...and if you have to book an airline ticket soon, keep this in mind

My 83 year-old mother has been in town for about a week over the Christmas holiday, but on Thursday it was time to take her to the airport for her flight back to Los Angeles. She was on a United flight that was scheduled to leave at 8:35am, but in typical fashion we arrived at the airport well-before 6am to ensure all would go OK. I dropped her off on the departure level of and made sure she made it the 50 or so yards over to a chair by the window. I then rushed back to the car, drove around and re-entered the terminal eventually parking in the hourly area. I grabbed her bag and when up to the ticketing area where mom was comfortably seated. I used my preferred status to go into the shorter Premium level ticketing line and walked up to the counter and paid $25.00 for her bag while retrieving her boarding pass. We alerted the ticketing agent that my mother needed a wheelchair, and within five or so minutes they came for her.  After I gave her a hug and said goodbye, they whisked her away to the security line.

I arrived at my office in downtown DC about 6:45am or so, and while sitting there sifting through holiday related mail and such, I received an email from United saying the flight had been delayed due to mechanical problems and was now scheduled to take off 2 1/2 hours later at 11am. My mom amazingly navigated her old-school cell phone and called me noting her flight had been delayed. She seemed fine though, and being the trooper she is stated that she’d be OK. About 10:45 United sent an email saying the flight was delayed another ½ hour and would now take off at 11:30. Shortly before 11:30, they sent another email saying the flight was pushed back another half hour to 12:00 noon. Sometime after noon, as I sat and enjoyed lunch with my boss at a downtown restaurant, United sent another email saying the flight was delayed another hour to 1pm. Not long before 1pm, they sent another message saying the flight was now delayed until 6pm, this time due to “Aircraft Change.”

By now my elderly mom had been sitting in the at the gate in a wