driving to the suburbs to pick her up.

“I really have a lot of work to do,” I told her, “I have a pretty important weekend coming up and I really can’t find the time.”

“I know about your weekend,” Sabrina said. She had a smile in her voice; she was giddy. “You’re getting baptized this weekend, right. Your mom invited me to come, isn’t that great!”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want her to be there. I only wanted my family and friends to attend the ceremony. I tried giving her excuses why she shouldn’t come.

“You know, Sabrina,” I said, “the church only issued a certain amount of tickets to each person in the ceremony and all of my tickets were spoken for.” I was lying during Holy Week. “Besides,” I continued, “it would be awkward for you to go since you don’t know anyone there.”

“I know you and I know your mom,” Sabrina countered.

“That’s true,” I said, “but I’ll be so busy involved in the ceremony that we wouldn’t even get the chance to see each other.”

When we got off the phone, I immediately called my mother. “Why the hell would you invite her to come on Saturday night?” I asked.

“I thought you liked her,” my mother said. “Don’t you like her?”

“Mom, I hardly know her. We went out one time.”

“She told me you guys hit it off,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted her to come.” My mother sounded wounded. “I can tell her not to come,” she said.

It was too late. Even though it was one of the most important nights of my life, I didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings so I told her not to un-invite her.

Sabrina attended my conversion ceremony and since she didn’t drive, she brought two of her friends with her as well. My mother invited them to come with us to dinner after. It was all very uncomfortable.

After dinner, Sabrina walked back with me to my dorm as her friends went to get the car. She started rubbing my crotch through my pants and asked if we could go have a quickie. I didn’t feel that having sex on the night I was baptized was all that appropriate, so I politely refused the offer. I did agree, however, to her coming back the next night—Easter Sunday—for an “evening of fun.”

Sabrina’s friend dropped her off the next night, as planned. When we got into my room, she immediately took off her clothes, put a condom on my penis and began having her way with me. I was on top; she was on top; we were upside down and sideways. Nothing was happening. I pretended to enjoy myself. I made grunts and groans. After what seemed like an hour, I knew I wasn’t going to finish. I was getting tired and I could tell that Sabrina was too. I waited a few moments, started moving faster and harder and pretended to be getting close to completion.
To finish the charade, I let out a loud moan as if I came. I pulled out, rolled onto the floor, and tried to catch my breath. Sabrina quickly pulled the condom off my penis and held it close to her face. I could not tell if she was looking at it closely to make sure there were no rips in it or if she wanted to confirm what we both knew—that I had faked it.

Sabrina got up from the floor, tossed the condom in the garbage can, put on her clothes and walked out of my room. She never said goodbye, she never called me again and soon after, she quit working at my mother’s office.

After Sabrina left, I sat on my bed and cried. It was the night after my baptism and I was disappointed in myself. I realized that that night was the moment of my life when I was truly and utterly pure. I was cleansed by the waters of Christ and I would never be given a clean slate like that again. It was the moment of my life when I could have decided to make a conscious decision to not be promiscuous. It was the moment in my life for me to be better. I had made a major decision to do something drastic—be something different—pick one religion over another; abide by its tenets. It was the moment in my life when I failed. The devil knew exactly what he was doing that next night. The devil was a friend of mine before I converted. That night, he achieved “best friend” status.

Beautiful adjustment

There are many different types of adjustments. There are attitude adjustments. There are financial adjustments. You can adjust the time. You can have a major adjustment, or a minor adjustment. In my case, today, had my first chiropractic adjustment.

I've always been very skeptical of chiropractors. I've often thought, "are they really doctors?" To me, they kind of fell in line with holistic medicine and, more specifically, podiatrists (just kidding, Frank). Before we met, Cyndi had been going to a chiropractor for several years. She raved about him saying, his efforts help keep her back pain to a minimum. We called him, "Dr. Motorcycle," because, one time, when Cyndi was still attending Northern, he rode up on his Harley to meet her. She insisted he was a nice guy; he meant nothing by the gesture. Nothing in that way, she meant. He simply enjoyed her company, and wanted to take her for a ride in the country.

Dr. Motorcycle died several years ago. He was too young to die; the aggressive form of cancer he had took him very quickly after the diagnosis. As a result, Cyndi stopped getting adjustments. Her back problems came back, and they continued. More specifically, they became chronic. It got to the point that Cyndi could barely move.

"Go see a chiropractor, already," I would say. Even though I didn't believe in them for myself, a little prodding didn't hurt. Even with all of her faith in this type of medicine, the selection process to replace Dr. Motorcycle was hard. She didn't want to choose just anyone. She wanted to go to someone with a reputation. Someone her friends or family recommended. Someone who she knew had treated or was currently treating a person in her inner circle.

Recently (finally?), Cyndi went to visit a new doctor, at the recommendation of her older sister, Jeanette. For the past few weeks, several times a week, Cyndi has been getting adjusted. Her pain is subsiding, but I have a suspicion that this will be a long-term relationship.

Out of curiosity, I scheduled an appointment. I don't have body pain that would be labeled chronic or anything that severe. I was really just more curious than anything, carrying my full load of skepticism with me. During my evaluation, the doctor had me watch a 10 minute video on what to expect. The video informed me that chiropractic medicine revolves around the premise that the central nervous system controls everything (my translation). The video explained how, after undergraduate work, chiropractic physicians spend thousands of hours learning about the body, and have to continue their coursework yearly.

As the doctor and I spoke about my possible issues, she explained how she could assist in the treatment of my IBS. My ears perked up. As she looked at my posture, as she asked me to stand straight, turn right, bend to the left, raise my arms, walk on my toes, she told me that she: 1) knew I was right handed; 2) could tell I sat at a computer a lot; and felt that the lower back area which controls the bowels needed to be adjusted. I began feeling like I was visiting a fortune teller more than a doctor. But a good fortune teller. One who actually knew things.

As the doctor began making her adjustments on me, cracking my neck, areas in my back, working on the bowel (not gross like it may seem), she kept saying, "Ohhh...you are adjusting beautifully." She said this repeatedly, making me feel like I was doing my part in the relationship. Every crack that emitted a nice sound from my body pleased her.

She kept asking if what she was doing was painful in any way. It wasn't. In fact, it felt pretty good. I didn't want to admit it, but I felt...adjusted.

She didn't perform too much on me today. Maybe it ensures another visit, or maybe it's just the right thing to do. Either way, I guess I'm on my way to getting hooked. I must be getting older...and wiser?

Hugs are not always good

One of the advantages of losing 20 pounds is fitting into old clothes. I don't have that old pair of jeans from high school or anything, but I do have clothes that I have bought, with the thought that I could fit into them; that they would look good on me. Not the case with this shirt, as shown. I didn't look good in it. Especially the day I bought it.

When I worked in an office building, the company I worked for shared space with Wilson. Not just "Wilson" the famous volleyball from the Tom Hanks movie, "Cast Away." But the whole company. Twice a year, Wilson (the company) would hold fantastic sales. The kind of events people line up for. The kind of thing people go crazy at; where they eye an item from afar, run to retrieve it, and find themselves in a tussle. They were "cash only" smorgasbords. And I gladly participated in them; shelling out cash without much thought.

"Hey look," I'd think to myself. "Tennis rackets. There's a court down the street from the house. Cyndi and I can take up tennis." I bought two rackets, two bags, and a couple sleeves of balls. I presented them as gifts. Christmas gifts. In 2006. We've used them once.

I had also bought two boxes of yellow neon colored 12" softballs, in 2005, when Frederic was in PeeWee Baseball. We used some of them for batting practice, but they were not like the balls he was getting used to. They were too big, and threw off his ability to catch and hit the smaller ball. They've been used, but mostly by Rex (our faithful friend).

I did make one good purchase. It was a red batting helmet for Frederic, purchased at the same time as the balls. He's used it every season since. This past season may have been the last time he could use it though, given the fact his head (and everything else) is getting bigger.

One good purchase out of many.

So, what about the shirt? I didn't really understand what a "compression shirt" was when I saw it on sale for $5. I liked the way it looked in the sea of black, red, blue, and white shirts. Back then, in 2006, I hovered between 172-177 pounds. I wore XL shirts mostly, but could get away with L on some shirts. I thought the compression shirt was one I could get away with. Not so much.

I put it on when I got home, after I bought it. It wasn't pretty. Compression shirts hug every part of your midsection. Cyndi was thoughtful, telling me I looked good. But I've always known my eyes are much better than hers. She's the one who has been wearing glasses since she was one. She's the one who is blind in one eye. Looked good, only to my sight challenged wife, of course.

The shirt sat in my drawer for the past three years. Looking good to no one or nothing but the other shirts in my drawer. When I came across it last week, I had a decision to make. Try it on and see if the hugs looked any better, or finally admit that I'm not a compression shirt kind of guy.

While I don't think I'm ready to put it on and model it for the world (or at least my 7 Blogger followers, and several other Facebook readers), the Governor has put in a stay of execution.

Check Yes or No

When I was in 4th grade, I professed my attraction to a girl in my class. Maybe it's common, but I did it in the form of a note. Something motivated me to write the following words on a scrap of paper:

"I hink you are fucking great."

A regular Don Juan. Then, of course, I continued with the standard:

"Do you think I'm fucking great too? Check a box below."

One box was a "Yes," and the other a "No."

The girl wasn't very popular. She was picked on a lot by kids in our class. She sometimes wore the same clothes to school several days in a row. Her hair was often oily from not being washed. I'm sure she thought, correctly it turns out, my intentions were less than pure.

I didn't write the note to offend her. I didn't write it to make fun of her. In fact, no one knew I was writing it. I just did it. I think, in retrospect, I just wanted to be nice to her. I could have been nice in another way. I could have asked her to eat lunch with me. I could have asked her to play during recess. I didn't have to falsely profess an emotion to her.

Maybe I shouldn't feel bad about the incident, but I do. I wonder if she feels bad at all, or if she even thinks about it.

The object of my affection checked the box her heart told her to follow. When the piece of paper found its way into my hands, I thought for sure I knew what the reply was going to be. The last laugh was on me.

Brussel Sprouts and Ice Cream

When I was 15, "We Are the World" was one of the more popular songs and charitable events. It was written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie, and it was performed by a supergroup of popular musicians, calling themselves "USA for Africa." My parents liked the effort so much that they pinned a posted of the group in our basement. It was a statement, of sorts, announcing to our guests that we not only supported the efforts, but were fans of the song. I'm not sure if my parents actually gave money to the charity, but I know I made an effort to "give."

During dinner one night, my mother served us Brussel Sprouts. She may not have been aware that you could actually buy fresh Sprouts, steam, and serve them to your family. Frozen, was her vegetable preference when it came to peas, corn, lima beans, etc. I have yet to find a person who likes frozen (albeit, cooked at some point) Brussel Sprouts. If you know someone, they must be genuinely unique.

When I refused to eat what was on my plate, I was told I could not leave the table until everything was gone. I waited it out. I figured the longer I sat, the more likely my parents would buckle. I knew I wasn't going to. No luck. As they cleared their plates, I was left alone with seven Sprouts staring at me. My parents enjoyed a bowl of ice cream for dessert, figuring the sweet tooth in my would cave. Not so easy.

After nearly an hour, my mother said the following: "Just eat them. There are starving people in Africa..."

I'd heard that sentiment before. Most kids probably have. As I sat and contemplated my situation, a thought came to me. I got up from the table, walked down to our basement, grabbed an envelope from my mother's desk, sauntered over to the "We Are the World" poster, and jotted down an address. Back at the dinner table, I put each of the Brussel Sprouts into the envelope; licking it closed with authority.

I handed the envelope to my mother and said, "Can you mail this for me?"

Taking the envelope and looking down at it, my mother smiled. And then she laughed.

Victory, and a bowl of ice cream, was mine.

The fifth food group

I've felt guilty for the last three years. Seven months before my father died, we got into an argument. It was a silly subject, really. One that I've laughed about with friends for years. Of course, today being Halloween, makes me think about this day. Here's why:

My father never let my brothers and I go trick or treating, in the traditional sense. He was afraid that someone would try to taint the candy they gave out. He insisted, instead, to drive us to the local strip mall and hustle us through the shops in search of candy. I remember one Halloween when my father took my to the Jewel grocery store, and told me to wait in line. I was supposed to say "trick or treat" to the cashier. It was the year when my costume was the worst. I basically had a beach ball tied to my head and my face was painted like a clown. It was the only costume left at the Ben Franklin when we went to get me a costume for school the day before Halloween. When I got to the front of the line, I repeated the words to the cashier and she was stunned. She looked over at the cashier at the register to her right, and shrugged her shoulders. She had nothing for me. It was embarrassing.

We did trick or treat once, in the traditional sense. When I was seven. It was the day after my grandfather died, so my parents made an exception. We had gone to my aunt's house because our parents were discussing the plans. Plans for the funeral. Since my cousins were allowed to go out, our parents buckled. But we didn't have costumes. Our saving grace was the fact that being a Hobo was a relatively easy costume to put together at the last minute. We took a cork, held it over the flame of my aunt's stove, and created a char. Each of us rubbed the black cork on our faces, making them look dirty. We each grabbed a stick or a broom, filled a pillow case with towels, and tied them together; our suitcases. I was excited to go out on my first real hunt for candy; even if it was only going to be for a little while. We went to a few of the neighbor's houses, filled our paper bags with candy, and began heading home. Not before we stopped at one of our cousin's elderly neighbor's house. She wasn't giving out candy. She had homemade caramel apples. Being that the treat consisted of the easiest razor blade subject, and the fact that it was "open candy," we had to politely decline. This offended the old lady, and our cousins, who gladly took the treat. Even with the uncomfortable ending, it was nice to partake in the traditional event. But we were not allowed to repeat it.

This was what my father and I argued about. He didn't remember his strict stance on trick or treating. Insisting that my memory was flawed. We went to a movie that day. It was the last movie we saw together. Watching movies together was something we did together. The movie we saw was, "The Departed." During the movie, after countless ads about turning off your cell phone, my father, to my horror, answered his phone when it rang. I was shocked and appalled, so it added to my negative attitude toward him for the day.

When we got home from the movie, I solicited the help of my brother, Ira, to help my dad refresh his memory of Halloween Night's past; which he did. This put my father on the offensive. He looked at me, at his last straw. Told me to go fuck myself (warranted), and left.

It took me a month to make amends. And, in retrospect, I'm glad I did. It was a silly thing to "call" him on. It is something that sticks with me to this day. On this day. The day kids love to dress up and be someone else. The day kids ring doorbells for candy. The day parents give permission for kids to make candy the fifth food group. The day parents remember their childhood, and the times they got to eat as much candy as allowed. A good day. Not a day to argue.

On her terms

I can't imagine being in this position. Having to make a decision that will affect the rest of your life. Even if that decision means it will end your life; it will end this life.

This is what happened yesterday. To my sister-in-law's mother. She's been in a nursing home since June, slowly deteriorating. She's been ill for quite some time; diabetes, obesity, gangrene, bed sores. And she's been on dialysis. Merle hasn't been out of bed for several months. Therapy is not helping. She is in pain, she is unhappy, and she is tired.

This is the decision she has made: to stop dialysis treatments. Very soon, her kidneys will shut down. Very soon, her body will continue to retain fluids. Very soon she will lose consciousness. Very soon, she will die.

As she's losing control of her body, Merle is in control of her life. To the end. We don't all get this luxury. I have a wave of emotions running through me about this news. I'm sad. Sad for her, sad for my sister-in-law, sad for her sisters, sad that my nieces and nephews are going to lose yet another grandparent. I'm scared. Scared for her, scared for my sister-in-law, scared for my brother, even. Merle has been living with them for nine years. As their lives changed when she became a permanent resident, I imagine it will change again.

I'm also scared for me. Scared that I have officially entered this stage of my life. The stage where parents begin to die. I was the first one in my circle of friends to lose a parent. And then two years ago, my friend Javier's mother passed away. The other day, I found out that another friend of mine is facing a possible loss. Brian's dad, who delivered Lily, has cancer. And it doesn't look good.

There are stages in a life that are great. Being born, becoming a teenager, finishing puberty, graduating from high school and college, getting married, becoming a parent. The stage I've entered sucks.

We don't always get to say goodbye to the people in our lives. Maybe Merle's decision, while sad and scary, is a blessing in disguise, to an extent. She gets to say goodbye.

On her terms.

What if...

Last night, Cyndi and I were talking about brothers and sisters with our friend, Masume. Masume is from Japan. She has a younger sister, who is moving from Japan to Michigan in a few months. Masume is very close with her sister. They speak almost every day on the phone. They are going to save a ton of money very soon. Masume's husband, Shinya, has a younger brother. I've not heard much about him.

One of the things we talked about is how similar our family situations are. Masume and her husband each have one younger sibling. Cyndi has two older sisters, and I have two older brothers. And then it dawned on me: I have a sister.

It's not that I forget I have a sister, when asked about my siblings. It's just that she was born and, sadly, passed away before me. Her name was Michelle. More specifically, her name was Michelle Diane Fosco. When I was a kid, my parents told me about her death. For the longest time, I had thought that Michelle died from pneumonia. It was probably easier to explain to a child this way. Years later, I learned the truth. Michelle died from SIDS.

I've never asked my brothers if they remember our sister. We've never opened the wound to expose the feelings underneath the pain. I cannot forget, however, that they have lost a sister. It may affect their lives in ways no one knows, including themselves.

My mother, on the other hand, relives the pain daily. Growing up, I never understood this. It was selfish of me, but it's true. I resented the fact that she grieved my sister. I was alive, I seem to remember feeling, why wasn't I good enough. That's not how I feel now. I'm not certain I consciously thought or felt that, but it seems plausible. I didn't understand the pain that comes with losing a loved one, a child no less, and it just seemed incomprehensible to me.

Until I became a parent myself.

I've often played the "what if" game in my head. What if Michelle didn't die? What would our lives have been like? It may have softened our house. It would have given my mother that female ally amongst men (even the dog was a male) she always craved. It would have better prepared the boys for lives, as adults, with a member of the opposite sex. I could have watched a young girl grow up into a beautiful woman. I could have been the protective younger brother. I could have been the protected younger brother; spoiled by the doting older sister. I could have snuck into her room to read her secret thoughts in her hidden diary. I could have been a shoulder to cry on when her first boyfriend--the love of her life--broke her heart. I could have watched, with envy, the way she entered a room, dressed for the senior prom. I could have been a groomsman in her wedding, and she a bridesmaid in mine. She could have named her first child after me (wishful thinking, of course). She could have held my hand when I was scared.

This is what we talked about yesterday with Masume. How my life may have been different if my sister was never an afterthought for me. And I don't want that to seem mean. It's just that when people ask me about my siblings, I always unconsciously reply, "I have two older brothers." I shouldn't, but I do.

I've lived by the motto that in life, things happen for a reason. I'm not convinced that the reason Michelle was born was to inflict a lifetime of sadness on my mother.

"However," Cyndi pointed out yesterday, "if things were different, you may have never been born." I've never, ever, thought about it like that before. I've inflicted pain and sadness on my mother occasionally throughout my life. Make me stop and think about the whole situation like Cyndi did; I feel trivial.

Quasi near death experience

As far back as I can remember, I have always been afraid of death. I think about the first time I realized that I would die some day, and I am sad for that little boy. I am sad because he had questions left unanswered. Questions that still exist because that boy was not comforted from scary concepts. As an adult, I have forgiven my parents about this; not that they needed my forgiveness on the subject. They probably did not have the words needed to explain death. I know this all too well.

I was about seven years old when I believe I first heard about death and understood the finality of the experience. In my mind’s eye, I see myself like a character in a movie; pacing the floor in our basement in circles in a panic. I knew that someday I would die. I recall doing this over and over again--walking in circles, hoping the walking would scare the fright out of me. The pit of my stomach felt empty and raw, my heart raced and my mind fixated on darkness. I could not understand why people didn't just live forever. I could not understand why people had to die.
When I was in college, I used to go out drinking quite a bit. Drinking, back then, consisted of buying a case of cheap beer. Or when money was available, buying two fifths of Jack Daniels, and passing them around the group as we listened to a Sam Kinison CD. The beer/JD appetizer was the key to our college drinking experience. It provided the necessary buzz level needed so the overall cost of the evening was kept low.

In college, I had a pretty high tolerance for alcohol. I only blacked out one time in four years; the contemplation of that consequence kept to a minimum. The night I blacked out, the last thing I remembered was walking home with a Resident Assistant from the all girls dorm and taking her back to my room. I woke up alone, in my boxer shorts and t-shirt, wondering how I got there. I was also left wondering what may have happened to the girl. I was in a casual relationship with another Assistant from the same dorm. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done something wrong.

It was the first time I remember being afraid of drinking. Not because of my possible infidelities, but because of the blackness. It was the first time I came to the realization that a drunken blackout may have been the closest reality of death—a somewhat quasi near death experience.
Years later, after about a half dozen black outs from drinking, I've often limited myself to beer and wine. As I get older and realize that each passing day means one step closer to death, I get scared of the reality of a drunken black out. One minute you are consciously aware of your thoughts and actions and the next: DARKNESS. Some people may be comforted by this fact. You know nothing of life before you are born, and may know nothing of life when you are dead. There is no comfort, for me, in a concept so ridiculous as this.

How You Met and Fell in Love

Today, over breakfast, I got to thinking about how people met and fell in love. I was having breakfast at a Hilton Garden Inn in Indianapolis. I was with two of my co-workers, BJ and Nicole. Nicole and her husband, Nick, both work with us at Resource Systems. They met at work. Just like Cyndi and I did.

Nicole and Nick were married last year, and Nicole moved to Zanesville, Ohio after the wedding. She is from Washington State. A far cry from Zanesville. I didn't know the story behind their "getting together," so I asked. Nicole told me that when she interviewed for the job, Nick pretty much knew he was interested.

Our company conducts group interviews, so when Nicole had hers, Nick was included. After the interview, everyone in the room liked her. They wanted her for the job. They also wanted her for Nick. During the training process, Nicole lived in an apartment in Zanesville for three months. She didn't know anyone in town, so Nick would invite her to go out. Before long, they were dating. Shortly thereafter, they were engaged. Then married. They seem perfect for each other, and very happy.

Sometimes it's that simple. Meeting and falling in love. It's kind of like our story; mine and Cyndi's. We met at work. On my first day, I was getting a tour of the nursing facility, and I spotted her behind the nurse's station. I actually thought she was a high school intern, and mentioned this to my tour guide, Lynn Tiffany. Appalled by my accusation, Lynn corrected me by informing me that, "she's a college graduate, and works in our food service department."

A few days after meeting Cyndi, I learned she was not only dating someone, but living with him. I guess you'd call Mike, her former boyfriend, her high school sweetheart. Not to diminish any of their relationship (Cyndi can do that herself), but Mike wasn't the nicest guy in the world. Cyndi kind of made that clear to me right off. We began talking with one another on a very casual basis, but kept our relationship strictly as friends. I knew she wasn't very happy with Mike, but didn't want to be "the reason" they broke up--if she was interested me in that way, anyway.

We had talked about the idea of going out for drinks--again, as friends--after work. When I came back from a week-long business trip, Cyndi asked me again to go out after work. I agreed. We went to TGI Friday's. I ordered a Killian's Red, she ordered a White Zinfandel, and in a matter of seconds after the drinks arrived, Cyndi announced, "I broke up with Mike." She proceeded to down the entire glass of wine.

Four hours later--and only one cup of coffee later (I was dirt broke and didn't bring any cash!)--we learned that we grew up down the street from one another, and attended the same schools. I knew that night this was the person I was supposed to be with the rest of my life.

When Cyndi and I got married, we asked our videographer to go around and ask people--"When Harry Met Sally Style"--how they met and feel in love. We asked them to splice these responses throughout our video. I would say, they are the highlight of our viewing pleasure every year.

Here are most of the selections, verbatim:



Greg Grudzien (Cyndi's father): "I met my wife in Denmark, I was being Godfather to an American Indian boy, in Denmark, and Ina was the Godmother. Well...here we are...that's about it."
Ina Grudzien (Cyndi's mother): "I moved to the United States after that."



Frederic Grudzien (Cyndi's grandfather) - deceased; Emily Grudzien (Cyndi's grandmother, looking on, lovingly): "We met at a poporavini party...which means, the party was after the wedding. Of course, this was done by the father-in-law. Then, the father says, 'I think I'm gonna run a party...poporavini over a poporavini'...so at that time, I saw this girl coming through the door, and it struck me, like a lightning. I says to myself, 'I've gotta meet this person'. And sure enough, I met this person, at this poporavini, and ever since that time, we had a happy life together. That is, 59 years...thank God."



Albino Fosco (my grandfather) - deceased: "59 years ago, we met on a blind date. And I wouldn't go out with her unless I seen her first. After I seen her, it lasted 59 years...very glad to meet her."
Leona Fosco (my grandmother): "It'll be 60 years, February 1...we've been married 60 years...and it lasted!"



Rochelle Fosco (my mother) - to my father, Michael Fosco (deceased): "I know the story!"
Michael Fosco: "Go ahead!"
Rochelle Fosco: "His best friend, and a friend of mine, were dating, and they fixed the two of us up...and we were together, for 22 years--day in and day out...so...that's how we met, and we had them...so...that was simple and sweet."
Michael Fosco: "That's all folks!"
Rochelle Fosco: "That's it!"



Greg Constantino (my uncle): "Hi, Cory...Hi, Cyndi...Denise and I, uh, as you know, we just met, and, uh, we're still falling in love...so, uh, as we have a little bit of result of that love..." (referring to my then, 18 month old cousin, Anthony)..."But, uh, I turn it to you..."
Denise Fosco-Constantino (my aunt): "And I'm sure it's going to last as long as yours is...only don't wait as long as I waited to have children...because we are counting on you to do that for the family!"

Greg Constantino: "Hope to see you in Tucson!"
NOTE: Aunt Denise and Uncle Greg were married the day after our wedding...

Etta Kotowsky (my aunt): "I had a matchmaker named, Mrs. Korastov, and she fixed us up, and we'll be married, October 31st--Halloween--31 years."

Irving Kotowsky (my uncle): "Enough said!"

Roger Baum (friend of my mother): "Hi, kids, this is wisdom speaking...Mary Lou and I met, through, uh, an aunt of hers, who reminds us a lot of Rochelle, and she's uh, a lot of fun...and she put us together...and it stuck...almost 30 years, huh?"
Mary Lou Baum - (friend of my mother) deceased: "Like 32 years!"


Dorris Gold (my great aunt), with Sam Gold (my great uncle) looking on -both deceased "We met over 30 years ago...we were both single parents--with children--someone gave him my telephone number...we met...two weeks later, he proposed, and we got married. And we've been married 33 years...second time around.


Bill Miles (Cyndi's uncle): "What do you want? Uh, yeah, we met, uh, we met at work...and I chased her all over the place.
Tina Miles (Cyndi's aunt): "We both worked at Nuclear Chicago together--"
Bill Miles: "1932..." Laughter from both.
Tina Miles: "Bill used to work in the counter shop, and I worked at the office. And I used to deliver the checks and collect the time cards. And Bill saw me--"
Bill Miles: "I used to ambush her!" Laughter from both.
Tina Miles: "Bill saw me at the time clock one day with a Black Angora sweater on and he said, "why don't you shave that thing?" Ha, ha!"
Bill Miles: "It was my best line!"
Tina Miles: "And I thought he was really rude! And we started dating after that...and we fell in love and got married."
Bill Miles: "That's amazing, isn't it?"
Tina Miles: "And we just want to wish you a very happy, and wonderful marriage."
Bill Miles: "At least as happy as our first 35 have been."


Carol Hollub (friend of Tina and Bill Miles): "Well, John and I were high school sweethearts...and I think I had a crush on him...I spotted him because he was tall, dark, and handsome, and, uh, lived on the wrong side of the railroad tracks...so just a little risky. And, um, so, in order to meet him though, I dated his friend first--"
John Hollub: "A real scumbag!"
Carol Hollub: "Yeah, scumbag...right! Anyway, we dated and we ended up falling in love...and, uh, after five years he finally asked me to marry him--"
John Hollub: "Had to be sure!
Carol Hollub: "It's 35 years almost now. And, uh, we wish the very best for, Cynthia and..." Looks over at a napkin and/or a matchbook on the table--I had never met her before-- "Cory!"

Devil on my shoulder

Once again, on a long car ride, listening to "This American Life" I was inspired by the topic. Long drives give you the opportunity to reflect on your life. Long drives give me the opportunity to catch up on podcasts too. And come up with blog entries. This week's stories on TAL are about "people who are trying to convince you that the Devil is there, whispering in your ear...and stories of people who try to deny he's there, against some very heavy evidence." Hearing the prologue made me recall the day that I elbowed my brother, Ira, in the stomach, for no apparent reason.


I was probably four or five years old. It was cold outside, and we were on our way somewhere. We had on heavy coats. My dad was rushing us; we must have been late, or he was just simply trying to get us moving. Without thought, I walked next to Ira. I bent my right arm, raised it high into the air, and hit him, square in the middle of his stomach, with all of my might. When asked why I did it, I had no reason. Something just told me to do it. I wasn't mad at him. I didn't dislike him at the moment for anything he had done to me that day. A voice just told me to do it. So I did.


That got me thinking about things I could recall that I've done in my life that would be considered bad. Not necessarily things that could be driven or motivated by the Devil. Just bad. I thought I would round it all out. Make it "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly." I've written about some of these things in the past. Not all of them. And I am sure there are more.


The Good:

• I spent nearly a year as a full-time volunteer at the Mesa Senior Center


• During an Internship in college, I taught English as a Second Language to a woman from China


• I volunteered at the Special Olympics Bowling Tournament when I was in college


• I am a lector/commentator at our church


• I was a peer minister my senior year of college


• I teach creative writing at Harper College (NEW CLASS will begin in March 2010)


• I used to help deliver meals on wheels to home bound seniors in our community (the family still does)


• We adopted our dog, Rex, from a shelter (I've vowed to stop calling him "the dog"; as in, "someone feed the dog...")


• We adopted our past dog, Friday, from a shelter


• I am a member of our Parish Pastoral Council


• I've never cheated on my wife

The Bad:

• I used to steal quarters from a currency exchange when I was a kid


• I did anabolic steroids for two years when I was a teenager


• I've stolen money from my parents when I was a kid


• I used to give out (read: STEAL) free clothes and take some for myself when I worked at Gold's Gym when I was a teenager


• I've lied to people I love during various times throughout my life


• I've cheated on ex-girlfriends before I met Cyndi


• I elbowed my brother, Ira, in his stomach, for no reason, when I was a kid


• I stole candy from a convenience store when I was a kid


• I stole cigarettes from a convenience store when I was a teenager


• I've taken the Lord's name in vain


• We gave up our two dogs for adoption several years ago

The Ugly:

• When I lived in Arizona, I was involved in a car accident. I was drunk, and I drove away after it happened. As retold, here: http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/05/night-i-touched-charles-barkleys.html

To my oldest nephew, Kyle, who gave me something to blog about at 8am on a Sunday

My nephew, Kyle, is a junior in high school. He's a great kid. He was the first grandchild/nephew in our family (there's seven total now). I was living in Arizona when he was born. In fact, it was on my visit home to "meet" Kyle, that I decided to move back home. So, it's his fault that I'm back in Illinois.

Kyle is a smart kid. He's in a bunch of AP classes, and has always taken his education seriously. He's getting to that point where he has to think about college. He's at that point really. And I've offered to help. I'm not an expert in the college admission process. I didn't think much about my college selection process. I was the first one in my family to go to a four year college (my mom, by the time I was getting ready to go to college, had two associates degrees), and I was one of over 700 kids in my school. Guidance was not something I received, or really sought out. I applied to a bunch of schools because they sounded like cool places to go. In the end, I was accepted to all of the schools I applied to, but picked Loyola because it was close to my grandmother.

I don't regret my college experience at all. In fact, just the opposite. Things happen for a reason, and a lot more positive came out of my college education than negative.

I have offered to help Kyle with his college selection process. This morning, I started to write a list of things for him to consider. If you are reading this and have other sound (or not so sound) advice, feel free to weigh in:



· What do you want to study? This is a different question from “What do you want to be when you grow up.” I started at Loyola with the premise that I would be “pre-law” and go to law school after I graduated. There’s really no such thing as “pre-law.” College, itself, prepares you for your next possible step in life, which can be joining the Peace Corps, going to graduate school, getting a job, traveling Europe, etc. I changed my major no less than five times when I was at Loyola (pre-law, psychology, communication, social work, and English). Think about what interests you. If you want to teach, consider a school with an Education program (most will have one). But, if you want to teach, it does not mean you cannot “double-major” in business, or writing, or art. Having options and a well rounded education is the key;

· Does the size of the school matter to you? Meaning, do you want to go to a small school, or a large University. When I went to Loyola, they didn’t (and still don’t) have a football team. Not that I wanted to play football, but going to a school with a team, be it a Big 10 or otherwise, probably would have been cool. Campus life is important. What you do outside of the classroom is just as important as your education;
· Do you want to go to an in-state school or are you interested in going to school in another state? Going to a Illinois State University (ISU) or University of Illinois can be just as exciting of an experience as going to a completely different state. When I lived in Arizona, I lived near Arizona State University. I hung out with the kids from the school and I even took a class there. I have lived in three states in my life (Illinois, Arizona, and Pennsylvania), and I do think I appreciate the opportunity to live elsewhere, but I have also made it a decision (along with Aunt Cyndi) to live and raise our kids in Illinois;

· Sports, interests, etc.: Do you think you are going to want to play sports during college? Playing sports can mean a lot of things. It can mean continuing the experience you’ve had in baseball since little league, and trying to get on one of the school teams. It could also mean intramural sports (forming a team amongst your friends, and playing organized sports amongst the school internally). What are your other interests? Do you want to write for the school paper? Do you want to join theater? Do you want to run for the Student Body? College will be a time for you to try things you may have been interested in in high school, but just didn’t have the time to do. College offers a wealth of free time. You are going to be making your schedule. You may not have a class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You may start classes at 9:30 and go until noon, but then have nothing else on the schedule until 3pm or later. You are going to have to fill those gaps with studying and activities. Try everything. I volunteered. I had jobs. I wrote for the school paper. I acted in a couple of plays. I was in ROTC. I was a Resident Assistant. I was a member of the Housing Orientation Team (I got to move into the dorms early and help people move-in). I ran for Dorm President and was a member of the Senate. I played intramural sports (not that well, but I played). I dated.

· Foreign Exchange Program: Loyola has a campus in Rome, Italy. Students can go overseas for a semester (and in some cases, a year), live and study there. I never did this. I wish I had. A few of my friends did. Take advantage of opportunities like this. My friend, Kevin, lived in Germany for a year. While he studied, he also traveled all throughout Europe. My friend, Javier, lived in Spain. Same with him. Sukhwant, did the Rome Center. I think their experience in Europe offered an additional level for them that I didn’t get. European travel is a blast. I have been fortunate to experience it as a teen and an adult. I didn’t really get it when I was 14 and 17, visiting your dad in England. I didn’t appreciate it. I’ve since been to Ireland, Denmark, and Italy, and would go back to any of these places and others, in a heartbeat. Ask your dad how he liked living in England for 4 ½ years. I’m sure he has a wealth of fond memories. By the time you get to be our ages, you have to find the time to travel. Doing it as part of your college experience is something to consider.

· Fun: College can be a great experience. It was for me. I met some of the greatest people in my life. I maintain most of my adult relationships with people I met 20 years ago in college. I am a better person because of the things I did/learned at Loyola. I didn’t know a single person the day I moved in. I was scared shitless. The first time I walked into the dining room to eat dinner, I almost broke down in tears. Seriously. I looked around at these huge tables of people eating with each other, and I walked to an empty table. I ate my pasta as quickly as I possibly could; swallowed down with a lump in my throat. I wanted to run and hide. I wanted to quit. My first roommate was this kid from Viet Nam, Richard, who barely spoke English, and who had nightmares about his homeland every evening. I didn’t let the first day get me down…too much. I lived in a dorm with 300+ guys. There were 30+ on my wing. Those strangers became my friends. I leaned on them and they on me. I realized we were all in the same boat. Guys began asking me if I wanted to go to meals with them. After the first night, I rarely ate alone. That’s when I realized that college was just as much about having fun as it was about learning. You may want to pick a college because a friend of yours is going to a particular school. It’s not a bad idea to follow your friends, but don’t make it the REASON you pick a school. You will meet other people and will make lifelong friends at college.

Are you ready? Pack your bags. Pack your parent's bags. It's time for that College Road Trip!

How would you want to be remembered?

This was written on my coffee sleeve, which was wrapped around my large Amy's Blend decaf from Caribou Coffee, this morning. During the "school year," Cyndi and I get a regular Saturday morning visit to the coffee shop, after we drop the kids off at Religious Ed. We've been doing this for almost two years now. I'm not sure I ever pay attention to any of the writing on my coffee; cup, sleeve, or otherwise. But this one caught my eye. If not for the chain's "Susan G. Koman for the Cure" campaign, the pink sleeve may have gone unnoticed. Here's the rest:

Amy Erickson was way more than a roastmaster. She was one of us. She was intense and uncompromising when it came to coffee. She helped create our coffee standards and relentlessly pursued the perfect cup. Her passion for coffee was only exceeded by her passion for life--a life she lost to breast cancer. So each year we create this amazing coffee to remember Amy and to her fund a cure. We think she'd approve.

I didn't know Amy Erickson. I do know a couple of women who have battled breast cancer: my mom's close friend, Jackie; Cyndi's cousin, Holly; and a teacher/friend of mine from grad school, Sandi. I don't know if "battle" is the right term or not. I'm not using it to offend anyone. All three of them are survivors. Is that the right term too? Maybe it is.

As I understand it, Caribou Coffee donates 10% of the profits on all sales of Amy's Blend to the Susan G. Koman Foundation. They not only have coffee, but one quick look at their website, and I see they offer the "Amy's Collection"; teas, mugs, t-shirts. There's also a short clip of Amy's mother who thanks the team at Caribou for all they have done in her daughter's name over the past 10 years since she died. Amy must have been a nice woman, an inspiring person, for a company to do this. It doesn't feel like they are doing it for publicity purposes either, which I am sure her family appreciates.

The magnitude makes me stop and wonder what inspiration I may offer to the people around me to launch a similar campaign. Not to minimize or take away from the spirit of the Amy's Blend campaign. Not to make this about me. It did what it was supposed to do, I expect. Make me stop and contemplate. Make me think about what I bring to the table. Make me feel a bit of inspiration from a person I never met. Make me be better.

All this, from a pink sleeve, wrapped around a cup of coffee, shared with my wife, on a quiet Saturday morning.

It's long overdue

When I was a kid, I used to love it when my grandmother spent the weekend with us. She didn't live far; Rogers Park, on the far North Side of Chicago. She lived alone since 1977, when my grandfather passed away, unexpectedly after cataract surgery. She lived on the corner of Devon Avenue and Sheridan Road, three blocks south of Loyola University, my Alma mater. My grandmother didn't have much in terms of things. She lived each month on Social Security and SSI, and lived in a high rise, Chicago Housing Authority apartment. Things were so meager for her that I remember her getting a block of cheese from the Mayor's office; something reserved for people who really needed it.

While she didn't possess much, my grandmother was filled with love. She had love for her children--my mother and aunt, Etta. She had love for her grandchildren, and her son-in-laws. She loved to laugh. She loved to cook, especially traditional Jewish meals filled with gefilte fish, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, turnips, kishke, and latkes. She also loved to bake chocolate chip cookies, and cheesecake squares, angel food cake, banana cake, and chocolate cake. She loved to play games; her favorites were Rumicub, poker, or any card game, really.

I think its a gift, being a grandparent. You get to be the good cop, all the time. You get to spoil your grandchildren, and care less about the consequences. You leave that for the parents. You get to shower your grandchildren with love, take them to special places, create lasting memories like the ones I'm recollecting.

My mother used to live two miles down the road from us. Circumstances have changed, and she now lives with my brother, Ira, and his family, about 30 minutes away. It's not much further than Rogers Park was for my grandmother. We used to see my mother several times a week. The kids had her in their lives; she was a permanent fixture. They miss seeing her as much. The occasional babysitting night just doesn't seem to be enough. So we've found a simple remedy: we've invited her over for the weekend. A good old fashioned sleepover. She'll watch Frederic play in his soccer tournament, she'll go trick or treating with us, she may even come to mass on All Saint's Day (good old Jewish woman she is). And she'll sit in a hotel hallway with me for several hours, while Frederic competes in a chess tournament. "We can talk," she said, when I suggested it wasn't necessary.

We're going to build up some memories next weekend. It's long overdue.

My first road trip

My parents took us to Disneyland when I was three years old, or so. I don't remember going there, but I am sure I had a good time. Who wouldn't? It's one of the happiest places on earth. We never got the opportunity to go back to the park, California or Florida.
Shortly after I graduated from high school, I took a road trip with my brother, Ira, and a good friend of ours at the time, Dave. I was the youngest in the group at 18. Ira was 21, and Dave was 24. We didn't pre-plan much; just packed a couple of bags, grabbed a map, and piled into Ira's black Ford Escort. Since we were all of legal driving age, we concluded that we would drive non-stop until we got there. Taking breaks for fuel, food, and health purposes only.

We knew we were going to hit a few of the parks when we got there: Disney, Epcot, and Busch Gardens were all on the list. We also knew we were going to stop by and see our cousin, Greg, who had moved to Florida the year before, after our aunt Miriam and uncle Shelly (his mom and dad) got divorced. Uncle Shelly had passed away shortly before our trip. He was killed by a drunk driver. We were all still grieving, and the trip was a way to help bring us together.

Here are some of the things I learned while taking my first road trip:

• When you are speeding on the highway, and you either see a police officer or your "fuzz buster" goes off, you should NOT press on the breaks. It's a sign to the cop that you were speeding;


• When you get a bucket of chicken from Kentucky Fried Chicken (before they called themselves KFC), and you do not finish the entire bucket, it's okay to eat the leftovers the next morning. Even if you did not refrigerate the said contents of the bucket. Even if your advice is received by deaf ears;


• When you go to Clearwater Florida to a strip club, they will not let you in the doors before 1am, unless you are over 21. When you finally get in, lap dances will cost $10, and Lacy will be your hostess who will sing along with Terrence Trent D'Arby. She will be tired, but less frustrated than you, after three songs in a row;


• When your oldest companion strikes up a conversation with a married woman staying alone in the hotel, she will complain about her husband a lot. Married people who are staying alone in a motel, might be interested in more than the wine coolers you have to offer. According to the make-out session you might see;


• It's hard to find a Georgia Peach off the highway in Atlanta;


• Every girl working in theme parks for the summer wants to be your friend, until the next group of single guys show up;


• Space Mountain is scary;


• Saying, "like I said, like I said," is funny the first three times, but then it kind of gets annoying seven days later;


• Driving in a car with two other guys for 18 hours, spending six days in a small motel room together, and then driving another 18 hours can be taxing on a relationship. I never knew we could all get so irritated by little things so easily. Okay, I did, but I forgot;


• Taking your first road trip to Disney will always be a great memory.

I have never once considered taking my own life

A friend of mine, Jeff Burd (http://burdly.blogspot.com/), is working on an essay that discusses, amongst other things, people jumping off bridges. Our writing group is helping Jeff workshop the piece, which I feel is one of the best he has ever written. Jeff's interest in this subject came to him when he was driving to Peoria to watch a basketball game. He saw the bridge in the distance, and decided to go a couple miles out of his way to get a closer look. The McCluggage Bridge carries highways US-24 and US-150 over the Illinois River between Peoria, IL on the west side and Tazewell County, IL on the east. It is, as Jeff writes in his essay, "a dual cantilevered structure built in 1948 and named for former Peoria mayor David H. McCluggage, stretches 4,725 feet from bank to bank, sixty feet above the Illinois River." I've seen a picture of the bridge, and it is quite impressive.

When Jeff first mentioned to me that he was working on a piece about bridges and suicide, I have to admit that I've not since looked at bridges without thinking the same thoughts. Jeff does a good job at pointing to a couple of movies in which characters consider jumping off a bridge: Saturday Night Fever, and It's a Wonderful Life. Jeff looks at the science behind jumping off a bridge, and uses physics to describe the speed at which a person would fall, and how quickly hitting the water would take. Throughout the essay, Jeff also discusses the methods people choose when attempting suicide.

The essay helped me remember something and someone. When I was in college, I was a Resident Assistant in my dorm. It was an all male dorm, a place where crazy things could happen at any moment. The fire alarm would go off at the wee hours of the night...multiple times. Guys would play Frisbee in the hallways, shoot off fireworks from their windows, host progressive parties, play practical jokes on each other. Things of that nature. During the semester, one of my residents asked to speak with me. This guy, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I do not remember his name, was grappling with his sexuality. It was obvious to everyone, including himself, that he was gay. But he felt alone. He felt like he couldn't express himself, couldn't be accepted by others--namely, his family--and felt like he wanted to end his life. He didn't actually take any drastic steps. In fact, he did the right thing. He sought out a friendly person. He looked for someone who might not judge him; who might just shut up and let him talk. They taught us about those things during RA orientation. So I did just that. I answered questions when asked. I mirrored his actions; sitting when he sat, standing when he stood, crossing my arms when he did. We talked for a couple of hours. He kept saying he felt silly. I kept saying he shouldn't. In the end, he lived to see another day. He lived to see his entire first year of college finish. I'm not saying I saved his life. But I like to think I contributed to making him see that his demons did not control his life.

I have no idea what happened to this kid. I think about him every now and then. I remember the heart to heart we had with one another. Jeff's essay helped me remember him again. I wonder what happened to him. I like to think he's living a happy life, no matter what his sexual orientation. I like to think the demons didn't take control.

How's it going?

Last night, Cyndi asked me how the blog project was going. With this post, I have been blogging daily for the past 280 days. And while, at times, I may veer away from the original intent of the project, I believe I am a better person because of it. I've opened my life to people who choose to read my words. I've taken the time to consider my life over the past 39+ years; contemplating memories I have written about previously, or things that have sparked something new. I've even got a larger following than I thought I'd have (thanks, everyone!).

I'd be lying, though, if I didn't admit that I'm ready for a break. Why? To be quite honest, I'm sick of me. If I'm sick of me, I can't imagine how many other people might be sick of me too. It seems like sometimes the blog can be less of an introspective journey, and more of a daily diary. Maybe that's my own fault. When I sit down to write, I look at things that happened throughout the day that inspire a telling (retelling) of a memory. Sometimes, life isn't that simple (or interesting), and nothing inspirational comes. Plan B is to find something throughout my day that allows me to wax poetic (or in my case "wax nonfiction"). Maybe the days I can't find anything from my past means I am just lazy or having a lazy day. I know I haven't shared everything I can from my past; not that I need or want to. Sometimes it's just the path of least resistance: think for a few moments, come up with an idea on the fly, and just run with it no matter what the direction, motivation, or purpose.

I'm not going to give up. I've done that in the past. A few years ago, when I was 34, I vowed to be a vegetarian for a year. Cyndi was a vegetarian for seven years before we met. I figured, one year...piece of cake. Not so easy. I made it 100 days before Cyndi put a piece of chicken in front of me and said, "eat this." She sense my frustration. She and I both knew the motivation wasn't really there. I didn't have a social need not to eat meat. I didn't have a medical reason not to do it either. I just felt like I wanted to challenge myself for a year (before I turned 35). Plus, it was a pain in the ass to find protein. I'm not stupid enough to know that there are ways to find it; people are and have been vegetarians forever. I just was grew tired of the processed soy alternatives, and didn't have the patience of talent to learn how to create/cook otherwise.

This project/challenge/desire is different. I love to write. Hell, I spent four years at Loyola University, changing my major a zillion times, and came out with a degree in creative writing (fiction). And if that wasn't silly enough, I spent another three years, albeit 15 years later, getting my graduate degree in creative writing (nonfiction) from Northwestern. And I sell software for a living!

Writing is something I feel like I have to do. Whether I'm good or bad. Whether I'm talented or not. Whether people read my words, or choose to ignore them. Whether I become famous or not. Whether my screenplay ever gets produced, or if I publish a book, or if I get an essay picked up by a literary magazine or not.

So, bear with me for another 85 days. There might be a payoff in the end...for someone, I hope.

I do...

13 years ago today, Cyndi and I were married. We were two young kids, in love (she was 22 and I was 26), and we had, as they say, the world at our fingertips. Cyndi was working as a dietitian at ManorCare in Libertyville, where we met, and I was the admission director at the ManorCare in Arlington Heights. We were dirt poor, saddled down with student loans and credit card debt I brought into the relationship, and we were so stressed out about money. We never argued about it; Cyndi never once complained about what I brought to the table. But we were concerned that we were overdoing our celebration. In fact, when we sent out our rehearsal dinner invitations, we put a stipulation in it that it that the invite did not include a "plus one." As we understood it, the rehearsal dinner was our tab. And we didn't really have any money to fund it. So we had to limit the number of people in attendance. It was embarrassing; it was our reality. At the end of the night, my dad flipped the bill. Thankfully.

Even with all of that kind of stress, we were fortunate. Fortunate that we had our families behind us. Fortunate that we had our friends. Fortunate that we were gainfully employed. Fortunate that we had each other.

Today, our lives are so much better, but not that different. We have two wonderful children, I have a job I enjoy and appreciate, Cyndi is totally dedicated to the education of our children, and the thing we stressed out about the most, is a distant memory.

But our love, our appreciation, our commitment to one another continues. We remain fortunate, and I remain a happy man.

Tradition

Tradition is synonomous with family. Or family is synonomous with tradition. Either way, Cyndi and I have focused our marriage and our family on traditions old and new. I think it helps center each other. I think it helps give a feeling of security and comfort to our children. We both come from backgrounds with many traditions. And it's something we plan on keeping up. Here are some of the traditions we follow:

1. Thanksgiving...when we first started dating, we made a decision. We didn't want to do the whole, afternoon with my family and rush over for evening with hers. It causes way too much stress and doesn't allow for quality time with either family, in our opinion. We've done Thanksgiving at our house for the past ten years (minus one year when we lived in Philly). My mom used to put a damn good Thanksgiving meal together. But as our families grew, and her house didn't, it just made sense to move the venue. The total number of attendees has gone as high as 28, and we feel the more the merrier. Several years ago we started a "what are you thankful for" game, where everyone writes down their year's thanks, and we guess who wrote what. It's a fun game; a nice tradition.


2. Lighting of the Christmas Tree...In the center of Elk Grove, the Village always places a huge Christmas Tree. The Friday after Thanksgiving, residents, families, and friends, join together in a tree lighting ceremony. Santa and Mrs. Claus come. There's fireworks, hot chocolate, cookies. Sometimes the weather is very cold and snowy, others it's bearable. Either way, we have been going for eight years.


3. Pierogi making...Cyndi's family has made homemade Pierogies for years. We get together the Saturday after Thanksgiving and work in somewhat of an assembly line. Everyone brings a dish to pass, as well as one of the stuffing's we will use (we always bring the cheese). We've made as many as 500+ pierogies in one day. We eat them on Christmas Day.


4. Christmas...we spent Christmas Eve with Cyndi's family. My mother in law is from Denmark and they have many traditions centered around Christmas. We eat the same meal (duck and pork), play the same dessert game where you have either rice pudding or lemon fromage, and in each bowl a whole almond is hidden. Whoever finds the almond has to hide it in his.her mouth until the end of dessert. The winners receive a prize. We also dance around the tree singing songs (in Danish and in English), and open presents from youngest to oldest. Christmas Day is the Polish Tradition: Mushroom soup, polish sausage, peirogies.


5. Holiday Party...Because I come from a mixed family (Jewish and Catholic), we spend a nice evening with my family to celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas. The kids all exchange gifts and we have a meal together. A couple of years ago, we even went ice skating. My kids get the benefit of learning both traditions.


6. Wedding Anniversary...we will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary tomorrow (October 19). Every year, for the past 12, we watch our wedding video and light our unity candle. It's so much fun to see the day/night, laugh at ourselves and others, and remember that day. We added two more traditions (2 years and 3, respectively). Today, we went to Starved Rock State Park, and completed a two hour hike to see the Fall colors. Luckily the weather has cooperated. Tomorrow, we will go to The Melting Pot for dinner. Cyndi loves fondue and the kids don't gripe about having to wear nicer clothes to go out. It's a nice 2-3 hour meal. Both additional have added a special touch to our already established tradition.


7. Teddy's...on Thanksgiving morning, we go to Teddy's Diner for breakfast. We started this tradition the year my dad died. My dad loved Teddy's Diner. So to keep him alive with us for the day, before we start cooking, cooking, and cooking, we have a meal in remembrance. This year will be #3.


8. James Francis Ryan Memorial Pub Crawl...this will be my 3rd year, but the event's 10th. It's the creation of one of my friends, Jeff Burd. I went to grad school with Jeff Burd. Whenever Jeff Burd enters a room, he announces, "Hi, I'm Jeff Burd." Even if everyone in the room knows him. The pub crawl is a blast. We meet at The Billy Goat on Wells at Noon, eat a burger and enjoy some beer, and begin the crawl. About every 1 1/2 hours, we move. We go to The Berghoff, a few Elephant & Castles, Rosi, The Pepper Canister, Pippins, and a few others. It's a true drinking marathon (not a sprint). My brother, Darrell went with me last year, and Ira plans on joining us this year. December 12 this year, if you are interested.

We have other traditions and there will be more that we begin. Traditions are fun, but they are hard to create and hard to maintain sometimes. Especially the ones that have been in the family for generations. But, in my opinion, it's the hard things that keep a family together.

Tornado

This was what my brothers and I would shout before cleaning our room. We would then spin around and continue shouting the word; letting it drag on with our voices. Like holding a long note when singing. Like holding your breath to see how long you can do it. "Tornaaaaaaadoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

After we spun around in a few circles, but before we got too dizzy and sick, we'd begin working as fast as we could. Making our beds, picking up our dirty clothes, putting clean clothes away, throwing toys in our closet or under our bed, stacking school supplies and books on our dresser, making the room presentable. Presentable enough to pass inspection. It was a way to have fun while doing our chores. And it worked.

Worked today too. Only this time with Frederic and Lily. When I explained that we were going to straighten up the house while Cyndi was away finishing a Brownie's service project with another mom, the kids were none too pleased. I wanted to get out of the house when Cyndi came back. I wanted to get some things done away from home. But the house needed to be picked up. And I didn't want to do it alone. I had to think quick on my feet.

I thought about the time my dad promised us a reward after we cleaned the whole house. We were living on Wellington Street, the two-bedroom quad we lived in prior to moving into the four (then five) bedroom house. The quad wasn't that big, but to three little boys, it was a mansion. We worked hard to get the whole house picked up. We were anxious for our reward. Maybe it was going to be candy, we thought. Maybe our dad would take us to lunch, or to a movie. It was neither.

When we finished our chores and went to retrieve our rewards, Dad told us to hold out our hands. As instructed we excitedly placed them out, palms up. Into each hand, Dad placed a shiny quarter. A quarter could get you a lot more than it does today; probably a couple of candy bars, at least. But we all felt gypped. In fact, I think Darrell may have even said something like, "Ahh, man...that's not fair." We all probably did, following big brother's lead. But we did a job--a good one, if I must say so myself--and we got a reward. No matter how big or small. It was something.

So, as the kids grew weary and sad that part of the early afternoon involved chores, I remembered a simple word. I remembered how much fun we would have when we yelled and spun around. We got the job done, every time, no matter what we got in the end. It's a cherished memory for me, and I paid it forward today.

The three of us took each other's hands (something my brothers and I didn't do), started spinning around as if we were playing "Ring Around the Rosie," and shouted, "Tornaaaadooooooooooooooo!"

The place has never looked better.

Sex Education

The first time I saw it, I gagged. I don't think I actually threw up, but I came close. There were several of us there; neighborhood kids, all boys. I was the youngest. I was nine.

Frederic is nine, and when I think back to me being that age, I can't fathom how young that is. To see what I saw. To process what was happening. To comprehend the realities of life. Wow.

Nine was when I started growing hair "down there." Nine was when my legs sprouted hair, and when hair appeared under my pits. I'm not a hairy person, really. I think I have maybe a dozen or so long hairs on my chest. Other than that, nothing. Hair really doesn't define a man, but it sparks the beginning of becoming one.

Frederic has hair on every spot I've mentioned. It's slow growing, but he's moved into that stage. Maybe it's a Fosco thing. Maybe it's the age we begin to be a man. My father had a full moustache at 13, so I assume he probably had hair some years before then too.

Now he was a hairy guy. He was one of those people who could grow a beard in a week. He had hair on his chest, on his legs, and on his back. I wonder what he looked like at nine.

We saw the thing, for the first time, in our basement. It was early evening, and my parents were away. It was summer. The summer of 1979. My brothers, both older than me, knew how to pick the lock on our father's dresser. It wasn't hard. And there it was, "hidden" in a brown paper lunch sack. In it's solid, most basic form, it seemed harmless. It was a VCR tape, and being it was 1979, selection was scarce. I didn't really understand--but I would soon learn--what the title meant. Deep Throat. Seemed to me like it should be a movie about a guy with a low voice. Boy was I wrong.

When my brother popped in the tape, you could feel the excitement from the older boys. It spewed out of their pores like sweat. Several of them giggled. One or two may have turned red when my brother pressed play and the "commercials" began.

That's when I saw it. That's how I still can see it today, in my mind's eye. The first commercial was for another similar type of tape. This thing they called a porno. The preview was for Meatball. Sounded like a cooking show to me. Not so.

I got my sex education from Harold Reems and Linda Lovelace. It warped the mind of a nine year old. I'm not complaining, trust me. Once I got past the initial shock. Once I could stomach the site of the real birds and bees, it became one of my favorite pastimes. That VCR tape got a lot of mileage out of everyone. I'm glad that my initial reaction didn't turn me into Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Or better yet, give me the same reaction he got after he was rehabilitated. That would suck.

And I can't imagine how Frederic may learn.

Ice cream before bed

As I was driving home just now--on an impromptu trip to the grocery store to buy the kids (and Cyndi) some ice cream--a thought came into my mind. I miss milk and cookies. When I was a kid, one of the best parts of my day was when my mom and dad served us milk and cookies. We got cold milk in a glass, and were offered two or three cookies. Depending on how big they were. Sometimes we got Chips Ahoy, sometimes we got Fudge Stripes, other times it was Matt's Chocolate Chip, or a generic Oatmeal Raisin.

My favorite was Oreo cookies. I'm the kind of person who carefully splits open the Oreo, scrapes his teeth against the sweet white cream, licks every bit of the cream off with my tongue, and then eats the chocolate cookie. I'm not a big cookie dipper. I don't like soft or soggy cookies.

We didn't get milk and cookies every night, and my memory really takes me back to the quad on Wellington Avenue. But I think that's what makes the memory so special. If we got it every night, we would have taken it for granted. The occasional treat was perfect.

Just like tonight. The kids certainly didn't need ice cream (Cyndi may have...), but I wanted to do something special for them. And something simple.

And as I write this, moments before we will all huddle on our bed for a nighttime story, I look over at the kids (and Cyndi). I see the joy in the faces as they take a scoop of Moose Tracks and Butterfinger Ice Cream. I couldn't decide which one to get. So I got both. And they wanted both. Frederic is licking his spoon. Lily is slurping the last remains from her bowl. Cyndi is taking a sip from her coffee; she finished first.

Sure, they'll go to bed with sugar in their stomach and coursing through their veins. But in years to come, they might sit back--as I am now--and remember fondly, the time their dad gave them ice cream before bed.

Regarding dogs - one more thing...

When I was in college, my roommate (and friend), Brian, got a call from home. His dog died. Brian wasn't sure how he should react to the news. I remember he felt bad, sad even, but I don't recall him breaking down, being uncontrollably inconsolable, or distraught. Maybe it was because he was away from home, living the life of a college student. Maybe it was because the distance away, pushed his dog away. Maybe it was because he understood the fact that pets eventually die, and it was something he expected. Whatever the reason, we kind of quietly joked about it. I'd ask him how he was doing. I'd ask him if he needed anything. I'd ask him if he wanted to get a beer to drown out his sorrows. I'd ask him if he needed a hug. The humor helped; at least, I like to think it did.

At the same time, I was taking a poetry class. We were charged with the task of reading poets, explicating their work, imitating their work, and creating our own verse. I decided to write a poem about dogs. About my childhood dog, Barron. I dedicated the poem to Brian, in an effort to put closure on the subject. For me, as much as it was for him. This was my first published poem. I was pretty psyched when I saw it in print. And it goes a little something like this:



I Still Have Your Collar
for Brian Chudik

We got our dog when I was four.
I wanted the white one with grey spots.
My brothers wanted
the long haired, black Lab;
the smallest in the litter.
He only cost eight dollars
at the flea market.
Baron had a white patch of hair on his belly.
Mom called it
the touch of an angel.
I stepped on him.
He whimpered and scared me.

When I was seven, I taught him to sit in one place,
intensely, like the guards at Buckingham Place.
During fluctuations of my voice,
I taught him to growl.
When I became a health freak,
I taught him to eat an apple
between his paws
using his front teeth.
When I was seventeen, I didn’t teach him anything.
I wanted to be alone.

The neighbor’s white poodle was in heat
when Dad hit Baron on the head
with a stick.
The blow knocked his eyes crooked.
He walked around for hours
shaking his head
fixing his eyes.
Baron loved my father.

I unhooked his collar
as the veterinarian injected him
“a three step process:
Saline Flush to ensure catheter works properly
Barbiturate to make him sleepy and relaxed
Final euthanasia drug.”
I saw tears fall down my father’s cheeks,
as Baron’s eyes remained fixed
on his face.

Upon hearing about the death of a family member's dog

My sister-and brother-in-law had to put down their dog yesterday. This sadness on the heels of my outburst over a piece of meat, makes me feel bad. Bad for them. Bad for their children. Bad for the dog--Winnie. It's a strange thing to call the euthanization of an animal, put down. My brother-in-law told me that he's taken the role in the family of being the one who takes the dog in. Winnie was a Jack Russell Terrier, and she had a companion--Buford--who was put down last year. Mike drove Buford for his final drive too. I sympathize with Mike. When we had to give up our dogs several years ago, I had to make the long drive from our home to the shelter.

We had two dogs before Rex: Leinie and Friday. Hearing about the loss of Winnie, makes me feel bad about them, too.

Leinie was mine. I brought her into the relationship. She was with me in Arizona, and was actually the reason my friend, Shay, and I got evicted from our apartment in Tempe. I was a bad pet owner when I first got Leinie. I could barely take care of myself, let alone devote the time and energy needed to care for a pet. Leinie was never properly house trained, and continued to use any of the houses and apartments we lived in as her own personal dog run. Just ask my friends, and former roommates Jav, Kevin, and Dave.

Leinie was a strange dog, with a weird disposition. I never knew exactly what breed she was (they didn't have the genetic testing available for pets like they do today); she was a cross between a Welsh Corgi, a dachshund, and a German Shepherd. She was barley 20 pounds most of her life, and as humans do, got much fatter as she got older. She loved to play ball. Except on her terms. She'd happily run after the ball to retrieve it, but she refused to bring it back directly to you. She'd growl and bark to get your attention, in anticipation of dropping the ball--away from your reach--at some point. She also had another weird trait: she liked to hump my leg in bed. Without fail, I would get into bed and Leinie would hop on. The bed and my leg. It was always a challenge to get her off too. I'd shuffle my leg, moving it in every direction, but she held on tight. I never figured out why she did it.

I did try to get the answer one time on a radio call in show. In the late 90's, Cyndi and I were living in Grayslake, and I was a Jonathon Brandmeier (http://www.wlup.com/Airstaff/johnnyb.aspx) fan. Johnny B had a vet on his show, taking calls from his audience. I called in, asked why my dog humped my leg, and the expert attempted to give some serious answer. And then I hit him with, "One more question...is it a problem if I like it?" That got a good laugh from Johnny.

Cyndi and I adopted Friday, who was a beagle/German Shepherd mix. We got her when she was around two, they assumed. Friday was Cyndi's dog from the start. They formed an instant bond. Friday liked to bark. So much so that when we moved to the condo in Wrigleyville, we had to buy a bark collar to keep her quiet and the neighbors happy. Friday also had issues. She got carsick, she was afraid of flashlights, and she would lunge at other dogs when we were on walks.

Both dogs were high maintenance, but we loved them and did our best to care for them.

When we moved to Philadelphia for a year, my dad was nice enough to take the dogs in with him. Two weeks before we were to arrive back home, my dad called with some bad news. Friday was bleeding and the vet could not figure out what was wrong with her. They thought that she might have digested some rat poisoning, somehow. Our options were to put her down, or pay $2,000 to have a blood transfusion that might cause the bleeding to stop. We opted for the latter. And it worked. It was a tough decision to make, given the fact that we could not assess the situation first hand. It was an expensive incident, but that's what people do for their dogs.

After the kids were born, both Friday and Leinie began acting out. Leinie started going to the bathroom in the family room more often than not, and they both became aggressive toward the kids. It got to the point where we just could not take it anymore. Like I wrote, we were bad pet owners. If something like this happened today, we'd probably take the time to figure out what the issue is and find a resolution. Keeping two young children (four and two) safe, was our #1 priority. This remains our #1 priority, but with "lessons learned" both first hand and from watching "The Dog Whisperer" we are much better pet owners.

I woke up one morning in December, surveyed the family room, and threw up my hands. Cyndi did the same. We looked at each other, and knew we had to do something.

I called Save-a-Pet, which was where we got Friday. They had a rule that if we ever had to give up our adoption, we had to call them. It was several years before, but they honored the mutual agreement we had. And they agreed to take Leinie. We wanted to keep them together.

I was the limo driver of their final ride. Just like Mike, I've accepted that role within our family. It's not any easier on the male "head of household." It's just what we do. It's what I did. I still feel pretty guilty about giving them up. I mean, I had Leinie since she was a puppy. I got her in 1994 and handed her over to some volunteer 10 years later. I didn't have the same attachment to Friday as Cyndi did, but it was still pretty hard.

I assume both dogs are long gone by now. Winnie and Buford are probably playing with them in doggie heaven. At least, that's what I like to think.

My father's nose

I had a conversation the other day with my friend, Steve. Steve is attending Harvard for a year in an accelerated Master’s program. He and I met a few years ago when we were both attending grad school at Northwestern. Steve and I grew up in neighboring towns, are the same age, and have one major interest that brought us together: writing. Steve is a single man, who’s much more intelligent than I am, and is a great conversationalist.

During our conversation, Steve commented on how, on a couple occasions, he read in my blog that people have taken harsh tones with my children. Steve’s not a parent, but if he were, I think he would have the same parenting style that Cyndi and I have adopted. While I am certainly not a saint when it comes to raising our children, I think I have a pretty solid relationship with my kids. I’ve had to raise my voice at them at times, but I’ve never raised a hand at them. Parenting is frustrating at times (much of the time) and you learn by making mistakes (a lot of the time) and getting things right (some of the time).

I came close to hitting Frederic once. I think he was nearly three years old when this happened. It was early in the morning, on a workday, and he awoke at some god-awful early time. Cyndi and I had told him to stay in his room until we were ready to get him, but he had his own mind made up. He didn’t want to stay in bed. He wanted to be with us. I thought it was time to teach him boundaries because he was insistent that his way was the right way. We played a verbal game of tennis, until I reached my limit. I got up from bed, stormed into his room, grabbed a hold of both of his little arms/shoulders and shouted, “YOU WILL LISTEN! YOU WILL STAY IN HERE! UNDERSTAND?”

I got my point across, but I scared the shit out of him. To the point that he was bawling. To the point he was shaking.

In the end, it was too much for both of us to handle. I walked out of his room, into the bathroom, and proceeded to bawl myself. Profusely. I disappointed myself and my son. I reached my boiling point and I crumbled. I had told myself I would never get physical with my children, and I did.

Frederic doesn’t remember the incident today, but he did for several years. I’ve never laid my hands on him since, and have never done this with Lily. I did, however, get angry again the other day.

At Rex. The dog. I had taken out a 2 ½ pound pot roast out of the freezer in the morning to thaw for the evening’s dinner, and when we returned from Frederic’s soccer game, it was no longer on the counter top, where I left it. The evidence of the incident was all over our family room in the form of shredded butcher’s paper and plastic wrap. My first clue that something was wrong was when I heard my kids yell, “Rexie, what did you do?” I assumed he got into one of the kids’ stuffed animals, or tracked mud in the house. When I was summoned into the room to assist with the punishment, I knew it was something much bigger.

When I was a kid, and my dad got angry at us, his nose would twitch. Kind of like Samantha from “Bewitched,” his nose would twinkle from side to side, uncontrollably. However, if you saw his nose twitch, no witchcraft would get you out of the punishment he would unleash. It was a scary sight to see. As we got older, the twitching became amusing. It took everything we had not to laugh as our punishment was being administered.

The nose twitch was a Fosco family trait. Our uncle, dad’s brother, Shelly, twitched his nose too when he was angry. He could do it, like our father, on command too.

So here’s something I learned from getting angry at Frederic, and unleashing some whoop-ass yelling at the dog on Saturday afternoon: I have the twitch.

And when I have it, whoever is on the other side of my anger shakes too. Frederic did when he was younger, and so did Rex. Shook uncontrollably. He shook so bad that I felt guilty for my actions. I mean, really, both examples were partially my fault too. I could have easily let Frederic hang out with us in our bedroom, and I could have easily put the meat higher, away from Rex’s reach.

Makes me wonder how my dad felt.

1/2 step away from being bald

Cyndi's dad is mostly bald. He's had the same look, save going from dark to gray, since his late 20's. It's the Cookie the Clown look. Not that he's a clown, but Cookie had the same style. Hair on the sides and back, nothing--bald as a baby's behind--on the top and front. I've often suggested that he just take the leap. Shave the rest off and go full-on bald. He'd like to do it too, but he's a sucker for love. Cyndi's mom doesn't think he should go full-on bald, so, in an effort to keep his wife happy, he's never taken my suggestion. I don't blame him. Sometimes the easy things "to do for love" are the ones that make all of the difference.

I'm not sure, but since Cyndi's male role model (her father) has been follicly challenged all of her life, she prefers short hair. Quite honestly, she'd love it if I was bald myself. She likes the look.

While I don't think I could ever take the leap myself, I've played with the number on the clippers over the years. I've gone from a #3, to a #2 and stayed at #2 for over a year. You can kind of see scalp, and much of the gray is masked (my issue). Earlier this summer, I decided to try a #1. When I shave my head at home, a #1 is 1/8". You can see more of the scalp and less of the gray, but there is a thin layer of hair that keeps me in the not-bald category. If I take the time to go to the local barber shop (Beardsley's), and if I ask for a #1 there, they proceed to cut without a guard on the clippers. I like to cut my hair every couple of weeks or so. Paying $15 + tip every two weeks seems a ridiculous waste to me. While I like going to Beardsley's--an old school barber shop, complete with straight edge razor blades and everything (minus the Playboy magazines...Joe, the proprietor of the shop, is a minister)--I'm just too cheap. If I can do it myself, when it comes to hair, that is--I'll figure out a way to do it.

I needed a haircut this morning. I've been contemplating going sans guard. Since I won't be seeing any clients for a couple of weeks, I figured, "what the hell." I'm not follicly challenged like my father-in-law. It grows back.

I went without the guard, and I'm now 1/2 step away from being bald. You can definitely see scalp on my noggin. The only time I considered actually shaving my head was when my father was under treatment for cancer. My brothers and I vowed that if he lost his hair, we'd join him. He didn't lose his hair. In fact, it seemed like it got thicker. And more gray. Maybe, since I really have not embraced the gray I have, I should consider taking the leap. I've dipped my toes in the pool, but I'm not so sure if the water's warm.

I'm not saying, I'm just saying: A little written diarrhea on a Saturday

Earlier today, I was a little irritated. As I have written before, Cyndi and I live about a mile from our respective childhood homes. Our community--Elk Grove Village--is the kind of place where people stay. Or a place where people come back. We know several families that lived here as children, left for college or life or whatnot, got married, had children, and came back. I can think of eight families off the top of my head. As a kid, the cool thing about growing up in Elk Grove was that there were always kids around. I lived in a court with five homes. We had three boys (ages 7, 10, and 13 at the time we moved in), our first next door neighbor--the Lemkes--had three kids (two girls and a boy) all around the same age as us, when the Lemkes moved away, the Browns moved in (actually, the mom and dad were not named Brown, but I cannot remember their name. Their daughter, Lisa, was from the mom's first marriage. Her last name was Brown) and they had Lisa and adult children, the neighbor after that--the Harmons--had two kids (a boy and a girl), the neighbor after that--the Maddens--had two (girls), and the neighbor after that--their name I cannot remember)--didn't have kids at first, but eventually did as time went on. So in total, there were at least eight-11 kids at given time, just on our small street. Of course, we lived in a subdivision, so there were kids up and down virtually every street.

We've lived in our house for almost nine years. We live in a court with about 30 houses on the street. However, there are not many kids. The houses in our subdivision are older, built in the early 70's. Built without basements. Built with small rooms. Many people I went to junior high and high school with lived in these homes. And the thing is, it's their parents that remain. They have raised their children, but continue to remain in their homes. We also have renters, divorced single men with older children who only live with them part of the time, and older adults.

Several months ago, I wrote about Frederic's first sleepover. His friend, Kevin, who was living in a three generation home on our street, spent the night. The kids had a blast, stayed up late, snuck out of their rooms, were exhausted in the morning. The thing that is supposed to happen at a sleepover. I made the kids blueberry pancakes in the morning. It was a success. Kevin was Frederic's best friend. Was. Last month, they had a bit of a falling out; something that still sits wrong with me now. The kids were playing Freeze Tag with Kevin, his sister Katie, and our neighbor's daughter, Brianna (she's one of the kids I referenced who is older and lives her part of the time). During the game, Kevin, Katie, and Brianna ran into the street to keep away from whoever was "it." Our kids cannot go in the street. So they called foul. They stopped the game to plead their case that since they cannot go in the street, no one should be able to go in the street because that would be an unfair advantage. Kevin, Katie, and Brianna laughed at the rule, drew a line in the sand, and basically joined forces in being against our kids. Ciaos ensued and no one could come to a conclusion. The game ended, and in reality, so did the friendship. Frederic felt that since Kevin disrespected a rule put upon him by his parents, he was disrespecting his family. I was away at the time, and heard all of this second hand.

Parents on either side did not get involved in the dispute. Frederic made the decision on his own to end the relationship. He concluded that he had other friends who he could play with; friends who respected his boundaries. While I think his decision was ultimately the right one, carried out with the best intentions, it bothered me. I didn't want Frederic to force our rules upon his friends. I didn't want him to end a friendship over our parenting decisions. Once a week or so, I'd check-in with him and make sure he was okay with the decision. And he is; he was.

Frederic has been friends with Kevin for a few years. He was really the only kid on our street his age. It was the silver lining to living on a street filled mostly with adults.

Was. That's the thing that irritated me today. As we left our house, we saw Kevin's parents loading their van with clothes. It was obviously not a "trip to the thrift shop to drop off donations" kind of loading. We pulled up, rolled down the windows and asked the question that was on every one's mind. "Are you moving?"

Are you moving. Kevin and Frederic have been friends for three years. We've been casual friends with his parents just as long. We've had them to the house for BBQ's. We've gone to football practice together. Out for pizza and ice cream after a game. Celebrated New Year's Eve together. Gone to Great America together. And we had to ask a question to learn about their fate as our neighbor.

I miss the fun we used to have on Racine Circle. I miss the games of kick ball, the snowball fights, the block parties, the 4th of July celebrations, the songs we used to sing, the conversations we used to have. The kids were always occupied, and the parents never had to worry. We were all friends. When it came time for someone to move--and we all eventually did--the message was delivered personally. Our clear relationships dictated that fact.

What I see

My brother sent me this picture yesterday. This is me at 16. From the time I was 14 through the time I was in my early 20's, many of the random photos taken included me in a similar pose. Bodybuilding was my thing. I was obsessed with it. I had subscriptions to Muscle & Fitness, and Flex and I was constantly reading books or talking with people about exercise and nutrition. I was careful about what I put into my body, abstaining from alcohol and drugs. I dreamed of being just like Arnold, and Lou, and Franco, and Lance, and Rich. I spent 3+ hours a day in the gym. I worked at the gym, and on my days off, I hung out at the gym. My friends were older, and worked out with me at the gym. I wanted to be one of those guys in the magazines. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw a scrawny kid; like the advertisement for Charles Atlas in the back of comic books (http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PcX9QTbDVJw/SiqichMGWtI/AAAAAAAABzk/r9MZSi3L0KE/s400/atlas+ad.jpg). So I cheated. I put illegal drugs in my body. I stole, I lied, I let everyone down, especially me.

I'm not remembering that, though, when I look at this picture. I look at it and smile. I see a young boy who looks happy. I see a thin waist, thick brown hair (yes, my hair was once brown), and tight skin. I see nasty wood panelling, popular at that time. I see an ugly couch, that was actually very comfortable. I see a television that required us to get up to change the channel. I see unusual looking curtains; I don't remember them at all.

I see a young boy with promise.

Books

I love to read. When I was a kid, I had my head in a book a lot. I would read in my bedroom. I would read in the kitchen. I would read in the car. I would read on the couch in front of the TV. My brother, Ira, hated it when I would read when he was trying to watch TV. In fact, we still joke today about this one time, when he was so mad, that he said, "why don't you just go read in the bathroom...it's better lighting anyway." I'd read on the toilet too, but I also liked bugging my older brother. Since he was always bigger and stronger than me, it was my best weapon: irritation.

Frederic takes after me in many ways, including his love for reading. I think he's even more obsessed with it than I was. He's always got his head in a book, or so it seems. Sometimes, he'll sit and read for hours. A couple of weeks ago, he began reading the Harry Potter series. We were going to read it together, but he got sick of waiting for me. So he just started. He finished the first one in four days, the second one just as fast. He's already on the fourth. I'm kind of envious because he's got me interested in giving them a try, but he's so far ahead of me.

I still own two books from my childhood: Tikki Tikki Tembo, and Fat Cat. I love these books. Unfortunately, they are falling apart. Fat Cat is already out of the spine, and the other has small rips and tears in it. The kids like the stories too. We once saw a musical version of Tikki. I was certain that they would screw it up, but they didn't. When I read the story, I sometimes sing the tune I learned. I've given the book to my godson, as well. I've read it to him once, and I understand it's one of his favorites.

I'm sitting in the Schaumburg Library, not reading. Frederic attends a Pokemon class here on Thursdays, and while I have every intention of cracking a book when I come, I have yet to do that. Last week, I wrote my blog, and read some piled up versions of Daily Variety I received while I was out of town. Today, I'm writing my blog (duh), and, while I brought a couple of books I am currently reading, I may not get to them.

In honor of of my love of books, and in honor of my pending 40th birthday (97 days), here are my top 40 authors, not necessarily in order...are any of them yours?

1. Charles Bukowski
2. Larry Brown
3. David Sedaris
4. Raymond Carver
5. Stephen Dixon
6. Andre Dubus
7. Stuart Dybek
8. Ernest Heminway
9. David Michael Kaplan
10. Tracy Letts
11. Alice McDermott
12. Haruki Murakami
13. Tim O'Brien
14. Miles Harvey
15. Flannery O'Connor
16. J.D. Salinger
17. Kevin Smith
18. William Carlos Williams
19. Truman Capote
20. Tracy Kidder
21. James Joyce
22. Dr. Seuss
23. Carl Klaus
24. Gregory Martin
25. S.L. Wisenberg
26. S.E. Hinton
27. Matt Wood
28. Steve Jordan
29. Jeff Burd
30. Maureen Searcy
31. Colleen Kozubowski
32. Ron Carlson
33. John Fante
34. Alice Sebold
35. James Frey
36. Ann Pachett
37. James McBride
38. Tobias Wolff
39. F. Scott Fitzgerald
40. Jim Norton

A sudden higher purpose

Hopefully my brother knows this already, but I found out that one of his friends from our younger years died. In 2006. Maybe he told me already, but when I read about it on Facebook, it looked like new information to me. Some guy from our high school started a Facebook page memorializing people who went to school with us, and have since passed. As I was looking through the posts, I saw a name I recognized: Jerry Bell. It appears that he died in a motorcycle accident. It's quite jarring when you get information like that. Someone I knew, albeit not as closely as my brother, is no longer part of this world. It's not like I had seen or heard from him in years. Obviously, given the length of time since his passing. But still, it scared me a little. Not scared me as in "haunted house" fright, but it just shook me loose a little. I have no way of confirming if what I read was true or not. At this point, I have no other thing to do but believe what was written. I don't know the person who added the post, so I can't call to confirm the news. I just have to assume it's true. Sad.

With Jerry's passing, I now know two people who have died in a motorcycle accident. The first was a friend of mine, Frank Ferraro. He died in July of 2007. On Friday the 13th. I had lunch with him the day before, at the Renaissance Hotel next to our work. I went to lunch quite a bit with Frank over the years. Most often it was at Potbelly Sandwich Works in either Norridge or Rosemont. It depended on how we felt. There were three of us that went: me, Frank, and Roy Surges. I always ordered the same meal: a turkey and swiss, bag of baked chips, and a chocolate shake. I don't always have shakes when they are available at places; it just became a tradition when I was out with Frank and Roy. I enjoyed those lunches. Mostly because we just talked and laughed. The location in Norridge had a guitar player once and a while to entertain the patrons. We felt slighted when he wasn't there. After Frank died, Roy and I went back to Potbelly's in tribute of our friend. The guitar player wasn't there. The lunch wasn't the same, in many ways.

Frank's death was a shock. It came only two months after my dad died. One minute, I had lunch with Frank, and the next he was gone. Shocking deaths are something I have experience with, unfortunately. It never gets any easier when they happen.

My cousin was killed in a car accident in November 1986. It was on her 20th birthday. I can still hear my mother's scream when we got the call. My uncle was killed a couple of years later, in April 1988. We had just had a family reunion of sorts, at my grandparents house. The child my uncle adopted out as a baby 20+ years before, had finally found his birth parents after a four year search. My uncle brought him over to meet his family. After the celebration, my uncle took his son back to a parking lot to drop him off at his car. Taking a wrong turn, my uncle was hit, head-on by a drunk driver. My father had to identify the body. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

Frank's death wasn't the first the company I used to work for experienced. A couple years prior, Jackie Mitchell, suddenly died. Jackie was born with a hole in her heart. She didn't know about this most of her life. Shortly after her wedding, she began experiencing extreme lethargy. So much so that she went to the doctor to figure out her issue. They discovered her heart defect. I remember her telling me about the pending surgery in my office. It was so casual that it seemed like she was just getting a simple procedure. On her heart, of all places. As an outpatient, of all things.

Jackie's surgery was not a success. The valve they used to replace the hole was defective. It was sudden and it was tragic. I remember how shocked I was when my former boss called to tell me the news. It was on a holiday--Labor Day--so the call was even more unexpected. I had just finished having lunch with Cyndi and the kids and we were heading to Borders to buy some books. I was driving our old Nissan Quest in the parking lot and my cell phone rang. I nearly crashed the car when Jim broke the news. I walked around numb for several hours after. I kept remembering the fact that Jackie invited me to her wedding. It was being held on the first and only time Cyndi was leaving town for a short vacation, sans husband and kids. I didn't feel right getting a babysitter for the occasion. I thought about dressing up the kids and taking them to the ceremony. But ultimately decided against it. Laziness is the only excuse. I've always felt bad about not supporting Jackie and her husband in their new union. I'll never be able to right that wrong.

Death, in general, sucks. Tragedies, life lost too early, that stings even more. Felicia Kotowsky, Shelly Fosco, Jackie Mitchell, Frank Ferraro, and now Jerry Bell. They all must of been needed elsewhere for a more important, some may say higher, purpose.

Writing it down

When I was in high school, my band teacher, Mr. Hoernemann, instructed our class to write a letter. "Take some time," he said, "to think about your lives. I want you to write a letter to you. I want you to write a letter about your goals; about what you want to accomplish by the time you graduate from Conant. Be realistic, but do not limit yourself in any way." Most of the students in class looked at each other, puzzled. "When you are done with the letter," Mr. Hoernemann continued, "I want you to seal it in an envelope." He walked up to each student and handed out letter sized envelopes. "Then I want you to address the letter, to yourself," he continued. "When you graduate, the letter will arrive in your mailbox. I promise, no matter where I am, I will get the letter to you."

Mr. Hoernemann was a good teacher. He seemed to love being a teacher, and he was well liked by nearly everyone. The assignment he gave us was not something out of the ordinary for him. He was always pushing his students in positive ways. He wanted kids to be their best. He wanted them to accomplish their goals. The letter was an exercise in setting and meeting goals.

I wrote my letter, sealed and addressed the envelope as instructed, and forgot about it. Until the day after my graduation. Mr. Hoernemann left our school a couple of years prior to my graduation, and I was not in band by the time I left. When the letter arrived, I recognized my handwriting, but did not put two and two together. I opened the letter, sat down and read my words, and realized I had failed. Failed at goal setting. Failed at realizing my potential. Failed at accomplishing anything I set out for myself several years prior.

I don't have the letter anymore. I cannot recall any of the words I wrote. I wish I still had it. It would be interesting to see, and reminisce about that time in my life. I remember I wrote that I would own a black Trans-Am and that I would be a successful competitive bodybuilder. I've never owned a Trans-Am, and my competitive bodybuilding years were peppered with steroid use (read: cheating), and lost dreams.

I'm not the kind of person who writes down his goals. Maybe it's because of this incident. I don't know. Maybe I should write a letter to my future self. My 50 year old-self. My 60 year-old self. Maybe I can make up for a failure from my youth.

What I Tell My Irish Friend After His Parents Move Home

I have pretty much decided that for my 40th birthday, we are going to head out to the City, go to dinner with friends, and hang out at my friend, Ivan's, bar. It's called The Pepper Canister, named after a church in Ireland, where he's from. I met Ivan almost 20 years ago when he became my roommate at Loyola. It was my sophomore year, and I had a single for most of the semester. My friend, Andy, who was my original roommate, filled a vacant RA position, so I had the room to myself. When I got notice that I was getting a roommate, I was mad. I liked having a single. I declared that I would basically make this Ivan McCullagh's life a living hell, and get him to move out. The day came where he moved in. He walked into the room, introduced himself, and a friendship was born.

Ivan's a generous person. His parents opened their house to me and Cyndi on our 10th anniversary. We flew to Ireland and stayed at their home in Tipperary, and their apartment in Dublin. Ivan gets his generous spirit from his parents.

When I moved to Arizona, I wrote Ivan a poem. I'm not sure how good it is or how it stands up over time, but here it is:



What I Tell My Irish Friend After His Parents Move Home

I say we met two years ago.
I remind him of the Puerto Rican rum he drank
and I cleaned up in the toilet.
I say classes start at 10:00 a.m.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays. I say the plane ride is only eight hours
anyway. Outside my door the oranges are green,
but the grapefruit is ready to extract sweet bitter juice. I say my office
has no windows and when the door is closed
you can hear the piano play, tune after tune.
I tell about making up my mind about women
and how one will tell me she loves me
but I go with her. I say they’ll come back to visit
anyway. I explain how after looking half the morning
for two numbers, one his, one hers, I find them
under the B’s in my book, misfiled like checking accounts.
I say it’s not as bad as driving in a snowstorm
without heat. I mean your hands and feet freeze.
I say walk home. I scrape dry skin off my eyebrows
as indication of the wiping away
of old habits and change. I have one eyebrow
it is not plural. I say I am alone
and miserable. I let the mice scurry
and frolic. I put my hands together like someone asked me to
pray for us sinners.
I have run in 100 degree temperature,
my clothes clinging to my body.
It’s cold in the morning. In Arizona it’s hot
and cold and I can’t plan my wardrobe accordingly,
wearing too much or too little.
I ask what county. I say spell it. I ask, What
are your dwelling plans for the future? Outside my office
the seniors tell their stories describing depression
to those who have been there.
Forever is a very long time, I tell him,
but not as long as forever and a day.
I’m beginning to feel like a cigarette with a body attached to it,
spoke Carver in an interview in California.
He died before his time.
I almost start talking about Ireland.
I say, You should go play basketball or rugby.
I say Mickey Mouse is no longer on TV
and Donahue is a rerun.

Baubie

Today would have been my grandmother's 95th birthday. I think. I'm almost positive she was born on this day in 1904. There's always been some confusion around that issue. I called her, Baubie, just like my kids call my mother. That's Yiddish for "grandmother." Baubie immigrated to the United States from Russia when she was a child. Legend has it that they did not have her birth certificate when she came over. Thus, the birth year confusion. I've never seen the document, so I'm not sure if that's true or not.

I was pretty close with Baubie when I was a child. Just like my kids are with my mother. Baubies are meant to be idolized; grandparents are meant to be idolized. I wasn't very close with my father's mother--grandma--growing up. She refused to let us call her Baubie because she said she was too young to be called that. She became a grandmother at 50. My mom was 47 when her first grandchild was born.

I'm much closer with my grandma now, however. It started around 12 years ago when her husband--my grandfather--of 60 years was dying. I was working as an admission director at a nursing home at the time, so I was often surrounded by death. It doesn't make it any easier when it's your grandfather in the bed, but I somehow mustered up the courage to take a leadership role in being with him in his final hours. This--what I would call natural act--showed something to my grandmother that she never saw in me before. It portrayed a side of caring I think she didn't think I possessed. After he died, my grandmother said to me, "I've always liked you, but now I love you." I was 27 years old at the time. That next day was the first time in my life I ever stayed overnight in my grandparent's house. She made me eggs and bacon the next morning.

Before my father died, he used to call his mother on the phone every Sunday at 7pm CST. I took over this task for him. So, for the past 2 1/2 years, I've called my grandmother every Sunday at 7pm CST (minus the time I was in Europe for three weeks). It's brought us much closer together. She just turned 90 last month.

Back to Baubie. I really wish she were around today so she could meet Cyndi and the kids. Lily is named after her, and, while it's not the way you are supposed to do things in the Jewish tradition, I think she'd like that. I miss her. I miss her laughter, I miss her humor, I miss her stories, I miss her love of playing games, I miss her cooking. She's been gone since 1991. Life has changed in many ways since then, but we all think about her regularly. We visit her grave, look at pictures, try to imitate her cooking (sometimes successfully).

My mother inmates her on a regular basis, and my kids love that. I love that. It's the way things are supposed to be.

Carson Park

Frederic is playing soccer this Fall. He was in tackle football last year. He had a bad experience with the coach, who yelled at the kids a lot, and swore at them twice. This bothered Frederic. I tried to explain to him that football is a more intense sport than say, baseball, so the coaches have to be more commanding with their advice. It was the language that irritated him. The coach said, "you guys need to shit or get off the pot," and "get your heads out of your asses." I didn't hear either him say this to the kids, but I see Frederic's point. He was eight. He's never heard me talk like that. I really wanted him to continue with football. I thought it was good for him. He's a big kid, and it helped him focus some of his energy in a positive way. He played both offense and defense. Aside from the coach, he liked the sport. But he insisted on soccer this year. The team is 2-1-1 as of this morning. They played a good game, despite only having seven people show up.

When my kids splay sports, I try to help out as much as I can. I've been an assistant coach for baseball for five seasons, and was the head coach for Lily's only Pee Wee year. Since I travel so much, it's hard to make the full commitment to running the team. And I don't have a "sports-like mind" or personality. I'm good at helping out, not being the leader.

Soccer practice is twice a week--Mondays and Fridays--for an hour each day. I've missed most of the Monday practices, but I've been to all but one of the Friday sessions (date night with Cyndi at Kevin Smith). We practice at a field called Carson Park. This is a park of my youth. I didn't know it was called Carson Park when I was a kid. It was simply "the park near Tom Bray's house."

Carson Park is the place where we would go and hang out if we were at Tom's. I smoked my first cigarette there. It was just me and Tom. We were in fifth grade, and I was over there after school. Tom was already smoking on a regular basis back then, but I was only a second-hand smoker. Both of my parents smoked at the time, and most every parent in the neighborhood and every relative of mine smoked too. But it was made very clear to us that even though our parents smoked, we should abstain. "Do as I say, not as I do" was the mantra.

Peer pressure is a very real thing, obviously. I knew I shouldn't have done it, but when Tom and I sat on the play set at Carson Park, I didn't really even think twice. He pulled out the Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket, tapped two out, and handed one to me. Tom lit his first, and then moved the lighter over to me. I took a drag and inhaled, just like I had seen everyone else, including Tom, do. They made it look so natural and easy. I proceeded to choke, cough, choke, and cough.

Tom laughed. But he also gave me some advice. "That happened to me too, when I first started. The coughing goes away. You just have to keep doing it."

So I did. And the whole time, my head was spinning, and my stomach turned. I was queasy. Not just because of the smoke, but I knew I was disobeying my parents. I was a pretty honest kid (until I got to high school), and if I did something wrong, I most often confessed. My mom likes to say that they always knew when something was wrong with me. My nervous stomach was my constant confessor.

Tom and I smoked a couple of more cigarettes at Carson Park before I had to go. My parents came to get me in our beige station wagon. I was so freaked out that they would find out I was smoking, that I ran to the corner of the street to meet them. I didn't want them to see the park. I feared seeing the scene of the crime would clue them into everything I was doing.

"Why aren't you at Tom's house?" my dad asked.

"They were getting ready to eat dinner," I lied, "so I figured I would meet you down here."

Excuse accepted.

As we drove home, no one said a word. I think, since my parents smoked, they didn't smell the evidence. We didn't live very far away from Tom's, but as we drove, my head began to pound, and my stomach continued to turn. With each throb, bang, bang, bang, bang, and with each gurgle, swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh, I was sure my parents heard everything. I tried taking deep breaths to calm down, but it didn't help. I decided to lay down on the seat (I think this was long before seat belts were required). Mistake #1.

"What's wrong?" my mother asked.

"Nothing," I said. "I've got a headache. Too much playing, I guess."

I saw my dad move the rear view mirror and look at me through it. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Busted. I couldn't look back at him. I closed my eyes. "Yeah," I said slowly. Mistake #2

My mother reached over. "Let me feel your head." I sat up and she put her hand on my head. "You don't feel warm," she said. "Lean toward me." My parents were known to forgo the thermometer and use "the kiss test." They often placed their lips upon our foreheads as a measure for whether or not we had temperatures. As my mother did this, she breathed in through her nostrils. "You smell like smoke," she said, looking over at my father. Mistake #3.

"Were you smoking?" he asked? "Don't lie to me."

"Not me, Dad," I said, leaning back in the seat. "Tom was smoking. I must smell because of that."

"Don't lie to me," he repeated. "Were you smoking?"

I looked at my mother and back at my dad. "Yes," I said quietly. "But I didn't really like it though. I feel sick from it."

"You know I don't like it when you lie," my dad said.

I have the same rule in my house that my parents did: You'll get in less trouble if you tell the truth." Frederic's mastered this rule. Lily, not so much.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked.

My dad looked at my mother and she at him. When my brothers and I misbehaved, it was very clear that we'd get punished. Sometimes severely. Leniency did not seem to be in their vocabulary--rightfully so.

"You think you're gonna be sick?" my dad asked.

"Probably," I said. I was sweating at this point; from everything.

"I've told you before to stay away from the cigarettes, and I mean it. Stay away from the cigarettes."

"Okay," I said. We pulled into our driveway and my dad parked the car.

"And don't lie to us. Understand?"

I nodded. When I got out of the car, I puked. Three times. I went inside the house, and went to bed. I slept all through the night, missing dinner and everything. Lesson learned.

We did other things at Carson Park. We talked with girls there. We kissed some girls there. We hung out at the swing set and talked--just us guys. I smoked pot there for the first time too.

Now my son practices soccer there; very surreal. Every time we drive past Tom's old house, and every time I see the play set, I imagine my old self. I remember everything. I sometimes expect to see me as a child, sitting on a swing, feeling the wind in my hair, dreaming about the future, and wondering what I'll be like when I'm old.

What this is about

When I started this project nearly ten months ago, I was very apprehensive about many things. About my ability to write everyday. About my ability to be interesting every day. About my ability to be entertaining. About what I might uncover about myself. About the things people might learn about me. About being honest.

A lot of people I know, read my Blog on Facebook. When I write something on http://www.ayeartill40.blogspot.com/, it automatically uploads to my Facebook account. People who are "friends" can read what I have written. I have Facebook friends that I knew many years ago; some who I have not really spoken with in over 20 years. I have Facebook friends from college; people who already know much of my story, and know that I am an open book. I have Facebook friends from work--past and present; many who regularly learn something new about me (TMI?). I have Facebook friends who are, more specifically, family. I have always appreciated the comments people have left. It often inspires me to keep my project going. And, it sometimes gives me other things to write about. Like today.

I'd be remiss if I did not write about the can of worms I opened yesterday, due to my post about cars. Writing everyday has its downsides. Keeping a blog--a public journal--can be risky. I simply sit at my laptop and write. I don't edit myself, I don't workshop my piece, I don't ponder too much on what I choose to share. Maybe some bloggers do. Before they hit the "publish post" button online, they really take the time to review everything. They consider other people's feelings, they contemplate the possible reaction they might receive.

Writing everyday like this is hard. I've put a tremendous amount of pressure on myself to stay true to a promise I made. Sometimes I write something that hits people in a good way. Sometimes--maybe more often than I'd like--people don't have any reaction. And then there are the times when people totally disagree with what I have written, and have a negative reaction. Like yesterday.

For those of you who may have interpreted my words like a slam on my brother and his wife, I apologize. I don't apologize for having a difference of opinion about when a child should have a car. As I wrote, I may have a completely opposite outlook in six years from now, when Frederic is old enough to drive. That's the luxury of having an opinion; they can change.

However, I may not have been clear in my message. I think buying my nephew a car is one of the coolest things my brother and his wife have done for their children. Aside from taking them to the happiest place on earth every year for a vacation, the realization of a goal, came true for them this week. And that was the message I wanted to convey in my blog. I wanted to figuratively stand up and applaud their parenting decision. I wanted to pay homage to them by sharing my tale about the three cars I received from my parents. I wanted to, but I did not do a good job at that.

As I wrote, my brother remembers his first car fondly. So much so that he wanted to pass the same thing on to his son. And he did this; they did this. I have not thought about the cars my parents provided to me until my brother said those words: "I remember when I had my first car...the freedom I had. I want that for Kyle." It sparked a good memory for me. In fact, it sat with me the rest of that day and all of yesterday. And for that, I thank him (and my sister-in-law).

I'm not writing this to dig myself deeper into a hole. I'm writing this because it's been on my mind since last night. Since I was made aware of how I made them feel with my words. And when I have something on my mind, I write. And that's what this project is all about. It's about me writing. It's about me exploring things that have happened in my life. It's about the past, and in this case, the present, and it's about the future. I've made a lot of mistakes in my 39+ years. Mistakes I've learned from, and mistakes I've repeated. I'm not sure how people will react to this post. Maybe it was a mistake to write it. Maybe not.

Cars

My brother, Darrell, bought his son--my nephew Kyle--a car yesterday. Kyle turned 16 in August, and Darrell was chomping at the bit to get him a car. I didn't realize that it was such a big deal to him. Like my desire to fund our children's college education, Darrell told me that he was saving for this day. "I remember when I had my first car," he said to me, "the freedom I had. I want that for Kyle." Darrell's first car was an orange Pinto. Think the car the Nazi's drove in "The Blues Brothers" movie. That's the exact car. But, if I recall correctly, Darrell had his car first; before the movie came out. Not the other way around.

This got me thinking about the cars I've had in my life. My parent's gave me my first car too. It was a maroon Ford Escort. The car belonged to my mother, so their offering was not only an opportunity to have the last driver of the house equipped with something, but it allowed them to upgrade. I had the car from my sophomore year of high school through my sophomore year of college at Loyola. It afforded me a lot of freedom, as Darrell said. In college, I was one of the few kids who had a car on campus. Parking was always a pain in the ass, but it was nice to have a car, if only for the purpose of being the guy with a car. I made the beer keg runs, I was the one who people bummed rides from to go home for the weekend, I was the guy who offered freedom to others.

My dad got me my second car too. An old, beat-up orange Nissan Sentra. He got that for me my senior year of college. I had a summer job as a phone operator at the Hyatt in Lincolnwood, an internship teaching English as a Second Language, also in Lincolnwood, and I had a job on the weekends working at Wiener Take All #2 in Des Plaines, and Tonaly's in Bensenville. The Escort was on its last limb, so my dad picked up something that would get me from "point A to point B," as they say. The Sentra was a piece of crap, but it managed to get me through the year. I had a few problems with it. The radio didn't work, so I kept a boom box with me when I wanted to listen to music. To start the car, I had to open the hood and tap the engine with a wrench. Nearly every time. I locked my keys in the car once, so I had to smash the back window to get in. Cardboard as a window is not the best idea in the dead of winter in Chicago.

Before I left for Arizona, my dad bought me a graduation present. Another car. This time, it was a white Ford Tempo. The used car lot he got the car is near the airport, where he worked. It's still there now. The Tempo was just as bad as the Escort finally got, and the Sentra always was. We really had no idea. Until we drove it across country. I had to drive the car with the heat on several times to avoid overheating. It needed a water pump and some other things when I finally landed at my home in Mesa. The car cost around $2,000, but with the extra repairs, it was more like $3,500. My brother spent more than that on the car for his son. He said that even with the auto industry being in shambles, prices for used cars stink. The Tempo lasted a year and a half, until I replaced it with my very first new car: a silver Nissa Sentra. The only amenity the car had when I bought it was air conditioning. No radio (I was used to that), no auto windows or locks. But it was mine; I paid for it.

I get Darrell's point of wanting to buy Kyle a car. Given my first three cars were gifts from my parents, I should feel the same way. But I don't. In fact, I think kids should wait until they are 18 before they get their driver's license, or at a minimum, not be allowed the full freedom which comes with having a license. The extra two years means a lot in my opinion. Cyndi got into a car accident shortly after she got her license. I hear that a lot from people.

My opinion may change in the next seven years, but I doubt it. I will always have fond memories of my first three cars, but to me, that's all they really are. Cars. Things. I never named my cars. I never did any work on any of my cars. I didn't really care about them. They were a means to an end. And in the end, I'd much rather spend my money on something else.

Pulling an all nighter

I took the red eye back from LAX yesterday. In all my years of travel, I've never taken the red eye. I can't sleep on a plane, so I try to avoid the overnight flight time. I was in a major haze when I got home this morning. I took a short two hour nap, but had some work to do at 10am. It's probably a good thing that I didn't sleep the day away, but I am quickly fading as the day wears on.

Staying up all night is not something I've never done. There's the college "all nighter" that I engaged in a few times. I never liked doing that because it made me vulnerable on the test anyway. I had to do it a couple of times to write papers, though. Like when I went to Wisconsin for a Field Training Exercise when I was in ROTC. I was up most of the weekend, but had a Shakespeare paper due on a Monday. I have no idea how I got through it (or how I got an "A" on the paper), but I did. The human body can be so resilient, sometimes.

When I was a Resident Assistant, I stayed up all night with one of my residents, Aaron. Aaron was also my friend, but on this particular night, I was pulling double duty. Aaron was a unique kid. He played bass guitar in a band, once called "Strumpet," he kept his hair long, and his body scrawny. Aaron wasn't much of a drinker at first, but when he did get drunk, he was a but high maintenance. He was high strung in everyday life too. Aaron came home from the bar, and was really out of control. He insisted that someone slipped something in one of his beers. He was jumping up and down off the couches in the common area, he was running up and down the hallways, he was extremely argumentative. I think he even insisted he was going to die. Somehow, we got him to agree to calling the paramedics. It was our last resort. We just wanted a medical professional to check him out. They came, took his vitals, and suggested a trip to the hospital. Aaron refused. The only thing they could do at that point was suggest he sleep it off, which he did. A group of us stayed up with him until the sun came up. I had another ROTC thing to do that day, so I go dressed in my BDU's (camouflage), and walked across the street to have breakfast. I may have missed some sleep that day, but I think Aaron appreciated the gesture.

I've stayed up all night with and for other people too. When Cyndi had emergency eye surgery in 1997, I stayed up with her in the hospital. When my grandmother was rushed to the hospital in the early 90's, we all stayed up for what seemed like weeks. When my grandfather was dying, I stayed with him all night, watching him take his last breath. Same thing with my father.

They say that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Me, strong like bull.

Something I thought about as I looked out at the Pacific Ocean on a Run

Travelling for my job can be a blessing and a curse. I have to be away from my wife and kids a lot. Sometimes several weeks, several overnights in a row. The worst was an 11 week stretch M-Th. But I also get the opportunity to travel. This year, I've been to NY, FL, AZ, OH, WI, IN, AR, NJ, and now I am in CA. I've been able to see family (my aunt, uncle, grandmother), and friends (Bob, Lisa, Ryan, Nathan, Dave, Maureen, Steve, Val). I've taken runs on historic roads Route 66, and today on US Highway 1, in Laguna Beach. I've taken advantage of the open mindedness of my company and brought my family with me, as well. We got to enjoy a nice vacation in AZ while attending a conference. We saw the Grand Canyon, Jerome, Tucson, and I was able to show my family where I used to live. I even get to enjoy hanging out with my friends from work. I've been on a NY subway, attended a Yankees game, and ate a slice of pizza at Original Ray's with BJ and Nicole, I've been to the Pottawatomie Casino with BJ and Jay, met some interesting people in a small town in Wisconsin with Steve and BJ, smoked cigars last night on Laguna Beach with Steve, and I've even learned a few things about my own hometown with Jay (try Volare and CND Bar). I've even had some fun with clients, David and Scott, watching Karaoke in Greensburg, PA.

Oh, and we have great meetings too. Like the one we had yesterday. Like the one I hope to have in a few hours today. Like the one we had in Indiana and NY, like the trainings I've been to in PA and MD, and the trainings I hope to attend in Indiana, California and several other states.

While every airport and every hotel, and every continental breakfast can all bleed together, while I still get nervous and anxious when I get on and am on a plane, I enjoy my job, and the perks that come with it. That's a good place to be when I am 39 and 259 days old.

Welcome Back, Sidney

Walking down the streets of Laguna Beach, I saw an old man that reminded me of my grandmother's brother, Sidney. I can't pinpoint exactly why the man reminded me of him, but he did. Or maybe it was the shops. Store after store after store of useless junk (albeit, pricey useless junk, and a ton of art galleries. Why, one town needs so many galleries, I will never know). Either way, I was reminded of Sidney, and I remembered an essay I wrote for my thesis at Northwestern. It tells the story of Sidney. It helps me remember a man who made such a great impression on me. Yet, he was also kind of scary. I've never met a man like Sidney. He was unique. Everyone should have an Uncle Sidney in their lives. Here's the essay:


Several years ago, I gave Frederic a wallet. More precisely, I gave him my wallet. My first wallet. The wallet I got when I was seven. The wallet I got from my great-uncle, “Uncle Sidney.”
I loved this wallet; still did when I gave it to Frederic. It’s a light brown leather wallet with plastic inserts for pictures. On the front of it—and this is why I loved the wallet so much—is a color picture of a group of un-teachable, under-achieving and incorrigible students, better known as the Sweathogs, from the television show Welcome Back Kotter. Welcome Back Kotter was one of my favorite television shows as a kid. While I grew up in a middle-class suburban town, very dissimilar to the inner city Sweathogs, my friends and I felt like we connected with the motley gang of students. We used to worship the show so much that we would pretend to be the Sweathogs. Tom Bray was Vinny Barbarino, the group leader. Jeff Hagen was Freddie “Boom Boom” Washington, the tough jock. And Jimmy “Jimbo” Vanacora was Juan Epstein, the plot scheming jokester of the group. I always got to play the role of Arnold Horshack, the nerd.

I held on to this wallet for almost 30 years because of my affection for a silly television program. I’ve owned many wallets in my life. In the 80’s, I had an orange nylon wallet with a Led Zeppelin insignia. The wallet had Velcro on it to keep the contents inside. It did not have the plastic picture holder in it so I had to keep the class pictures of my friends in the money slot. In high school, I had a brass money clip with a big $ on it. I’ve had black wallets, brown wallets and grey wallets. Some have been leather, others vinyl. The wallet I have in my pocket right now was given to me by my children this past year for father’s day. It too, is special. Every time I look at the Sweathogs wallet, I told Frederic when I gave it to him, I think of Sidney. Without Sidney, there would be no hand-me-down to my son.

Sidney was the kind of person everyone liked, literally. I never heard anyone speak poorly about him. A birthmark covered most of the right side of his face. It wasn’t a mark, really, it was more like a splat of deep pink paint that dripped onto his forehead and slowly worked its way down to his jaw. It was always embarrassing to him. He refused to take pictures by himself or in a group. Most of my memories of Sidney are stored in my head.

Sidney had a junk stand in a section of Chicago known as Maxwell Street. This was Chicago's port-of-entry neighborhood for many of its immigrant and ethnic groups—the Ellis Island of the Midwest. Maxwell Street was a reminder of the great open air markets of the Old World where people from all over the city and suburbs would gather to experience ethnic foods, listen to authentic Chicago Blues and shop for merchandise.

Sidney was a staple of the area. His shop was where you went to buy costume jewelry. “Gold” rings, “Silver” hoop earrings, and mood rings that only worked for a day. He had furry cardboard animal knickknacks, naked lady playing cards and naked lady pens, key chains and a wide assortment of sexual aides. Sidney sold French ticklers, colored condoms (absolutely not guaranteed to ward off STD’s or unplanned children) and it was from his stash of Gold Coin Condoms that my father—when I turned 14—handed me my very first. It was promptly placed in my Led Zeppelin wallet. It stayed there for at least another year, making a circular indentation on the outside of the wallet.

Sidney was a very personable man, well liked and respected by the tight community of the Maxwell Street, but he only knew the love of one woman, Edith Stein. Edith was a first generation Russian Jew who wore expensive clothes, flashy jewelry and too much make up. Despite Sidney’s physical imperfection, she agreed to marry him. Edith was the love of his life. As unbelievable as the story was, the courtship ended over what was always described as the “electric finger.”

I imagine Edith, standing in the living room of my grandparent’s house on Farwell Avenue, shaking her finger at Sidney, shouting, “You are a fool! It is for our future! You spend our money foolishly!” Sidney and Edith were not married yet and he did not appreciate her referring to the money as “our.” It was his money and he felt matters that belonged to him should not concern her.

It was a small gesture, shaking her finger, and it was a subtle comment. It was a situation most men would dismiss as the action of an overbearing woman trying to secure her future. But to Sidney, it was a mortal sin; punishable by the termination of what could have been a lifetime of joy and eternal love.

Sidney never had any children of his own, so he treated me and my brothers like sons. He never took us anywhere, I never even saw him outside of my grandparent’s house. He just paid attention to us—when he was in the mood—when we visited. After the breakup with Edith and until the day he died, Sidney lived in the second bedroom of my grandparent’s house. Whenever he came home from work and we happened to be visiting, Sidney’s eyes lit up and a smile appeared instantly on his soft blemished face.

In all of the memories stored in my head, Sidney always wore the same clothes. He was fond of white v-neck t-shirts, black slacks and worn out black sneakers. Even though he came home, every time I saw him, with a giant wad of cash—which he kept stuffed in his mattress—Sidney never spent money on himself. His wardrobe was a testament to his frugality.

Sidney was never a man of many words, but whenever he did talk with us, he would pretend to forget our names. He’d look at me and call me Ira, my middle brother’s name or he would look at Ira and call him Darrell, our older brother. It was a trait we grew to love and look forward to during our visits. If he was having a particularly bad day and happened to forget the cherished banter, our hearts would break until we begged him to play. It was one of those traits you find endearing in a person; one of those things you hope that person passes on to his children. Since Sidney did not have any children, I am grateful that my brother, Ira, enjoys this same banter with Frederic and my daughter, Lily. It is a trait Ira did not realize he received from our uncle until the day I mentioned it to him.

My grandmother used to tell a story about Sidney that always fascinated me. When he came home from work, he would walk straight into his bedroom without stopping to talk to my grandparents. He would close the door and immediately turn on his television. Sidney was extremely hard of hearing, so he liked to watch his black and white 13-inch TV with the sound as loud as it would go. Even over all of the noise—and this is what bothered my grandmother most—you could hear Sidney coughing. It was a cough filled with wet phlegm. Phlegm that Sidney would spit into his hand and fling across the room. Whenever we heard this story, it made my brothers and I giggle.

My grandmother loved to complain about Sidney. Sidney and his hearing, Sidney and his sedentary lifestyle, and mostly Sidney and his flying mucus. I always wanted him to do that in front of me, but never got the opportunity.

The day Sidney died, it was just before my 13th birthday and my family was throwing me a big celebration. My father and I were in our basement, setting up tables and chairs. We were listening to a Louis Armstrong 8-Track tape on our stereo system when the phone call came in from my grandfather. Sidney had been in the hospital for several days. He had pneumonia and emphysema. It was January 1983 and Sidney was 72 years old. He died earlier in the day from respiratory distress. I was mad at what that meant regarding my party. I was afraid it would have to be cancelled.

I remember being angry at him for dying on the night of my party, even though it wasn’t cancelled. But, I can’t remember what I did with the stack of 10 $100 bills that were pulled from between the mattresses in Sidney’s room; the room which was littered with dried mucus.

Sidney was mysterious to me because I only saw glimpses of who he really was. Shortly after he died, my father was given the responsibility to drive down to Maxwell Street and clean out Sidney’s shack. It was the middle of February and my father told me not to dress warmly because he said we would be busy working. If I dressed too heavily, I’d sweat and then have to deal with wet clothes.

I had never been to my uncle’s shack on Maxwell Street because my father hated going into the city. He especially didn’t like Maxwell Street. He thought that the neighborhood and the people were bad. He refused to bring us there to visit.

Although I was never there, I had seen what it looked like on film. Sidney was so popular amongst the regulars on Maxwell Street that when movie directors scouted the area for people and scenes to include, most people suggested Sidney. Because he was embarrassed about his face, Sidney refused to be on camera when John Landis approached him to be in The Blues
Brothers and Tony Bill wanted him to be in My Bodyguard.

Sidney’s shack was located directly across from a clothing store. The store obviously catered to the people who lived in the neighborhood, but I could not help being drawn to a hat they displayed on a mannequin. It was a brown leather hat that was shaped just like the hat that Rudy wore in the Fat Albert cartoon. My dad refused to let me buy it, preferring me to stick close to him while we worked. It was freezing cold outside and the brown leather boots I decided to wear provided little comfort or warmth because both my feet were numb.

As I think back about the day we had to empty the source of my uncle’s amassed fortune, I can’t help but remember the amount of junk he had; stuff buried on top of stuff. There wasn’t even an empty spot for him to stand on. He simply stood on his wares, hawking one piece of gaudy jewelry after another.

The only possible end in sight may have been his death. When you are a man born with a physical abnormality, I can only assume, you may tend to live life in a more introspective way. At least that was how Sidney seemed to live. He kept himself sheltered in a box everyday, surrounded by people looking for a cheap bargain; people who may have seen beyond the mark he had on his face. People that made him feel normal. He loved his sister and appreciated the attention she gave him so much that he never let her go. Sidney never wanted to let go. The items he sold were simple, nothing he treasured. The only time he did give into the urge to reject, it probably broke his heart.

When we got to the bottom of the shack, we had filled a 15-foot U-Haul truck from front to back and top to bottom. My father also had a tough time letting things go. He refused to throw any of Sidney’s stuff away. We drove home in silence, my feet warming from the heat blowing through the floorboards. Later that spring, we built a shed in our backyard where we stored the boxes packed on Maxwell Street. Boxes that were piled high on top of one another, filled with nothing but memories of a man insane enough to cough into his hand and special enough to remember.

Remembering my grandfather, on this day of atonement

“Be it known that Louis Gold, then residing at 1555 South May Street, having petitioned to be admitted a citizen of the United States of America, and at a term of the District Court of The United States held pursuant to law at Chicago on January 12, 1937…”

When my mother’s father immigrated to this country from Poland in 1920, I have been told, his name was Louis Cheskonofkovitch or Sympkanofkovitch or some variation of the name “nofkovitch” that has never been remembered.

I do not know much about my family history. In the early 90’s, I was living in Mesa, Arizona, which has a large population of Mormons, who are known for having the largest genealogical library. When I attempted to trace my family tree, I was quickly disappointed because I knew so little about where to start.

There are many myths that families were given new names when they entered Ellis Island. Some people could not speak, read or write in English, so they took the name that was given to them by the Port Authority workers. Other families did not want to be labeled or associated with a particular ethnicity or religion for fear that they would be passed over for a job.

Louis was a very proud man. He had pride in his faith and pride in his abilities. He came to this country, as many people did, in search of a better life. He also came in search of gold.

I have very few memories Louis. Pictures and images are my only link to him. Whenever we visited, he would greet us at the front door with a smile and a kiss. My grandparents lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment on the third floor in a mid-rise building. They lived in Rogers Park, a one-time predominantly Jewish neighborhood. Zadie would buzz us in and we would quickly walk up the noisy stairs. He was always so happy to see us and would kiss me on the forehead and give me an amazing hug filled with nothing but love. He had a scratchy face, and he had wet kisses. I would wait until he looked away before I wiped off my forehead.

Zadie was, and continues to be, my definition of Judaism. During our family’s Passover Seder, he would proudly stand at the head of the table, dressed in a black suit and white yarmulke, wearing a Talit draped over his shoulders. His singing voice was loud and beautiful. He sang with a passion that brought tears to the eyes of my mother and my aunt, Etta. Their father’s tradition reminded them of their strict orthodox childhood, stripped from them as adults; a consequence of marrying non-religious men.

I miss his singing. I miss the way my brothers, our cousins, and I would make funny faces at each other as he sang, trying to make someone laugh. I miss the way we would impatiently sit in our seats, stomachs growling, mouths watering, as he flipped the pages in his song book and tried to bring religious meaning to our lives. He knew what it meant to be Jewish and he deeply wanted to share his spirituality with his family.

Sexy Silver Foxes

As I eat my breakfast, and get ready to give myself the one of two hairstyles I've had all of my life (well, there was the time I let my hair grow long enough to fit into a pony tail, and then had an ex-girlfriend suggest I perm it. I looked like Kenny G for a little while--no pictures exist--and then I kept the perm, with my hair shorter on the top and long in the back. I was truly the Hair Club for Men guy), I see an article, "Sexy Silver Foxes in Hollywood." I basically shave my hair down low for two reasons: 1) Cyndi likes it; and 2) it makes the grey less noticeable. Here is the list of the 12 Hollywood Hunks that make growing my hair out something to consider:

1. George Clooney


2. Anderson Cooper


3. Harrison Ford


4. John Stewart


5. Eric Dane


6. Richard Gere


7. Alec Baldwin


8. Sean Connery


9. John Slattery


10. Sean Penn


11. Pierce Brosnan


12. Tim Gunn

I recognized most of the people on this list, and thought, "hmm...I'm probably younger than all of these people. So I looked them up:

• George Clooney, 48


• Anderson Cooper, 42


• Harrison Ford, 67


• Jon Stewart, 46


• Eric Dane, 36


• Richard Gere, 60


• Alec Baldwin, 51


• Sean Connery, 79


• John Slattery, 47


• Sean Penn, 49,


• Pierce Brosnan, 56


• Tim Gunn, 56

Second to Eric Dane, I'd be the youngest. I don't know Eric Dane, but the pictures I just saw on IMDB show him with brown hair. And Sean Connery is mostly bald. I've been thinking about growing out my hair just to see what it looks like longer. Is the grey as bad as it seems? Should I really be that worried about it? Is it s dead giveaway that I'm getting older? If I grow it out, would MSN add me to the list? Serious concerns here.

I think I'll keep it short. The first reason's the best.

Will Smith just didn't understand

When you are a teenager, say from ages 14-18, and you live under your parent's charge, you never think about the cost of things. Take, for example, weekly grocery shopping. Your parents have two, sometimes all three, of their growing boys in the house. And one of those kids claims to be a competitive bodybuilder. That boy, who must eat six-eight times a day, is known to eat the following: a half dozen eggs, oatmeal, two whole roasted chickens, a loaf of bread, a pound of potato salad, chicken breasts, peanut butter, gallons of milk, fruit, vegetables, pasta, rice (brown and white). The weekly bill can total well over $350--in 1986. And the parents never complain; at least not to the children.

There are other costs of living the teenager never thinks about, ever. New school clothes--every year; school supplies; car insurance; gas; the mortgage; toiletries; entertainment (god forbid); utilities. It all adds up, but the teenager takes it for granted. He expects it to occur because that's what his parents are supposed to do (in his mind). He's a good kid, for the most part. He gets good grades, studies hard, stays out of trouble, occasionally goes out with friends and doesn't drink or do hallucinogenic drugs, dates once in a while but never goes to dances, thinks about his future and going to college. He's not perfect, no matter what appearances he tries to keep up. He's got a secret, and he does a good job at hiding it for years.

All of the money spent on illegal steroids, all of the drug paraphernalia he keeps hidden in his trumpet case, all of the lies, the stealing, and the deception. He excuses himself in the name of a passion.

He's self centered and doesn't realize it until years later. When he's sorry for what he did. When he's several surgeries into it. When he continues to feel the chronic pain, over 20 years later. When he sees what a waste it all was. When he becomes a father and must protect, care for, and nurture his own. Because that's what parents do. It's what they do.

Things happen for a reason

Toward the end of my time in Arizona, I lived in the Quadrangle apartments, about a mile from Arizona State University. ASU is known as "the party school" (or was, at the time), and the Quads housed many students. My friend, Shay, and I lived on the first floor. I got to be close friends with the people who lived in the apartments directly above us. I was especially close with two of the guys, Jerome Vinagro and Eddie Bucci.

Jerome and I worked out together, and would drive up and down Mill Avenue in his brand new white Corvette. All three of us, along with many others, would go out to the bars, also on Mill Avenue. Thursday nights were a big party night back then. We used to go to this club, 411 (Eddie called it Club 4-1-1, like the information line), which had two for one Michelob Light pitchers. 411 was one of those dark bars, with florescent purple lights, and dance music blaring throughout. I think they may have even had a steam machine; at least that's my memory of it.

Whenever we went to 411, we always got drunk. Our goal was to get wasted as quickly as possible, because courage often comes in the form of alcoholic beverages. As the pitchers went down, our ability to go on the dance floor with women went up. I was never successful in going any further than the square tiles in the middle of the bar with the ladies. No one ever offered to go "back to my place" or invite me out for breakfast in the morning.

Shortly after Lyn (the woman I lived with who had three children, and who was divorcing her second husband) and I broke up, we started going out to the bars more frequently. 411, Maloney's, several others of which I cannot recall the name; if it was nighttime, we went, and if we went, we were getting drunk while looking for women. One night, at 411, a girl walked up to me and rubbed her hands on my face. "Ewwww!" she yelled, "you haven't shaved?!?" Deal breaker in her mind. Another night, a girl came up to me and asked me what kind of car I drove. When I replied, "A Nissan Sentra," she rolled her eyes, and walked away. And then there was the night at Maloney's I spent making eye contact with a woman across the bar. She'd look at me, I'd look at her; she'd smile, I'd smile. It turned out there was a guy standing behind me all night. I saw them leave together at closing time.

I had a couple of drinks tonight with an old friend, Cheri. She and I worked together for nine years. Cheri's been out of work for the past few weeks, and I can tell she's trying to keep her spirits up, and her contacts close. She seems very motivated in her plight to find work. She's going to classes, she meets with a work placement agency, she's constantly asking people to join her Linkedin account. Her resolve is upbeat, but I can also tell she's frustrated. What I thought was interesting was her mantras: "things happen for a reason," and "God has a plan." I too subscribe to these philosophies. If I didn't, I wouldn't be secure in the path my life has taken.

Years ago, as I was trying to get drunk as quickly as possible, and as I was trying hard to find a woman, I didn't think much about a higher intervention. But now, all of the failures I experienced on the dance floor and in the bars, make sense.

Cloudy With a Chance of Memories

When we were kids, my brothers and I used to go to the "Grove Cinema." Our time together was often much like a scene from a movie itself. Times were different then, and our parents gave us a little extra slack. There was less worries about kidnappings, and the like, and while we always walked in a group, we were also sans parents. It all seems so innocent, going to a Saturday morning matinee, and it was. I remember we saw "The Bad News Bears," and on our walk home, we pretended we were on a baseball team. There was an imaginary ball, we had imaginary gloves, an imaginary bat, and we ran real circles around each other being baseball heroes. There was nothing "bad news" about our teams. We were always the best, and we were always a team.

The Grove Cinema was one of those stereotypical dumpy movie houses. The floors were always sticky from spilled sodas, and they were cluttered with discarded candy wrappers and empty boxes of popcorn. I don't think they ever cleaned the place. But we loved going there because it was an escape. Not that our lives were horrible, but step into a cinema, and you are immediately in another world, like outer space--kind of. It was 1977, and we went with a group of friends to see "Capricorn One." I'm sure the movie was way over my seven year old head, but I went anyway. I only remember a little bit about the movie; the space mission was fake. I was both too young and too distracted. One of our friends brought his even younger little brother with us. The entire time, the kid ran up and down the aisles yelling, "Is this the Marathon Man? Is this the Marathon Man?" Funny thing was, no one stopped him. He just did what he wanted and shouted as loud as he could.

The Grove Cinema closed down for a very long time. This was when the multiplex was becoming THE place to watch a movie. Who would go to an old theater, with poor sound, no stadium seating, and sticky floors, when you could get the opposite experience elsewhere? Woodfield Mall had three theaters within walking distance of each other: two outside and one in the mall. Then a new shopping center was built across from the Mall, and with it came another 12 or so additional screens. Eventually, the theaters at Woodfield closed, and The Grove Cinema re-opened.

We like to go to the movies now as a family, and if possible, we try to frequent our local theater. The Grove Cinema (now called Classic Cinemas Elk Grove Theater) attempts to keep up with the multiplexes. They've added four new theaters with stadium seating, and they are building some more. The sound quality has improved, and the theater is mostly clean when we go. While kids are sometimes loud, I've never really seen a boy running up and down the aisles yelling. Tonight, in fact, we were the only ones in the theater when we took the kids to see "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs." It was like we were watching the movie in our very own screening room.

My only complaint would be the industry's move to 3-D. I miss the simplicity of the movies, sometimes. Special effects are one thing, but charging me an extra $2 so things can seem like they are shooting out at me, is not worth it. I may sound like an old curmudgeon, but give me a group of misfit kids on a baseball team, or the excitement of a fake moon mission anytime. You can keep your Harry Caray glasses, and let me enjoy my movie.

Country Music

When Cyndi and I started dating, she listened to country music. We didn't have the kids back then, or satellite radio, so 99.5 WUSN was her preferred radio station. I wasn't a big country music fan, but in an effort to bring some of her preferences into my life, I put the station on my radio as one of the presets.

Country music kind of grows on you, if you let it. The stories behind the lyrics were mostly very entertaining. I enjoyed what I heard. We'd go out to some of the local country bars (there were four of them back then that I remember: Cadillac Ranch, Dumas Walkers, Sundance Saloon, and Julie's). Cyndi even went out and bought me a cowboy hat and some boots. I became John Travolta in "Urban Cowboy" minus the looks and mechanical bull. If I remember correctly, we both also won money on US-99. She won $1000 for correctly naming the song of he day, and I won $750 for being the 19th caller. Country music was very, very good, to us.

Several years ago, I was hanging out quite a bit with Cyndi's cousin's husband, Craig, who was in a country band when they first met. He was the bass player in a (now defunct) group called, "The James House Band," trying hard to follow in his father's footsteps. His father's job growing up was as he guitar player in Loretta Lynn's band.

As the years went on, Craig moved more toward music management. One of his friends, Brooks Atwood, who had put out a CD, was starting to get some traction. His song, "Gone to Pieces," was playing on the radio, and there was talk about putting together a video. Craig knew that I liked to write, so he asked me if I was interested in writing the script.

I had no idea what I was doing, but I said "sure," anyway. I had visions of grandeur, really. I thought it was my ticket to becoming a "legitimate" writer, because the video would go on to win a multitude of awards, etc, etc. If you go to the following link and listen to "Gone to Pieces," you can hear the song: http://www.myspace.com/brooksatwoodmusic.


Here is the "treatment" that I wrote for the never produced video (POV = Point of View; INT = Interior; EXT = Exterior):


BROOKS ATWOOD

“Gone to Pieces”

Written by Cory Fosco

INT. FARMHOUSE – BEDROOM

We open with a wide shot of MAN #1 and WOMAN in the middle of an argument. Their clothes are faded and disheveled. They are down on their luck. Woman is quickly pulling clothes from a dresser drawer and into an open suitcase that is on the bed next to her. Man attempts to block her actions as he pleads with her, “Come on, baby. You can’t leave . . . stay and we can work this out.” Woman chuckles and shouts, “I can leave and I will leave!” She slams her suitcase shut, pulls it off the bed and starts walking out of the room. POV man with a wide shot as he watches her walk quickly toward the door. Woman opens the door and turns toward the man. She pauses and camera is tight on her face. “I know what I’m doing to you, but I just can’t do this anymore . . . I can’t. I know you’ll fall apart, you’ll go to pieces, but you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” Woman is crying and the camera pulls wide as she opens the screen door and closes the front door as she continues walking out. The camera stays on the door for a moment and the music begins.

Cut to EXT. FARMHOUSE – FRONT PORCH

BROOKS ATWOOD is PERFORMING while strumming a guitar. He looks directly at the camera with little to no expression on his face. He watches and sings as the woman leaves the house and continues toward her beaten brown Chevy Nova. The camera pans backward as he performs, revealing more of the farmhouse, as it looks empty with the curtains drawn.

Cut to INT. KITCHEN

Camera circles MAN #2 as he hangs up a white telephone, shakes his head and sighs. He takes a sip from his coffee cup and grabs a jacket as we follow him exiting his kitchen. The camera remains on the empty room and closed door.

Cut to EXT. FARMHOUSE

POV Front porch as we watch a very large, very clean black Ford F-10 Pickup Truck pull up the long driveway toward the house. Man #2 exits the truck and the camera follows as he walks up the stairs to the front door. Man #2 opens the storm door and goes to knock on the front door when he notices and grabs a white piece of paper taped to it.

Camera cuts to the words written on the paper in black marker: GONE TO PIECES.
Cut to INT. BAR

Camera is pulled back to reveal a bar filled with people, however, every patron sits alone at a table and at the bar. Brooks sits in a corner, strumming his guitar and performing but the focus is on MAN #1 as the camera pulls tight on his face to reveal a tired, sad person. Man #1 runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.

Cut to INT. FARMHOUSE BEDROOM

Camera pulls wide on Man #1 and woman (action throughout is in slow motion). They are both dressed nicely in pressed and brightly colored clothes. This is a flashback of happier times. They are passionately kissing and pull back from one another and gaze into each other’s eyes. They are very happy and begin slow dancing in a circle as the camera circles them.

Cut to INT. BAR

Camera is close on Man #1 as he drains his glass that is filled with beer and he quickly pulls a shot of whiskey to his mouth and drinks the entire contents.

Cut to EXT. FARMHOUSE PORCH

Wide shot on Man #2 slowly letting the storm door close as he contemplates the note he holds in his hand. Brooks performs on the ledge of the porch as Man #2 takes a deep breath and starts to put the note back on the door, changes his mind and holds the note as he turns and walks down the stairs of the front porch toward his pickup truck.

Camera switches POV to front porch so that you can see Man #2 enter his truck and speed away leaving a trail of dust/smoke behind him as the camera continues to pull back and watch him leave.

Cut to INT. BAR

Close up of Brooks performing Chorus. Camera cuts between Brooks performing and patrons at the bar still sitting alone with stronger emphasis on area around Man #1 and Man #1.

Cut to EXT. ROAD

Camera wide as we watch Man #2’s pickup truck driving down a more populated road. Camera pulls tight on his face as he looks toward something on the side of the road as he drives. Camera changes POV toward a crowded city park with children, parents and the like playing and having a great time. Camera changes POV and goes wide to follow pickup truck as it continues down the road toward its destination.

Cut to EXT. BAR

Camera wide on Man #2’s pickup truck as it slows down and stops at a street parking spot. Camera remains wide to watch Man #1 exit his vehicle, close the door and walk toward a storefront bar. As the song continues with “Gone to Pieces” the camera should be wide to reveal the name of the bar, PIECES, as Man #2 enters and the door closes behind him.

Camera is wide on the bar as Brooks continues to sing in the background and POV is from Man #2 as he scans to find Man #1 and camera walks toward him and sits down in the empty seat across from Man #1. Camera tight on Man #1’s face as he struggles to smile revealing some glimpse of hope now that Man #2 has arrived.

As the song finishes, camera pulls tight on Brooks as he sings “Gone to Pieces” and as the music finishes and begins to fade the camera cuts to POV Brooks and wide on Man #1, Man #2 as they get up from their seats and slowly (slow motion) walk toward the door to exit the bar. All of the other patrons remain alone at their tables/seats.

FADE TO BLACK


When that project failed, I thought I would try my hand at writing lyrics. Here is the one country song I wrote, which was also never produced.



"Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying"

She was standing in line at the grocery store
Buying what she needed but still wanting more
Two kids that were hers not much younger
She didn't have the drive all they had was a hunger
A different life they all needed she couldn't find the way
To make their lives better just for a day

We all start out with little and nothing
The world is yours to turn into something
But then there are others who give up without trying
You either get busy living or get busy dying

He was a man who was living to die
Dreams that were big if only he would try
He sits alone in a bar day after day
Takes half of his sweat and most of his pay
He wants to survive and not live just till death
He says goodbye to his life and takes a big breath

We all start out with little and nothing
The world is yours to turn into something
But then there are others who give up without trying
You either get busy living or get busy dying

Then there's the guy who's done all he can
to make the big bucks to be the big man
He once lived a life like his sisters and brothers
He grew tired of the excuses he heard from the others
He just wouldn't sit decided to scream
He did something with his life he fulfilled his own dream

We all start out with little and nothing
The world is yours to turn into something
But then there are others who give up without trying
You either get busy living or get busy dying

So don't be that woman who prefers the struggle
Or that guy in the bar with two lives to juggle
I'd rather be the one who took all the chances
Who gets what he wants who gets all the glances
He realized life is worth trying
He'll get busy living not get busy dying

We all start out with little and nothing
The world is yours to turn into something
But then there are others who give up without trying
You either get busy living or get busy dying


Anyone with musical talent interested in putting music to the lyrics? It'll make us famous...

A 20 pound Turkey

Yesterday, we were at my cousin's house, celebrating his daughter's eighth birthday. Nichole is my goddaughter, and we only get to see her once or twice a year. So infrequent, really, that we probably don't have as close of a connection as we should, given our special relationship. Each time we get together, we always talk about making more time. They only live about 20 minutes from us. There's no excuse, minus our respective busy lives.

One of the things that my cousin kept saying yesterday was how much thinner I looked. Earlier in the year, when I was about 10 pounds down, we saw each other at his brother's twin's baptisms (got that?). No one really noticed the weight loss. It feels good when people mention the effort you make to be healthier. I commented that last week, when Cyndi's mom's friends (got THAT?) came to visit us from Denmark, I cooked a 20 pound turkey. Before I unwrapped the bird from the plastic, I held it up. It was a representation of the weight I lost. A growing child. A car tire. A large fish. My old dog, Leinie (before she got fat). A WHOLE Turkey. I've taken off 3-4 inches from my waist (depending on the pants), and, as I learned today at Wade's Clothing, in Zanesville, OH, two inches from my neck (from a 17 1/2 to a 15 1/2).

When people ask me how I lost the weight, I'm almost embarrassed to tell them about ChaLean Extreme. I've always been against any kind of "diet" or fad (i.e., Atkins, South Beach, Blood Type Diet, etc.). My issue with those plans are that they are hard to maintain. I've known people who went on these, lost a lot of weight, and then gained it back with extra. I did the Body for Life program years ago, and I didn't really feel embarrassed about it. But when people hear about ChaLean Extreme, they have the reaction I did at first: skepticism. And the thing with ChaLean Extreme was it was a starting point for us. We knew the things it suggested in relation to the diet, but we never took the time to really put them into practice. Our pastor says that every week at church. He gives his homily and then ends it by reminding us to "keep it, and put it into practice." We never did that before with our diet. Now we do. And I'm glad for it. I feel healthier, I look thinner, and once I slowly update my wardrobe, I'll look better too.

Need to know basis

Maybe we protect our kids too much, but I'm a proponent of limiting the amount of data they are exposed to. Like movies, for instance. When I was five, my parents took us to see a double feature at the drive-in: "The Exorcist" and "The Omen." Scared the shit out of me. To this day, I'm not a big fan of horror movies. Another example: my children have never heard me or Cyndi swear. My father, on the other hand, used colorful language all the time. It pretty much came with the territory for him. He was a blue-collar, fleet service clerk for American Airlines, and the "f" word was a common part of their vernacular. I think I just feel there is a time and a place for everything.

The recent situation with an old classmate of mine is another prime example. The kids knew information about the situation we chose to expose them to. Friday evening, before we left for a "date night," my mother-in-law was glued to our television set. She had the four o'clock news on, listening to the update of the situation. Both kids were sitting next to her on the couch. Not a good idea, if you ask me. I didn't really want the kids to hear the media's raw portrayal of things. Right or wrong, it's just what I prefer.

I think much of this opinion stems from one incident from my youth. Since my father worked at O'Hare airport, we often heard about plane crashes. Planes were my father's life in his everyday, and so he spoke freely about mishaps in the air. Most of the crashes occurred in far away places. But one happened in our back door.

I believe it was 1979. My father had just come home from work, and he noticed a large cloud of smoke in the air in the direction toward the airport. I think he must have suspected something bad had happened. He told my brother and I to get in the car. On the radio, the announcers were talking about a major plane crash in a mobile home park near O'Hare. This was literally fifteen minutes from our house. I don't know why my father felt compelled to drive near the scene. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was curiosity. We didn't get very close, given the chaos in the area. But my imagination got the best of me, looking at the black smoke in the air, listening to the information on the radio. I thought about the people who were on the plane. I thought about the people who lived in the mobile homes. I was scared.

We returned home and turned on the news. Information kept pouring in, pictures began surfacing. I heard about the "charred bodies," and saw the way the DC-10 turned on its side before crashing. I was nine.

I don't blame my father for being curious. Planes were his life, American Airlines was his life, he wanted to know what happened. I do think, however, that my fear of flying is because of this incident, which is why I prefer to provide information to the kids on a "need to know" basis. Experiences, memories, life from childhood can remain with you. I've not enjoyed horror movies for nearly 35 years. I've had a fear of flying for 30. You never know what is going to stick in the memory banks of a child. You never know.

On celebrations, friendships, and BBQ's

I've lamented a lot about the friends of my youth. I know a lot of people who are still very close with people with whom we went to grammar, junior, and high school. They started the friendship because they sat next to each other in class, or because they played together in recess, or were on the same sports teams together. It's a lifelong connection, one that makes sense.

I only have one friend from childhood. I've written about Shay before. Our connection began in junior high when we were in gym class together. Something just clicked for us, and while we've had peaks and valleys in our relationship, it's endured the years. For whatever reason, all but this one friendship from my youth has fizzled. For me, it was the guys I met in college that have continued to last.

Tonight, as I sat in the backyard of my good friend--and original screenwriting partner--Mike Rizzo, and watched as our children played together, I realized how important friendships are in my life. I'm sure I knew this before, but when life gets in the way, and you cannot spend time with people you've previously spent so much time with, you tend to forget. Or I do, at least. Here we were: my family, Mike's family, Javier, Leslie, and Sophia, and Dave, Maddox, and Payton, hanging out, enjoying each other's company, laughing, talking, encouraged by the children's play. It was inspirational, in a sense.

We talked about what we might do for my 40th birthday. We talked about celebrations. In reality, while my number will be the one that brings us together--much like Mike and Laura's BBQ invitation brought us all together today--we'll be doing more than celebrating me. We'll be acknowledging our bond. We'll be furthering our connection. We'll be saying, "Yes."

Different Paths

My town was on lock down. Yesterday, while I was on my way home from meetings in WI, I got a text from my mom. It read, "did you hear about the guy who escaped from custody?" I didn't think much of it. I informed her that I had not heard and basically forgot about it. When I got home, Cyndi and the kids came back from Costco. Frederic came into my office and quietly told me that they left in a hurry because of "the guy who escaped." He said, "don't tell Mommy that I told you." I thought that was a little weird, but I promised that I wouldn't. Then I got curious.

Moments later, Cyndi came into the office to quietly tell me about the guy who escaped. Turns out, he was on his way to sentencing, and somehow got away from the two officers transporting him. Something in the back of my mind told me I knew who this was. I was right.

Earlier this year, a good friend of mine, Shay, came to stay with us for the weekend. I've known Shay since I was about 12 years old. We went to the same junior high school, and ran around in the same circles. Over the years, we continued to remain close, while each of us veered off into different lives. During our time as teens, we hung out a lot. There was a core group of kids who would hang out. One of the guys in that group was Rob Maday. I wasn't very close with Rob, more acquaintances than best friends, but Shay was. Rob and Shay knew each other since they were very young.

Rob was a small kid, and from what I remember, he was always a good friend. He was loyal to the people he trusted, but he was also attracted to trouble. By the time we got to high school, I didn't hang out with the same group, and Rob continued to get in trouble. I'm not sure if he finished high school or not, but in the late 80's, he went away to prison for the first time.

As I was told by Shay, when he got out, things started to improve for him. He met a woman, got married and seemed to be rehabilitated. I didn't hear much about Rob until Shay came to visit this year. She told me that Rob was back on the wrong path, and had gotten arrested for robbing a couple of banks. They guessed he was going to go back to prison for about 13 years. Rob didn't want to go.

When Cyndi told me what she knew, I took a look at our local paper's website. Sure enough, the escapee was Rob. Yesterday, on his way to sentencing, Rob was able to get out of the shackles they had him in, and escape. Since he is from our town, just down the street from me, the FBI was in our neighborhood, and everyone was on high alert. Schools were cancelling afternoon activities, meetings were being cancelled, people were scared. At one point, they suspected that Rob was in an apartment complex a few towns over. Several SWAT team members surrounded the complex, storming doors, looking for clues. They did not find him.

We had an evening event at the library with some friends of ours, and the wife was so concerned that she asked us to stop by and pick her up on the way. By the time we got back from our event, we watched the news. They were still searching for Rob, but were not sure where he was. I went to bed, uneasy that Rob was out there, with a sense of concern for a guy I knew many years ago. It wasn't that I was worried he would come to our house. He may not even remember me. It's just that I felt bad for the guy. He was obviously desperate, looking to find a way out of the trouble he got himself into, but digging himself deeper with each move he made.

Today, I periodically checked the Internet for updates. They suspected that he carjacked a VW, and possibly held up another bank. By lunchtime, they had apprehended him and he was back in custody. You could feel the sense of relief almost immediately. In Cyndi, in the kids, in our friend, in myself. I was just glad no one got hurt, including Rob.

Things like this are few and far between around here. It's especially weird because I know the person everyone is talking about, many people are/were worried about. I've never been arrested. I don't know what is going through Rob's mind or what he's felt over the years. We grew up in the same town, yet our lives went in majorly different paths.

I hope he makes it through.

Frenemies

I love Ira Glass. He's the creator and host of "This American Life," a weekly radio program on WBEZ, Chicago Public Radio, and a Showtime cable TV series (two seasons). The program has been on for years, and as Glass says each week, TAL has "a theme to each episode, and a variety of stories on that theme." It's really well done, and you can learn things from each episode, or reminisce about things that touch you. I typically download the podcast for my iPod on iTunes and either listen to it on an airplane, or more recently, on long car trips.

This week's episode was called "Frenemies." The summary from their website states that, "this week we bring you stories about friends. Or wait, enemies? How about both? Tales of estranged sisters, BFFs breaking up and making up and breaking up, and how reality stars walk the fine line between making friends and making a name for themselves." The show had Four Acts about people who were friends and have volatile relationships. Friends who really don't like each other. Friends who argue all of the time. Friends who really don't trust one another, or even like one another. Friends who often find it difficult to sever the relationship, which in reality, is the best thing to do. Friends who are enemies. Frenemies.

I've had some frenemies in my life. And I think, as I get older, my patience for people who ware thin on me, lessens. We used to know this couple, Jeff and Holly. We met them on a cruise, on our honeymoon. They were married the same day we were, and were ironically (or not) placed at our table for dinner each night. When we first met them, the immediate connection was that we shared a wedding day. The we found out that they lived a few towns over from ours. We hung out for several events on the cruise, even planned a day trip with them. We exchanged contact information, and pledged a lasting friendship.

Back home, the wives were good at scheduling time for us to get together. We'd go over to their house for dinner, hang out and chat; we got to know one another. We began to exchange holiday gifts with them, shared birthday celebrations, met each other's extended families. We started a tradition with them where we would go pumpkin picking during Halloween. We even pulled out our wedding cakes from our respective freezers on our 1st anniversary and shared it with one another. We began having children at the same time. Frederic was born first, then they had a son shortly thereafter. Then they got pregnant with their second, a girl, before us, but also at the same time. We were friends.

Funny thing, though, was I never really liked them. Scratch that. I never really liked her. She was very demanding; on Jeff, on her mother, on her father, on us. She nit picked at Jeff, berated him in front of people, didn't seem to trust him that much. He was a really nice guy, too. He'd do anything for her, for anyone, and never really complained. But, her personality was just something I could not overcome.

I think over time, Cyndi began feeling the same way. Here we were, relatively close, but we began feeling like the relationship was a chore. I suspected that they felt the same thing about us too. We continued to schedule time together, hang out, let the kids play with one another. They bought a big house further away, and when we had to go over there, I stopped looking forward to it.

Neither one of us, though, had enough courage to break up with the other. We had friends that did that with us in the past. Heather and Mark, very specifically. Kind of the same thing. We had a connection--work--but we really didn't share the same values. One day, they just stopped calling us. We'd call and leave messages, but they were left unreturned. There was no, "I want to break up with you" or "it's me not you" conversation. They just flat out ignored us. Cyndi and I always wondered why Heather and Mark dropped off the face of the earth. Even though it was best, we felt like we wanted, we needed, an explanation. But we never got one.

In retrospect, the way they ended the relationship may have been genius. In fact, we copied the technique. With Holly and Jeff. One day, Cyndi was over at their house, on a play date, and something happened. The house they built was a two story. Our house is a ranch. Frederic, less than three at the time, was upstairs. He was fascinated by being on a second floor. It was new to him. While up there, he wanted to see what would happen if he threw a doll down below. So he did. I wasn't there, but as it was relayed to me, Holly began yelling at him, chastising him for throwing things over the stairs. And when I write yell, I guess it was pretty brutal.

So much so, that Cyndi came home and said, "I'm done. We are no longer friends with Holly and Jeff." We pulled a Heather and Mark. We stopped taking their calls, we deleted their messages, we ignored their pleas for an explanation.

One good hand does not necessarily deserve another, but we decided to cease being Frenemies with them. It was just too much work. And maybe it's the values thing that I'm getting at here, I don't know. We realized that we did not share the same values with these people anymore. Maybe we didn't share them ever. We concluded that it is much more enjoyable to be friends with people we like. We concluded that we didn't really want to have Frenemies. We just didn't have a label for it. Now we do.

Thanks, Ira Glass. Again.

The chosen one

I've been in a meeting all day. About 90 minutes before the meeting ended, the receptionist came into the room. She got one of the attendee's attention by whispering into her ear. The attendee smiled, gathered her things, and left.

This reminded me of something I used to love when I was in grammar school. Getting to leave early. I'd be sitting in class, learning about social studies, or history, or my personal favorite, English, and the same scenario would happen. Someone from the front office would interrupt class by walking up to the teacher, whispering into his or her ear. The teacher would look around the room at the students, and our eyes would lock. Most often, I forgot that I would be leaving school early. Maybe I had a doctor's appointment, or we had dinner plans in the city with one of our grandparents. Whatever the reason, the teacher would instruct me to gather my things and go with the front office person.

It was always exciting. Even if I had to go get a shot, or if I had to get my eyes dilated at the eye doctor, or even worse, getting a cavity filled at the dentist. I didn't care. I was the lucky one. I was the chosen one. I was the kid who got to leave school early. The envy of everyone else.

It made me feel special.

Ping and The Bartender

I met an interesting person today. I have been traveling across the state of Wisconsin with my manager, Steve, and colleague, BJ. I picked them up in Madison, drove a couple of hours north to a meeting, and then began our 3+ hours drive back down to Milwaukee. Along the way we decided to see if we could stop at a brewery or two.

We tried, "Point" Brewery in Stevens Point, but it was closed. Steve looked on his GPS and saw the name of another that was supposedly 13 miles up the road, but we could not find it. So we decided to just try a bar. The one with the best name was called "The Rat Pack." It was located in Waupaca, WI, a town of about 5,000. When we walked in, it was like the scene from a movie, when three people who obviously do not belong, enter the bar and anyone who is inside, stops what they are doing. There were a total of five people in the bar when we got there, including the bartender. There was a couple at either end, each engrossed in their own conversation. Everyone looked at us and knew we were "not from around here." The bartender greeted us, and made it a point to express what everyone was thinking.

Once we got past the fact that we were indeed from out of town, things settled down. We became new meat for the bartender/owner. Everyone in town probably knew his story. We didn't.

We each ordered a beer, and he began asking questions about our business. He noticed that Steve was wearing cuff links and said, "I haven't seen cuff links since I was a kid." The man is probably in his late 50's. Then the real conversation began. The man had worked at a paper mill for 25 years and decided to just quit. He then worked at a VA Hospital for eight years as the maintenance man. One day, he decided to turn on his computer. He had never used the Internet before, but he heard you could get information out of it. He went to Yahoo Personals because he thought you could, "buy a lawnmower and stuff on it." Much to his surprise, he didn't find lawnmowers.

Since he didn't like any of the women he saw on Yahoo, he wanted to find other sites. "You see," he said, "once you are on the Internet, and you put stuff in it you like, you can find all kinds of similar sites." He stumbled upon Match.com. Within a short period of time, he tells us, he finds this nice Chinese woman. He kept wondering why a woman who was, "so good looking" needed to be on this site. He didn't join the site, but was able to send a short message to the woman. It turns out that the woman did not sign up for the site, but her friend did on her behalf. The friend began communicating with the man, and eventually the good looking Chinese woman connects with him. Within a short period of time, they began to realize they both had similar interests, wanted to get married, and seemed to be falling in love.

The man took his web cam, and installed it in all of the rooms in his house so she could see it. He eventually went to China to meet her, and four days later they married.

This Sunday will be their 4th anniversary. She'd do anything for him, and anything he tells her to, he said. They opened up the bar two years ago, and she still owns a house in China. Her name is Ping. We never got his name.

We learned all of this just after we met Ping. Halfway through our beer, Ping came into the bar area, and offered us each a free gift. She put a tray of silver rings on the bar for us to inspect. Each of us were encouraged to take a ring, which were made in her hometown in China. I didn't really want one--they mostly had skulls and/or snakes on them--but I thought it might be rude not to accept. Ping also told her husband to offer us a complimentary shot of Apple Pie, which was some type of liquor they made.

I don't know, to me, they seemed happy. While her English was broken, she was able to carry on an engaging conversation. I watched how they interacted with each other and with us. They were friendly people, in the later stages of their lives, who want to entertain others, and love one another. They made me think about my relationship with Cyndi

I've told people over and over that I knew Cyndi and I were going to get married the first night we went out. We grew up 1/4 mile away from each other, went to the same grammar, junior, and high schools, and both went into health care after college. Cyndi moved in with me two weeks after we began dating, and we've been together ever since. This past July was 14 years we have been together, and next month we have been married 13.

Sometimes you just know. I met an interesting person today, who told me a lot about his life. I didn't get his name, but I do know that if he didn't turn on his computer, and go to the Internet to find a lawnmower, our lives may have never crossed paths.

Thanks a lot, Judy Blume

I don't specifically remember when I discovered the truth about the Big Three: Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, and The Easter Bunny. Being a kid that was raised in a Jewish identified house, you'd think the last one wasn't an issue. But it was.

There is 8mm footage of me at a very young age, holding a toy guitar I received in an Easter basket. I am looking into the camera, smiling, and saying, "Mom is that you?" (or something along those lines). My mother was an equal opportunity holiday celebrant. She embraced most of the big holidays in both the Catholic and Jewish religion. She likes to give and get presents; that may have something to do with it. There are also pictures of me during Christmas, a nicely decorated tree in the background, and presents galore all around. While there is not any footage or pictures, I have memories of losing my teeth, and the excitement that went with wrapping them in tissue, and putting them under my pillow. I think the most we ever got was $1, but my memory points more toward a quarter.

There must have been a time when I discovered the truth behind these national/international traditions. Maybe it was one or both of my brothers. Maybe it was a friend from school. Either way, I was not scarred for life when the new found knowledge entered my conscious.

When Frederic was born, Cyndi was very against telling him about Santa Claus. Her issue was that she did not want to begin our relationship with our children steeped in a lie. But as time passed, and it got closer to his first Christmas, the joy we saw in his face made the decision for us. Over the years, as he's gotten older, he's asked if we were the Big Guy. And we've been successful at keeping the myth alive. Since the kids are homeschooled, they are not presented with the opportunity to dispel such things in their day-to-day activities. We don't shelter them, by no means, but there are fewer chances of these things happening.

Today, it happened.

Frederic is a big reader. If he has a free moment, his head is typically in a book. Today's book of choice, "Superfudge," by Judy Blume.

Chapter 10: "Santa Who?"

Page 139: "How can a kid who knows where babies come from still believe in Santa?"

Enter Frederic, smirking: "Dad, is Santa real?"

Inner thoughts of me: "Keep calm...don't respond to his smirk...look away, look away..."

Frederic: "Well?"

Logical me (so I think): "Do you think Santa is real?"

Frederic: "No."

Panicking me: "Why's that?"

Smirking Frederic: "See." Hands me the book. I read it. Tell him to wait a moment. Confirm with Cyndi that, it's time, and have a private conversation with him in my office (away from Lily), which goes much better than I thought.

He understands that it's the spirit of Santa Claus we were trying to convey. He understands that we should keep up the fun for Lily. He realizes he will still get presents if he does this. He feels like he is now, "in the know." He didn't even cry.

About an hour later, he's in our bedroom, on our bed, reading.

Contemplative Frederic: "Dad...what about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?"

Damn.

The thing I find really interesting is the fact that he totally glossed over the following words, "How can a kid who knows where babies come from..."

I don't think my 39.9.14 year old heart can take that conversation yet...

The importance of the sled

I'm reading this book, "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," byStephen Chbosky. Cyndi bought it for me about a month ago. She does that sometimes; buys me books. I'm very particular when it comes to my literary tastes. I try to read 40+ books a year, and I tend to stick to writers I know, or books I have heard about. Cyndi often picks things I would not normally read. She sees the title or, as people should do, she reads the blurb on the back. I usually roll my eyes and the wall goes up. It sits on my bookshelf for a day or maybe a week, and then I pick it up. More often than not, she's right.

There are a couple of sentences in "Wallflower" that struck me today: "And they will kiss someone someday. But for now, sledding is enough. I think it would be great if sledding were always enough, but it isn't." I read the sentences, and stopped. I'm often a fast reader, and can sometimes miss things. I actually read these lines over and over. I thought to myself, 'how simple they seem, and how true.'

I remember when life was so simple. All we had to do was wake up, and our parents took care of everything. We had clean clothes in our dresser, food on the table, a roof over our heads. We went to school, played with our friends, went to birthday parties, where we were not told, "don't bring me anything." The present was the center of the birthday child's universe. We went to the movies to laugh. We ate popcorn, candy, and ordered the big drink. We didn't care how much it cost, or what it did to our bodies. We ran down the street, waving our arms, sometimes looking down because we thought it made us faster. We didn't need an iPod to entertain us. We went on vacation, and laughed when the word itself--vacation--was unpronounceable. We watched cartoons. We dreamt about growing up, being on our own, having children of our own. We dreamt about having a cool job, like being a policeman, owning a pet shop, being an actor, or better yet, a writer.

And we looked forward to the snow. Inches on top of inches meant no school; not an hour shoveling. Sledding was always enough. I almost glossed over that.

You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay...

I've never had a nickname. Well, I've never had a nickname that stuck, really. My friend, Mike Rizzo, gave Frederic a nickname, two days after he was born. I've always thought that people with nicknames have a certain level of social superiority. So when I told Mike this, he contemplated the idea with me.

"How about...well, this may have negative connotations, but how about, Fredo." The negative connotations, of course, are that the name Fredo is associated with the movie, "The Godfather." More specifically, "The Godfather, Part II"--my favorite of "The Godfather Trilogy." Fredo Corleone, the older brother of Michael, is essentially passed over as Godfather, and betrays the younger male heir. Therefore the name, Fredo, is often associated with betrayal.

Frederic became Fredo, and the nickname stuck. 95% of the time, I call him by his nickname. Friends call him this, coaches call him this, a few of our relatives call him this; sometimes, even Cyndi calls him this. He doesn't know the history behind the name, and I used to be worried about that. But since it's become so common--as nicknames are want to be--it's no big deal. I don't know if he has any "social superiority" yet, but that's even less of an issue for me these days.

I've had a few nicknames given to me over the years. The first one I can remember was "Scooter." I believe this was bestowed upon me during my sophomore year of high school. I hung out, for a short period of time, with a guy named, Chris Glickman. Chris lived in Hanover Park, a few towns over from mine, and he had an older friend who drove. The three of us used to hang out on weekends, driving around, looking for things to do. We mostly just stayed in the car, listened to music, and talked. Occasionally, we would go to a movie, or to the mall, but for the most part, we just hung out with each other.

One day, Chris said, "You need a nickname." He looked at me very closely. I could smell his breath, which contained peanut butter from the granola bar he was eating, and milk. "You look like a Scooter," he said. "I'm gonna call you Scooter."

He wanted the act of naming to be official. He stepped back, held his hands in the air, and declared, "From this point forward, you are now Scooter. I will call you nothing else but Scooter. Understood?" I bowed down and accepted his declaration. I was actually very excited about the possibility of finally getting a nickname. "I insist that others call you this too," Chris said.

The charade lasted for about a week. No one else would adopt his nickname--it wasn't really fitting, if you ask me--Chris gave up. Our friendship didn't last much longer after that. I don't think it had anything to do with the whole nickname fiasco. Chris was pretty controlling, and I didn't like to be told what to do.

I got another nickname in college. My good friend, Frank Rottier, was in ROTC with me. One day, when we were marching, Frank noticed that I walked like a duck. He probably noticed this before, but felt it was the right time to publicly bring it up. Frank was a year ahead of me in ROTC, so he was my superior.

"Quack, quack," he shouted. "Cadet Fosco walks like a duck."

"We should call him, Duckie," a guy named Hett shouted in return.

"Duckie! Duckie! Duckie!" everyone in formation chanted.

And the nickname was born. While Duckie was even less flattering than Scooter, I actually was honored to have it. I'd be walking through campus and hear someone shout, "Quack, quack!" and know that a fellow cadet was near. Over time, this name didn't really stick either. The ROTC program was cancelled at Loyola and the upperclassmen who graduated were no longer there. Once in a while, Frank, and his wife, Karen, who was also in ROTC with us, will crack out the Duckie nickname for old time sakes. That one makes me smile when I hear it.

There's two more, and they are both "work" related. Bill Keyes, a guy I worked with for nine years, liked to call me Costco. It's simply just a play on my last name. He called me that one time when we were in the office gym. There was a guy there that did not know my name. When he heard Bill call me, Costco, he asked me, "Are you related to the family that started the store?" I have no idea who started Costco, but I just simply said, "uh, huh," and walked to the shower. The guy always looked at me differently after that.

The second, and most recent attempt at giving me a nickname, was offered to me by a guy who's had a nickname most or all of his life. Jason Cooper, a friend of mine from work, is known as "Coop." I don't think I've actually called him that since I've known him, but he fits the definition I described earlier, in my quest for a nickname.

Jason began calling me, "Alfonso" sometime last year. I'm sure it's part jab, part take on my last name. I'm a Cub fan. Jason, who lives in Ohio, is not. When the Cubs were doing well last year, we made a bet. If they went to the World Series, which at the time was realistic, he would buy us both a ticket to the game. I would pay for his flight to Chicago, but the onus was on him to secure us each a ticket to THE event. The pay-off came close, but never to fruition (damn, Cubs).

For those of you who don't know, Alfonso Sorriano, is a player on the Chicago Cubs. Jason started calling me that when we were in Atlanta at a Summit. We were sitting in the hotel bar, watching the Cub game on satellite, and enjoying a few drinks. Much to my disappointment, Sorriano took a pitch that hit him right on the hand, and put him on the DL for most of the season. Thus, I became, "Alfonso."

So there you have it. Attempts have been made, but nothing has really caught on to the masses. I'm not a Coop. I'm not a Fredo. Mostly, I'm just Cory.

Teachers, Part II: Electric Boogaloo

Of course, there have been other teachers I remember. Some more fondly than others. I think, if I am honest about my educational career, I didn't really stand out as being the model student. I wasn't in any clubs (until college), I didn't run for any political office (until college), I wasn't class valedictorian (in college either). I was simply an average student. If I ever became famous, or if I went to a school reunion, I don't think many of my teachers would remember me or have anything extraordinary to say.

I ran into my junior high school band teacher, Mr. Flamini, at a Borders Bookstore, a few years ago. He looked exactly the same to me. He was a short man who had a big bushy brown moustache, and big curly brown hair. He had the horseshoe look on his head back then too, and the only thing that changed about his appearance was the color of everything. No more brown. Just like me, I guess. When I saw him, I thought about what I should do. He was my band teacher for two years. While there were a lot of kids in band, I was in the Jazz Band in 8th grade. I played trumpet; first chair. That, in and of itself, made me think we had some type of connection. I assumed he would remember me because we spent so much time together. I thought about not approaching him, but then my ego got the best of me.

"Excuse me," I said. Mr. Flamini was at the register to my right. He looked over at me, directly at my face. His expression did not change. He began looking at me with guarded confusion and stayed that way. I realized that no light was going to pop on in his head, signaling him to shout, "Well, if it isn't Cory Fosco! I've always wondered what happened to you. Gosh, it's great to see you." Nope, instead, he looked down on the floor, as if he dropped something. "No," I said, "You were my junior high band teacher. Mr. Flamini, right?"

He continued to interact with the clerk, hoping she would finish his transaction quicker than she was. "Yes," he said, "I am. I'm sorry, though, I've taught many students. I don't remember your face. I don't remember your name."

I guess a person can change after so many years, especially from the awkward teenage years to the slightly less awkward 30's. My features, my shape, my style, were all different. That's why he was having such trouble (notice I did not include height. I've been the same, 5'4", since junior high).

"My name's Cory," I said, extending my hand, "Cory Fosco. I was your student in the early 80's."

He shook my hand, quickly. "Wow, that's a long time ago. I'm sorry I don't remember you. But it was nice to see you again, Cory." He collected his bags from the clerk, and looked around the area to make sure he had everything. "Real nice. Take care."

I watched him walk out of the store, and thought about why he reacted the way he did. I am sure it wasn't the first time one of his former students from "a long time ago"approached him in a public place. Maybe he was just embarrassed. Maybe he was suffering from dementia. Maybe I just didn't leave an impression.

I didn't have the passion for the trumpet like some of the other kids in the band. Tony Laurie, for example, who played the saxophone, was a natural talent. I envied him whenever he played. It always seemed so easy for him, and he always looked like he was enjoying himself. I was okay, but he was better. I would bet if Tony ran into Mr. Flamini at Borders, they'd have a nice enjoyable conversation.

That's my point, I guess. Sometimes students, like me, don't leave a lasting impression on their teachers. Just like I cannot remember many of my teacher's names, or the contribution they made on my life, I cannot expect anything different from them.

It's all about the effort, and if there's one thing I'm beginning to understand as I get older, it's often better to make the effort than to simply pass through life.

Johnny Appleseed

A few days ago, a former student of mine, Mary Ann, commented on one of my blog posts. "I remembered when you told your students," she wrote, "If you want to be a writer, write." It's not one of those Benjamin Franklin or Confucius type of quotes that should be written down and attributed to me for years to come, but I'm glad the comment stuck.

Mary Ann is a good writer. I can't remember how much writing she did prior to taking my class at Harper College, but I remember her--as most of the students were--being a bit cautious about her mode of expression. I remember, Mary Ann wrote a piece about surviving breast cancer. The way I structured the class, students each wrote one essay, and we workshopped it during a specific week in the course. After everyone had a chance to share their thoughts on a particular writer's piece, he/she revised the work for final submission. The class was not graded or anything, but I still decided to structure it like the undergrad and graduate workshop classes I took at Loyola and Northwestern. That way, students took it seriously. And everyone did. Including Mary Ann.

When I got Mary Ann's final paper back, I remember offering the following advice: 'send this out.' I felt the piece needed a larger audience, and that it was seriously ready for publication. I guess she listened. Not long after the class, I received notice that her essay was going to appear in the "Perspectives" section of the Sunday Chicago Tribune. Not one of those "small press publications" that most people send stuff to, but a small little circulation paper in a tiny little city (he writes sarcastically). I was proud of Mary Ann and happy that her efforts were recognized. It was the most rewarding experience of my novice teaching "career." I'm sure she was pretty excited too.

Since I heard from Mary Ann, I have been thinking about teachers that have affected me one way or another in my life. It's hard to go back to grammar school and remember my teachers. I can recall some of their names, but no one really connected with me until much later in my educational experience. I've heard of people remembering their kindergarten teacher, and indicating that he/she is the reason for their success. Stuff along those lines.

Mr. Kropp, my sixth grade teacher comes to mind for me as my first teacher making a connection with me. But not because of the standard reasons. Mr. Kropp was a tall, thin man who had deep brown eyes and wrinkles on his face (as I remember him, at least). The story that went around about him was that he drove to Elk Grove from Wisconsin everyday. No one could understand why. Mr. Kropp was what I might call a naturalist. His car always had a canoe tied to the roof, and when it came to snack time, we were required to bring a "healthy" choice.

This is what Mr. Kropp passed down to me. The idea that snacks do not have to be things like potato chips or cookies. We were given high praise for bringing fresh fruit, carrot sticks or celery, raisins. Because of my interaction with Mr. Kropp, I still, to this day, eat the entire apple--core and all. People notice this about me when I eat an apple. It's a "thing" of mine that I have done since I was 12, and I owe it all to Mr. Kropp.

Thanks?

KYC, repeat after me, sing "na, na, na.."

Since I was full of verbal diarrhea last night, I will try and keep this short. Tonight, we came somewhat full circle in the Fosco house. Over the past six years, Cyndi and the kids have volunteered their time at the Kenneth Young Center (KYC), which is our community mental health and senior services organization. Every other week, they deliver Meals on Wheels to home bound seniors. When they first started, I used to go with them. But with my travel schedule and my commitment to my job, I have pulled back on this particular service project. I watch from the sidelines how much joy it brings my family to help the older adult population.

Tonight was the annual KYC "Volunteer Appreciation Dinner." It's an opportunity for the organization to thank the volunteers, break bread with one another, hear speeches, and clap--a lot. This year, due to the economy, they had to scale back a bit. Instead of a plated meal of chicken and fillet, it was a lasagna buffet. No one complained. Everyone seemed to understand, and be thankful for whatever the evening offered.

I have not been able to join them at the dinner for the past couple of years. Last year was especially disappointing because they each received their Five Year appreciation pin. I had just started with Resource Systems, and we were just back from our trip to Denmark and Italy, so trying to rearrange my travel schedule was not the right thing to do. Luckily, this year I was able to join them.

Another new thing they offered this year (not related to the economy), was asking the volunteers to come up and speak in front of the 200+ people and share "20 seconds" about why they like to volunteer, or a special story about being part of the KYC family, etc. As you can imagine, not many people got up to talk. But of course, I did.

Lily had looked at me, and asked if I would take her up to the microphone to speak on our family's behalf. She wanted to see what it was like to be in front of the large crowd, but was too shy to speak. I knew there was no way Cyndi was going to talk, and Frederic wanted no part in putting a mic in his hands. So I did.

I got up, introduced the family, and got an audible amount of laughter when I lamented about being the only one in the family who does not volunteer at KYC, but the only one with the courage to put the mic in my hands. I received even more laughter when I admitted that there was no way I would be talking for only 20 seconds, and grabbed the bell the woman was using as a timer. I explained to the group how, when Cyndi and I were looking for an intergenerational volunteer opportunity for the kids, I thought about my stint at the Mesa Senior Center. I was a full-time volunteer after college, and I help set-up home delivered meals for home bound seniors. We wanted to find an opportunity to help with a program like that. I also expressed how being natives of our town, we understood how the KYC is also a large part of the Elk Grove Village community. When I was in grammar school, my family used the mental health services offered at KYC during an unusually big emotional "speed bump." I've often thought fondly of the help we received from the counselors at KYC.

It only made sense to make the Home Delivered Meals program part of our family's community efforts. The kids have grown up, understanding how important it is to help others. They also have a greater appreciation for the older adult population. This is something that Cyndi and I have been committed to, for just about all of our adult lives.

I was proud to share a tale about my family's involvement with the Kenneth Young Center. It helps show me and Cyndi that sometimes, we make the right choices.

29 times in 39 years

I have moved 29 times in the 39 years I have been alive. That's a lot of packing and unpacking. That's a lot of change of address cards. That's a lot of phone numbers to have to remember. It's also a lot of addresses to remember, and when I tried to do that, I failed. I've almost come full circle with my shelter. I really have no interest in living in the town where I was born; I have no connection with it. Cyndi and I know several couples who have come back to live in this area. While I'd rather be living in a cool single family in Chicago, or maybe even in another state, or dare I suggest another country, we've really made our house a home for ourselves and the kids. They feel a sense of security here; they too feel a connection. I'm not sure if the places where I lived say anything about me as a person. Maybe they do.

Here is a sketch of what my nomadic life has consisted of, with a comment on each:

1. Carpentersville, IL - this is where I was born. I have no recollection of this house, and I am not sure if there are many pictures in existence of what it looked like. I think it was small;


2. Wellington Avenue, Elk Grove Village, IL - this is the first "home" I remember. It was also small; two bedrooms 1 1/2 baths. My brothers and I shared a bedroom, and we were allowed to switch a couple of times with our parents. We had "The Brady Bunch" set-up in one of the rooms (bunk beds for Ira and me, the two youngest--AKA Peter and Bobby, and a single twin for Darrell, the oldest--AKA Greg). The one cool thing I remember about this place was when our parents painted the downstairs bathroom. They let us dip our hands in black paint, and put our fingerprints all over the walls. It was so shocking that our cousin, Mark, who came to visit from California, literally jumped when he turned on the lights to go to the bathroom. Good times;


3. Racine Circle, Elk Grove Village, IL - this is where we spent from December 1977 - July 1988 (or so). I've written about this house before: http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/06/looking-at-ghosts-open-house.html;


4. Campion Hall - Sheridan Road, Chicago, IL - I liked the dorms so much that I lived there for three years. I lived in the same wing all of those years, too. I just moved rooms. Most of the people I am friends with today are because of Campion Hall. My first year, I had a girlfriend, who later became my fiance, who later became my ex (all within six months), I had a roommate named "Richard" (it was really a Vietnamese name), and I had a 3.5 GPA. I didn't drink much my freshman year.


5. The Trails, Roselle, IL - this was my mother's first rental after my parents split up. It was probably too big for the both of us, but it was nice. I would stay here on weekends when I was home from school, and then I lived here for part of the summer between my freshman and sophomore years;


6. Ginger Creek Drive, Palatine, IL - since my parents got divorced when I was 18 years old (I am the youngest), there was really no "custody" battle. I split my time between houses because I really did not have a permanent address after the divorce. Legally, I did, but I liked the freedom of moving around. I lived here with my dad for the latter part of the summer;


7. Campion Hall - Sheridan Road, Chicago, IL - Halfway through the first semester, my roommate/friend, Andy Palombo, got an open spot as an RA. I got a dorm room to myself. While I was home on winter break, I got a letter informing me that I would be getting a new roommate. I wasn't too happy about that. The guy's name was Ivan McCullagh. I vowed not to like him, mostly because his first name was "Russian." I completely ignored the fact that his last name is all Korean...I mean, all alcoholic...I mean, Irish. The moment arrived when he moved in. Ivan walked into the room, carrying a powder blue laundry basket filled with clean, folded clothes. He said, "Hello," and I couldn't understand a bit of it. I think Cameron Crowe stole the words out of my mouth when he wrote "Jerry Maguire." Ivan "had me at hello";


8. Grissom Trail, Elk Grove Village, IL - at some point during my sophomore year, my mother moved. She rented a house not too far from where I live now. In fact, we pass it every day we go for a family walk. That was a strange house, during an even stranger time in our lives. At one point, my mother arranged to have an exchange student from somewhere I cannot remember (watch for a reply from my mother), live with us. Without getting too much into it here, it didn't work out. My brother, Darrell, and my sister-in-law, Cindy, got married in 1991 and had their reception at this house. It was a wild night. So wild, in fact, that my dad used the side lawn to take a nap. More good times;


9. Campion Hall - Sheridan Road, Chicago, IL - year #3 at Campion offered me a stint as the RA. I was also in Army ROTC at this time, I had a full load of 18 hours (including a class on the complete works of William Shakespeare), and a part-time job as a bouncer at Hamilton's. I loved being an RA. I loved the camaraderie that my dorm mates formed. I loved the fact that we participated in almost every dorm sponsored event, won most of the tournaments/contests, etc. And I love the fact that almost 20 years later, many of these relationships still exist. Did I mention that I loved Campion Hall?;


10. Hanover Park, IL - This was the Fosco brother's definition of a Frat House. Ira owned a town home in Hanover Park after our parent's divorced, and he was nice enough to let his brother's crash his bachelor pad. Darrell went through his divorce (from his first wife) while living here, and (rightfully so) began to sow his oats. We had many a party at this place, or at least I did when Ira was working double shifts at the 911 dispatch center. I slept on the couch for most of my stay. Darrell met Cindy while we were all living here, so I eventually got a room. Ira never asked us for anything while we lived there. He's got a big heart when it comes to that stuff. Some things never change;


11. Sheridan Road, Chicago, IL (apartment above Sheridan Florists) - all I can say is very cliche...if these walls could talk, they'd have their own blog;


12. Ginger Creek Drive, Palatine, IL - before I moved to AZ, my dad let me stay with him "one last time". I worked at Frato's for the summer from 9am - 9pm M-F, and every other Saturday. I also went out a lot after work and on the weekends. My dad never complained about me using his place as my very own hotel. I think he liked the occasional company;


13. McKellips Road, Mesa, AZ - The orange grove as written about here http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/07/no-internet-stillwriting-offline-and.html


14. other house in Mesa, AZ - my roommates and I moved to a regular house after the mouse problem at Shangri La. I had my own bedroom and bathroom, and we lived within walking distance of a pretty laid back bar. I moved out before the lease was up;


15. Gilbert, AZ (apartment) - after I left JVC, I moved into a two bedroom apartment with my girlfriend, Lyn and her three kids. For those of you who do not know the story, she was not even divorced yet (from her second husband), and the kids were 7, 8, and 9 (all from her first husband). It was a tiny apartment, and the walls kept creeping in on me...I just didn't notice;


16. Tucson, AZ (1 1/2 days, apartment) - I lived in Tucson for 1 1/2 days. I got a job at this hospice agency where Lyn worked. They were opening a branch in Tucson. I didn't really think the job through when I took it. I mean, I was going to be 90 miles from Lyn and anyone else I knew in the Mesa area. While my aunt and grandparents lived in Tucson, I knew it wasn't going to be the same. I quit the job on day two (something I would never do now), and moved back to Gilbert;


17. Gilbert, AZ - I'm baaack...for more pain and suffering. The walls didn't get any bigger, and neither did my patience;


18. Gila, Chandler, AZ- so instead of breaking up with Lyn and moving on, what did I do? Buy a home, in my name, but with her money, and move in together. After a few months, these walls began closing in, as well, even though the house was much bigger. I moved out in an attempt to save the relationship;


19. University Dr, Tempe, AZ (The Quadrangle Apartments with Shay) - luckily for me, my oldest friend, Shay, moved to Arizona a couple of months after me. She was living with a bunch of guys in a house, and was also ready to move on. I remember having coffee with her, talking about getting an apartment. This was long before there were coffee shops on every corner. I felt so grown up. She looked at me and said, "You need to move out." I listened. We moved into a two bedroom/two bathroom apartment about a mile from ASU. Almost immediately, Shay met her now husband, Frank, and was never around. I had the place to myself! I also caught Lyn in bed with her boss' son, and got a dog, which got us evicted;


20. Hayden Road (I think), Scottsdale, AZ (apartment with Shay) - Shay and I moved into the apartment complex where Frank lived with his friend, Raj. She wasn't officially living there with them, but she was. I decided, halfway through our lease, that I wanted to move back home. So I did;


21. Rolling Meadows, IL (apartment with my mother) - when I moved back home, my mother had an empty bedroom (or she made it empty for me is probably the right way to phrase it) I could use. I knew I wasn't going to be there for long, because I had plans on getting an apartment with my friends, Kevin and Javier. We found a place after only looking at one, and I moved out within three weeks. Whew...;


22. Barry Ave, Chicago, IL (Garden apartment) - this place was a dark, bare bones, exposed pipe nightmare...but it was a blast. I lived there with Kev and Jav while they were still at Loyola. Sometimes I had a hard time keeping up with their late night partying (I tried, trust me, I tried), because I had a job. Jav moved out about six months into our lease to help out at home, and then our friend, Dave moved in. The dynamic stayed the same: Fun. I met Cyndi while we were living here. She moved in two weeks after we started dating. I'm still surprised she didn't break up with me because of the disgusting apartment on Barry;


23. Ginger Creek Drive, Palatine, IL - the guys and I knew we were not going to renew the lease on the apartment, so my dad offered to let Cyndi and I stay with him. Cyndi counts this as one of the best places we have lived together. She really connected with my dad while we were there;


24. Pebble Beach Circle, Elk Grove Village, IL - I don't remember the circumstances why we left my dad's place and moved in with my mother. It may have been as simple as she had the space and she lived in Elk Grove. I'm not sure. We didn't stay there very long. In fact, while we were there, Cyndi had agreed to get an apartment with her sister in Palatine. She signed the lease, but never really lived there. I think the most we stayed at the Palatine apartment consecutively was for a week. I don't count that as "moving in";


25. Highland Road, Grayslake, IL - this is the house we were living in when we got married. We lived in this tiny little box (although it had three bedrooms) for 14 months. We never got attached to this house, even though it helps define our first few months as husband and wife. We kept the TV in the closet in this house, and only brought it out when there was something on we really wanted to watch (like a movie or a sporting event, etc.). I wrote almost every day, while Cyndi worked at her drawing table. People thought we were freaks because we didn't watch TV. We may be freaks, but it's not because we didn't watch TV;


26. Masters Lane, Round Lake Beach, IL - I still maintain we were tricked into buying this place. We were young and didn't know how real estate worked. We had an agent, but looked at this place on our own. The sellers agent convinced us to make her our dual agent, and kind of made us feel like we had to put in an offer or else we would lose the place. Little did we realize that the house was on the market for over a year. My dad bought the house from us a year later, thankfully. I hated that place;


27. Waveland Avenue, Chicago, IL - I miss this place. I wish we still owned it. We were three blocks west of Wrigley Field, and the layout of this place was amazing. Frederic was born while we lived here. We enjoyed our time together in the city. Going out with friends, going out to dinner, walking the neighborhood. I'm a city guy at heart, and if we ever moved back to Chicago, I would definitely want to be in Wrigleyville (or near it);


28. Blue Bell, PA - when the company I previously worked at went national, I was given the territory. Cyndi suggested that in lieu of flying back and forth every week and having the company endure the high expense of travel, we move. I did a case study on the costs of a rental apartment, offered to have the company pay the rent and we pay the rest of the expenses, and management agreed. We lived in Blue Bell for almost a year. It was a great time in our lives because we got to explore another part of the country. Frederic was still small enough to adapt to our need to explore, yet he began growing by leaps and bounds. Pennsylvania holds a special place in our hearts. We reminisce with fondness;


29. Elk Grove Village, IL - and we're back. I didn't see our house until the day we moved in. I figured that if Cyndi liked it, I would too. The good news is she can see potential in things.; she married me, right (I think she's still looking for the payout). She knew this place could be a home, with a little bit of work (and an open checkbook!). This has been the place we've called home for eight years. And it is...for now...

For those of you who stuck it out...thanks...I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did. The longest I've lived in one place is 11 years. We are almost near that number. What's that website again? Something like realtor.com...

Why you sometimes do not like people

When you are standing in the middle of a plaza outside the Pantheon in Rome, you don't think about the reality of things. Like when you see an artist selling his/her wares--and there are a lot of them--and something about a particular painting catches your eye. You don't really think about the size of things, or the framing of things. You just think about the moment, and your desire to capture it, bottle it, never let it escape your memory. You even go so far as to roll it up in the form of a canvas that measures 53X41. You make a connection (so you think) with the artists daughter, taking it one step further by snapping her picture. You carefully carry the canvas back to the States, where it sits in your office for several months before you decide to see how much it costs to frame it. You begin to feel uncertain and less enthusiastic about your purchase, when you begin to hear how much it costs to frame the artwork.

And then it sits in your office for several more months, in hopes that the waiting period brings down the price of framing, which it doesn't. You feel excited when you find a 60% off coupon for an arts and crafts store, and less enthusiastic (yet again) when the discount price is still almost three times the cost of the artwork. The item goes back into your office until you realize that it's almost been a year since you were in Italy. You resolve that it is going to be costly to frame the artwork and that you have to get it done. You try one more frame shop in hopes that since it has the word "artists" in the name it will be less expensive. It's not. But, you find a discontinued frame that actually works well, which takes the sting out of everything. One week later, the artwork is finally ready to be hung.

And then you begin to wonder where a painting, while so beautiful yet so large, will work in your small home. You grapple with putting it in the front room (the foyer), but it really should be the focal point of the room. You ponder over the dining room, but again, the size dictates everything. And then you realize it's really supposed to go into the 24X26 room addition you built seven years ago. That's where it belongs. But there are no walls left. Well, there's one wall left but in front of it stands the entertainment center/armoire you bought when the addition was completed. It's three pieces, and while it once was home to your television, it now has become a dresser for the many games, videos, and DVDs you have collected over the years. You resolve to put the item on Craigslist to see if it can be sold. And then it happens.

You get two positive responses, inquiring if the unit it still available. You get excited, maybe even a little giddy. You tell both of the interested parties via email that, "yes, the item is still available," and, "yes it is in very good condition." You offer them the opportunity to look at the item, and send off your phone number.

Your typical interaction with selling items on the site dictates that people usually call right away, ask for your address, come and look, and buy or move on. You don't hear anything from either of the prospects. You go to bed, hopeful that something will happen quickly. And it does, kind of.

You wake up to a new email from one of the buyers. It says:


Hi,THank you for the prompt response.If it will be okay with you i'll like you to take the ad off craigslist.I'll add $20 for your troubles.Also i want to notify you that i'll be making payment via a cashier's check.If you have no problem with this arrangement, i'll need your info to facilitate the mailing of the cashier's check i.e1.Your full name2.Your mailing address be it residential or postal address3.Your phone number.I will have my mover come over as soon as the check clears for inspection and shipment.Have a great day .


You think, "hmmm...something doesn't seem right here." But you consider responding later in the day, hopeful the other person will call. Within an hour, another email arrives. This time from the other "buyer":


Hello,Thanks for your prompt responds, However, i will need your name and address for payment,As am only able to make payment by money order at this time b/c i am away on assignment. It will be nice if you can send me more pictures. It will take about 7days for payment to get to you.As per pick-up, I will make arrangement for the pick-up after payment has been received by you. I don't mind adding thirty dollars so you can keep it in my favor.Please take the posting off Craigslist today and consider it sold to me, Include your phone number.Expecting to hear from you soon. Regards Adams Levine.


You Google the emails, word for word, and find that they are, indeed, scams. You begin to not feel as bad when you have previously jokingly declared that you "do not like people."

Shadow Dancing

As embarrassing as this might be, I have to admit: I once was a big Andy Gibb fan. My brothers used to tease me unmercifully, calling me the names you'd expect: fag, homo, sissy, etc. etc. All because I liked a guy singer that mostly girls liked. I remember one time, specifically, when there was an Andy Gibb album, Shadow Dancing, at the Elk Grove Library that I wanted to check out. I was with my older brother, Darrell, and I did not have my library card with me. He absolutely refused to let me check out the album with his card. He didn't want anyone, even if it was an anonymous librarian, thinking he had checked the album out. We actually had to go all the way back home, get my card, and drive all the way back to the library. I was afraid someone else was going to check the album out while we were making our excursion. I guess I really didn't have that much to worry about.

I heard "I Just Want to Be Your Everything" on Sirius/XM Radio's"70's on 7" channel today. It made me think about the library incident. I started to think about other albums that bring up an old memory for me. They don't actually define me or my musical tastes, necessarily.

Here's a list of what I came up with:

1. Tattoo You - Rolling Stones: I just had to have this album. I'm not sure why. I remember I had a really bad sore throat; it may have even been strep throat. There was a small, local record shop nearby that had the album. I asked my mother to take me there to get it, but since I was sick, she didn't want to go. I sulked enough to guilt her into taking me. My favorite song from this album--or from the Stones, really--is "Waiting on a Friend." I still love that song.


2. Mr. Crowley - Ozzy Osbourne: this is a collectors edition which featured a color picture of Ozzy on the album. It was also pretty expensive. I want to say it was like $15 at the time. The picture scared the crap out of me, but my friends were all getting it. My mom drove me to a different record shop that was about 20 minutes away. I think I still have this one somewhere.


3. Glass Houses - Billy Joel: this was one of those albums that told a story for me. I used to listed to it repeatedly, and the people in the songs came to life for me. It was like a movie in music. I think it started with the picture of Billy Joel on the album cover, standing in front of a glass house, ready to toss a rock at it. This album has some classic Billy Joel on it ("You May Be Right", "Don't Ask Me Why", "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me", "Sometimes a Fantasy", and my favorite, "C'etait Toi (You Were The One)").


4. Invisible Touch - Genesis: Anyone who knows me, knows I am a HUGE Genesis fan. Annoyingly so...just ask any of my roommates in college. This is my favorite because we used to play it at night in the Circle where I grew up. All of the people I hung out with loved the album too. We'd sing, dance, and I would perform bodybuilding routines to the songs. It was also the album that was popular the first time I saw Genesis in concert. It was 1987 and I saw them in Wembley Stadium in London, England, with my mom and my Aunt Denise. A couple of years ago, Genesis had a reunion tour. I joined their fan club just to get an early shot at tickets. I took Cyndi and my mom and almost got kicked out. Apparently, you cannot stand up, sing and dance at a concert.


5. You Gotta Believe - Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch: this is a college thing. One of my roommates, Brian Chudik, looks like he could be Mark Walhberg's brother. I used to play this album in our apartment, in my underwear, throwing our clean laundry all over the room...for no other reason than it was annoying.


6. Thriller - Michael Jackson: The year was 1982 and everyone was obsessed with this album, including me. I was friends with this girl, Yvonne Ciengi, and we used to listen to the album together, while talking on the phone. I was convinced that I could do a pitch perfect MJ impersonation, and that I sounded exactly like him when I sang. Yvonne was nice enough not to tell me otherwise.


7. A Star is Born - (Soundtrack) - Barbara Streisand and Kris Kristofferson: MY PARENTS were obsessed with this album and the movie. I was scared shitless of Kris Kistofferson. There's this scene in the movie when he wears this wolf mask while he sings, "Watch Closely Now." I defy any six year old not to get scared while watching this part of the movie. We listened to that album so much that even after 25 years, I can probably still recite most of the words.


8. Four - Blues Traveler: This album holds a special place in my heart because it reminds me of Cyndi. After we first started dating, Blues Traveler was touring because of this album. We both liked "Run Around" and "Hook" so we thought we'd buy tickets. It would be our first concert together. A friend of mine. Kevin Manning, worked at The Fairmont Hotel, and hooked us up with a suite for $75. It was a corner room that probably went for over $500 a night (at the time). We ordered room service for dinner, and ate in our complementary bathrobes. We actually were so relaxed and comfortable, that we thought about skipping the show. I think I called a radio station (The Steve Dahl Show) and offered up the tickets. The producer didn't think there was enough time to put me on the air, so he refused our free offer. Not wanting to waste the tickets, we got dressed, hopped on the L, and head over to The Aragon Ballroom. It was a great show. In fact, we have gone to see them several times since. There was this guy at the show who was really into it. He had this special little dance he was doing where he closed his eyes, moved both of his arms close to his chest, and rotated in a clockwise circle. Whenever we hear a BT song, that's how we dance.

I'm sure there are plenty more, but these are the ones that are sticking out for me tonight. I wonder if I actually thought about music that defines me, what would be included. It's a tough thing to contemplate.

Gimme drugs, gimme drugs...

We saw "Julie and Julia" last night. I know several people who have seen this movie--some multiple times--and the overwhelming response has been positive. Everyone has also said that after they saw the movie, they wanted to rush home and cook. I enjoyed the movie too. But of course, all it made me want to do was rush home, write, and find ways to drive more traffic to my blog.

I don't think I'm giving anything away when I reveal that in the movie (and I assume the book, and originally the blog), Julie Powell and her husband, Eric, get into a fight. Eric begins feeling a bit neglected since Julie's main focus for a year was her Julie and Julia Project. He argues that since she started, everything has been about her, reminding her that the world does not just revolve around what's going on with Julie Powell.

That's been part of my issue. Before I started my "A Year Till 40" project, I was never really interested in starting a blog. It's like an online diary, really, and aren't diary's supposed to be private?

I've always struggled with the sentiment of "who cares?" Who cares what my life history has been over the last 39+ years? Who cares what happens to me on a daily basis that I choose to blog about? Is my life really that interesting?

But, as Julie Powell reveals, it's like a drug. I've gotten into this daily habit of writing, and I think if I stopped I would miss it. My project gives me a reason to write. It gives me a reason to be expressive in the best way I know how: in writing. People who read my blog are my enablers. The more comments I get, the more I want to write. The more followers I get on my specific blog site, the more affirmation I feel. My desire to drive more traffic is akin to "jonesing."

As the days wind down, and it gets closer to my 40th birthday, I'm starting to think about, "what's next?" Do I stop? Do I just keep writing every day, and simply find a new title? What to do, what to do...

Toward the end of the movie, Julie Powell is interviewed for an article in the "NY Times." She comes home from work, and there are 63 messages on her machine. Most of them are from publishers, agents, TV producers, newspapers, and magazines. I'm starting to put feelers out there for agents. But of course, they get queried all of the time about the next great project. They also want a finished product, but I still have 130+ days to go.

Maybe I need to find a writer for the "NY Times" to write a piece on me...but then again, who'd want to read it, right?

Mind over matter, and other exercisy things

I'm reading the new biography on Lance Armstrong, very appropriately titled, "Lance." My boss, Steve, who's an avid biker, recommended it to me. I'm about seven chapters into it, just far enough to begin seeing the transformation of Lance from athlete to machine.

Although I've consistently exercised in one way or another for 25 years, I've never reached the level of intensity that a guy like Lance Armstrong exhibits. I understand he has a greater physical capacity to be a gifted athlete, but there's also a mental aspect to sports that I've never been able to attain. Even people who are not professional athletes are able to reach this intensity; people who run marathons, or bike hundreds of miles a week, or people who enter bi-and triathlons.

I've never been able to wrap my arms around this thing. Even when I competed in bodybuilding. Sure, I worked out hard, over three hours a day, six days a week, but to me it was just a way to pass the time. I did get a "high" from pumping iron, and I enjoyed the guys with whom I worked out. But I never had a passion for the sport like the people who outperformed me did. My issue is simple: I get bored easily.

I remember when I was in in the Army ROTC program in college. When the semester began, I was all "gung-ho" with enthusiasm. I had a drive to succeed. I'd get up at 5am several times a week, and join my platoon in an early morning, six mile run. We'd either run north toward Evanston, or south along the lake. We'd run in formation, shortest to tallest--thank god--and as soon as the sun came up over the water, we'd begin yelling cadence ("chanty things" as one of the guys liked to mock). When I look back at pictures of myself from that time, I was lean. I was probably in the best shape of my life. I wouldn't call myself a machine, but I was dedicated. I looked forward to the runs, until they became too routine. As the semester went on, and the repetitiveness of the activity got to me, I began dreading the activity. Luckily for me, the runs were voluntary. I slowly began missing a session here and there, until I no longer went. I was bored and needed a change in routine.

We also had Physical Fitness Tests every month. We had to do as many push-ups and sit-ups as we could in one minute, and we had to complete a two mile run. The push-ups were a breeze for me. I'd get 100% of the total points each time, and I'd score in the 90's for sit-ups. It was the run that killed me and my score. While I can easily run a sub-eight minute mile (on a treadmill) today, I'd be lucky if I finished the two miles in 24 minutes. Running around a track over and over stinks. I couldn't even wear a Walkman to keep me entertained. Guys would lap me constantly on the run, simply because I was bored.

I often wonder what it would take to advance to a higher level of athleticism. I've never had the drive that a guy like Lance Armstrong has.

But, the real question is this: can he write a blog every day?

My author story

Since a girl I went to grad school with is celebrating the release of her new novel, "An Off Year," http://search.barnesandnoble.com/An-off-Year/Claire-Zulkey/e/9780525421597/?itm=1&usri=1, I have been thinking about book tours. I assume her publishers are going to send her off into the bookstore world, scheduling readings after readings, and signings after signings, in hopes that people will come and buy the book. It's going to be her own little rock star life, complete with groupies and people who will want things from her, including her signature on the book, and strange hotel rooms in strange cities. I'm envious of her.

Whenever an author I like comes out with a new book, and a reading is scheduled in my area, I try to make the effort to attend. I love hearing writers read, I love meeting writers, talking to them, and gaining inspiration. I've got hundreds of books on my shelves (so it seems), and the ones that mean the most to me, are inscribed.

I've written about my David Sedaris obsession http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/04/stalking-sedaris.html, but there are other stories that hold a special place in my memory. One more than others.

It happened in 1998, and it was a total surprise. Sometimes when I read, I go in a phase. If I discover a new writer (not necessarily in the literal sense, but new to me), and I actually like his/her work, I sometimes have to read all of their stuff. It happened with Carver, and Tobias Wolff, it happened with Bukowski and Murakami, and it happened with Stephen Dixon. Although Dixon has published over 20 books, and has written hundreds of short stories, not many people know about him. Not many people I know, at least. I was turned on to Stephen Dixon in the early 90's when my very first boss--and friend--Steve Trahan, gave me a copy of Dixon's book, "Movies." It's a book of short stories, and it remains my favorite of the Dixon library. I didn't really pick him back up until later in the decade, right around the 97-98 time frame. I was obsessed with finding his work. I'd scour libraries and bookstores, and I used the Internet to locate booksellers who were interested in unloading their stock.

During that time, Cyndi was home recovering from major eye surgery, that kept her housebound for 16 weeks. She was going out of her mind with boredom. She had to sit a special way, she had to lay down in a specific angle. She couldn't see to watch TV, and books on tape did not seem to sit well with her. Mostly, while I was off at work, she had her thoughts.

I was about to turn 28, so Cyndi must have been using her time to think about a gift. We've never been very big on buying each other major presents for holidays. Our thing has always been finding unique or special gifts that outlast gadgets and fads. So, she came up with a plan; something she was able to keep from me, until a little less than a week from my actual birthday.

One night after dinner, I was cleaning up the dishes, when the phone rang, interrupting a conversation I was having with Cyndi. During the conversation, I was telling her about this Dixon story I was reading that day at lunch. It's called, "The Book Review" In the story, the narrator--a writer--is lamenting about having to write a book review. The review he has to write is for a book written by a person he considers his contemporary. The narrator is bitter about the success this author has experienced. He believes his writing is better, yet the other person is much more widely read. The book reviewer goes on to express how he wishes a person would write to him, and ask permission to mail a copy of his book for a personal inscription. This situation happened to the book reviewers colleague, and it makes him mad and jealous that it's never happened to him.

At that very moment, the phone rang. This was before we had caller ID, so I had no idea who would be on the other end. When I answered the phone, this man's deep voice said, "Is Cyndi there." Intrigued that some dude would be calling my wife, I simply asked, "Who's calling, please?" Imagine my surprise when the voice declared, "Stephen Dixon."

It was as if the phone suddenly burst into flames. I wanted to throw it right there. My mouth dropped open, literally, and I held the phone out toward Cyndi. "Stephen Dixon's on the phone for you," I said, shaking.

"Oh, my god!" she shouted, quickly grabbing the phone from me.

I started looking around the room for cameras. I was certain I was on a practical joke TV show. At any moment, I expected Alan Funt to spring out from a closet and into the kitchen saying, "You're on candid camera!"

Instead, I listened, as Cyndi tried to cover her tracks. I could only hear her side of the conversation, but it had a lot of simple phrases like"yes" and "thank you" and "no problem". The last thing I heard her say, before this weird event got even more strange was, "Would you mind talking to my husband?" I couldn't believe my ears, I was about to have a real conversation with Stephen Dixon. I cautiously took the phone from Cyndi and said hello. He immediately went into damage control.

"I just want you to know," he said, "there's nothing going on between your wife and me. Nothing." My mind hadn't gone there, but I thought about how sweet it was that he was concerned. "She just asked me for something," he continued, "and it will all make sense soon. Trust me. Now...tell me about yourself."

For the next ten minutes, we chatted. I told him about the story of his I was reading and relaying to Cyndi at that moment, he told me about his writing process ("the money's in novels"), he asked me about my writing.

And I thanked him. Thanked him for whatever he was doing with Cyndi. Thanked him for taking the time to talk to me. Thanked him for providing me with a wealth of books to enjoy. He was appreciative and modest; most writers--that I've met at least, are.

The following week, on my birthday, a package arrived. I can close my eyes right now and remember what it looked like on my front porch. It was snowing outside, and the brown package was sticking out of a mound of white. I rushed it inside and tore it open. Inside were two books: "Frog" and "Quite Contrary: The Mary and Newt Story." Cyndi knew about the first one, the second was a surprise to us both. There are two inscriptions. Inside "Frog" he wrote: "To Cory--on your 28th birthday--my best wishes always Stephen Dixon 1/98" Inside "Quite Contrary" he wrote: "To Cory--Good luck with your writing--the act itself of writing was always enough for me Stephen Dixon 1.8.98"

I now understand.

Congratulations, Claire...enjoy the tour...

School's no longer out for summer

School is in the air. The neighborhood is quiet during the day, no one is ringing our doorbell incessantly, and morning/afternoon traffic is worse. I remember when life was dictated by summer break. We'd no sooner hear the last bell of the school year, when students would be running through the halls, chucking old paper assignments, notebooks, and other garbage all around.

I always felt bad for Mark, our elementary school janitor, whose job it was to clean up everyone's mess. I liked Mark. During recess, he always went up to the roof of the school, and tossed down balls to the children playing in the park. My favorite was when I got either a Superball or a racquetball. Whenever Mark was up there, I pretended it was raining balls. I didn't need an umbrella, just an open hand. I always felt special when I caught a ball. I thought maybe Mark was looking for me out of all of the kids in the crowd, and he aimed the prize right at me. It was our unspoken bond.

Once I got home from school, and the official summer began, my dad would pull out his hair clippers, and tell me to sit down on a chair in the kitchen. He would initiate my "summer do." It was more like a "summer crew," and it's exactly how I wear my hair today. The short cut made everyone's life much easier. I didn't have to worry about combing it all the time, and my dad didn't need to take me to the barber for at least the entire summer.

Summer breaks are everything a kid looks forward to during the school year. It's when I rode bikes with my best friends, Dean Drozak, Jerry Andrews, and Tony James. A few summers later it was Jeff Hagen, Tom Bray, and Jimbo Vanacora. Summers were when we hung out in front of the 7-11, smoked Lucky Strikes, stole cartons of Lucky Strikes, drank Slurpees, and talked about girls.

Summers were when I would lay on my front lawn and look up at the sky, making shapes with the clouds. We had no homework, very few chores, and all the time in the world. We could sleep until our eyes opened, and not have to wake up when our mothers yelled at us worse than an alarm clock.

Summers were also when we sat outside in our Court and played a never ending game of kickball. We never really kept score or cared about winning. We'd pull out the sprinklers, and run through each other's yards to cool off. We'd leave long enough to eat lunch and dinner, often asking if our friends could stay over or visa versa.

At night, we'd sit between the houses, on the lawns, and listen to the radio, singing along with every tune. We'd have an annual block party, when our parents got to relax and join the summer fun. BBQ's, beer, and volleyball; that defined a party.

Things are different now, even though we only live a mile from our childhood homes. There's work, there's chores, there's responsibilities. It's even different for the kids. They're home schooled so sometimes they miss out on some of the things Cyndi and I experienced during our childhoods. We've lived on our street for eight years, and I barely know any of my neighbors.

Nothing's better and nothing's worse; just different.

The $300 Pyramid

I was once party to a crime. Well, it would have been a crime and I would have been an accessory to that crime had we actually went ahead with our plans. It was the mid-80's and pyramid schemes were spreading like a virus everywhere. Kids at school were starting them, guys at the gym were involved, people at work were frantically trying to convince people to join (and I worked at a bank!).

The idea was simple, and it seemed like it was a win-win proposition. Basically, the guy who starts a pyramid puts in $100. That guy only has to make one deposit. He then finds two people who also make a $100 deposit once to the guy who brought them in. The two new people then each recruit two others. Money keeps getting deposited and paid to each person in the pyramid above you. Feasibly, if you keep suckering people into joining, more and more money exchanges hands. The only people making money are those above you. Once the chain or cycle is broken, no more money is to be paid.

It sounded like a brilliant idea. I knew people all around me that I could get to join underneath me. I figured I'd be rolling in the dough with all of my marketing efforts. So I gave this guy, who was the boyfriend of a girl I worked with, $100. The thing is, I convinced my brother and our close friend to join too. $100 is a lot of money to a 17 year-old. As soon as I gave the guy my deposit, I felt guilty and scared. I knew something was not right.

I casually mentioned the idea of a pyramid scheme to my dad, and he immediately warned me that not only were they a waste of time, they were illegal. If I was a cartoon character, my head would have popped off. I went insane with anger, embarrassment, and shame. I wanted revenge and I wanted it quickly. It's at that point, I went into criminal mode.

Our friend, who I convinced to join the pyramid, owned guns. He was a card-carrying, NRA loving, Republican, whose favorite pastimes were reading Guns & Ammo, going to the range, and cleaning his guns. I figured that two wrongs did, in this case, make a right. We were going to hold this guy up.

It is kind of scary how easy the plan came to me. It may have been a combination of my anger, and the fact that I was pumping mass amounts of steroids in my ass cheeks that made it all seem so logical to me. Whatever the reason, I told our friend my plan, and he was all for it.

I was going to call the guy on the phone and tell him that I found a few more people to join the pyramid. I was going to ask him to meet us someplace dark and remote. I was also going to tell him that the guy wanted to see the money that could be made, and insist that he brought the money in a duffel bag. Once we met up with him, we would pull out our guns, take all of the money, and run. We walked through the plan several times; we called it a dry run. In our minds, this was easy and harmless. In reality, we were crossing a line.

Luckily, it was a line we never had to cross. When I called the guy on the phone, I decided to make a plea for the return of the money. I told him that I found out that this money making idea was actually an illegal scheme. I told him that if he didn't return all of the money I gave him, I would go to the police.

"Don't fucking threaten me," he said. "I'm not some asshole you can push around."

I seriously thought we were going to have to go through with the plan. "I told my dad about this," I lied. "I'm a minor, don't forget."

I could hear the guy's mind working through the phone. He could either return the money or push me into a direction neither one of us wanted.

"I'll give you your fucking money back, ass wipe," he yelled. "But I promise you, I will fucking kick your ass--or worse--if I ever see your punk-ass near me again. You got that?" I almost threatened him back. I felt like he was egging me on to go ahead with our plan. I felt like teaching him a lesson. I told him I understood.

In the end, he returned the money to me through his girlfriend. I seem to remember that he was arrested a couple of weeks later. His girlfriend brought another unsuspecting victim into the mix; another minor, if I remember correctly.

My record remains clean, thankfully, but I do feel kind of dirty.

Teetering on the edge of whatever

My company I work for recently updated our internal website. The company does a great job at recognizing when the employees help one another, and encourages everyone to nominate each other for "kudos" rewards. The site is now very similar to Facebook, where we can communicate with each other, including update our profile. Which I did today. Once I was done, the site informed me of the following: "Days till next Birthday: 136".

That's not a lot of time. I remember when I was sitting in Ft. Smith and started this blog. It seriously feels like a few days ago. It was the middle of January, there was snow on the ground in Chicago, and a blistering wind in Arkansas. I was contemplating life, and coined my personal quote for the year which would be, "teetering on the edge of 40." I was also looking forward to getting through the winter, my most dreaded season, and dreaming about the spring and summer days and nights to come. At that point, there were 364 days till my next birthday, which seemed so far away.

The scary thing is summer is almost over. Already. It's August 31st and temperatures will probably remain in the high 60's/low 70's from now until the end of next month. And now that summer is nearly over, we continue to comment on things we should do more. Like camping. Like family bike rides. Like picking fresh fruit at various orchards. Like going to baseball games. Like fishing. Like going to the beach. Like taking the dog to the dog park. Like sitting outside and watch the kids play on the swing set.

It's been a strange summer season, really. I'm not sure if we hit over 100 degrees. We've had a fair share of rain, which has kept us in the house more than usual. Just like winter.

We have kept to our regular evening walks pretty consistently, which is nice. I've kept to the goal of writing this blog every day. But I feel like the summer has gone by too quickly. I feel like this year is going by too quickly.

As children, we revel in the joy of getting older. We want to see double digits, we want to become teenagers, we want to graduate high school, go to college, be on our own. We want time to go fast.

As I teeter on the edge of whatever, I'd much rather see time slow down. I'd prefer if it was a warm summer night, sitting in the backyard, watching the kids play on the swing set. Forever.

Retirement

It should be a while, but at some point, Cyndi and I will retire. It's something we starting planning long before we knew each other; starting young in the 401K game. The market's been up and down, but hopefully the money we continue to stockpile will amount to something worthwhile early enough so we can enjoy ourselves when the moment arrives.

Cyndi and I were talking about this today as we took a nice early morning 1:1 walk. We don't often get the chance to walk alone, but since we were camping with her family for a reunion of sorts, we took full advantage of the multitude of babysitters. Camping has been a part of Cyndi's life since childhood. We've dabbled in it together over the years. We had a pop-up camper for a year before we moved to Wrigleyville and had to get rid of it. We've stayed in her parents 27' motor home before they upgraded to a 5th wheel. And we've tent camped. That's the way we've camped for the past several years. I often go at it with trepidation, but once we get to our destination, set-up, and begin relaxing, I really enjoy it.

Cyndi's parents and her aunt Tina and uncle Bill (her godparents) have been living the retirement life for several years now. Each couple bought a diesel pick-up truck, and each couple bought their own 5th wheel. A 5th wheel is kind of like a motor home without the motor. You pull it around with the pick-up truck, and once you hook-up at a campsite, the sides of the home jut out creating additional living space. They have a bedroom with a queen sized bed, a bathroom, a shower, a kitchen, a dining area, and a living room area. It's really a lot of room, and certainly is enough room for each couple.

Cyndi's parents typically leave the Chicagoland area in October, and travel to warm destinations, visiting friends, family, and meeting new people. They often travel the same areas. They come back in December for the holidays, and then head back out after New Year's Day. Typically, they come back to the area in April, in time for Frederic's birthday.

Tina and Bill have been at this a little while longer. They leave on December 28 nearly every year. They also head for warmer climates, but mix their areas up. While they have their favorites and have a plan in place, they like the freedom of our country and try to explore the nation. It's probably a ton of work, but it seems like a nice way to retire.

While we were on our walk, Cyndi and I talked about our retirement. We know that's at least 20+ years away, but 20 years can go by so quickly. I wondered aloud if the life her parents and godparents live is the life she'd want to live when we retire. Cyndi thought a bit before she answered. "No," she said, "I'd like to travel our country, but I'd hate to have to worry about a big 5th wheel like that. It just doesn't seem like us. We're not that handy." Being handy is a great way to manage life on the road, we both assume.

We continued talking (or maybe dreaming aloud) about how we envision the final stage of our lives. We'd both like to travel Europe, we'd both like to visit each of our 50 states, and we'd both like to do it together.

Not a bad plan, if I might say so myself.

58 celebrities also turning 40 in 2010

According to a random website, there are 536 "celebrities" that were born in 1970. I've selected 58:

1. Adam Goldberg
2. Aisha Taylor
3. Alonzo Mourning
4. Annika Sorenstam
5. Anthony Anderson
6. Barry Pepper
7. Beck
8. Chris Kattan
9. Chris O'Donnell
10. Chyna
11. Danien Rice
12. David Gregory
13. Deborah "don't call me Debbie" Gibson
14. Ethan Hawke
15. Fat Joe
16. Fred Durst
17. Heather Graham
18. Ione Skye
19. Jamie Kennedy
20. Jason Lee
21. Jay Mohr
22. Jeff Anderson
23. Jennifer Connelly
24. Jordan Knight
25. Josie Bissett
26. Julie Bowen
27. Julie Chen
28. Kara DioGuardi
29. Kelly Ripa
30. Kevin Smith
31. Kirk Cameron
32. Lara Flynn Boyle
33. Leah Remini
34. M. Night Shyamalan
35. Macy Gray
36. Malcom-Jamal Warner
37. Martha Plimpton
38. Matt Damon
39. Matthew Lilliard
40. Michael Rapaport
41. Minnie Driver
42. Missy Gold
43. Morgan Spurlock
44. Naomi Campbell
45. Paul Thomas Anderson
46. Phil Mickelson
47. Queen Latifah
48. Rick Schroder
49. Sean Hayes
50. Simon Pegg
51. Skeet Ulrich
52. Tina Fey
53. Tony Hale
54. Tonya Harding
55. Uma Thurman
56. Vince Vaughn
57. Will Arnett
58. Will Forte
    

How many of these people do you know? Makes me wonder what we have in common...aside from the obvious.

Mustang Cory

I drove to my high school graduation in a brand new 1988 Mustang GT. It wasn't mine. My friend, Tony Bondi, let me borrow it. The car was his and he LOVED that thing. It was much more of a car than I was used to, and I barely knew how to drive stick shift. But when I asked him if I could take it, he didn't even flinch before saying yes. I just had to bring it back in one piece.

My brother, Ira, drove with me to the ceremony. It was held at the now non-existent Poplar Creek Music Center. This was the place I went to with my parents when I was 12. We went to my first concert together. I actually went with them. It was Sheena Easton concert, and they couldn't get a sitter, so they dragged me along with them. I only knew t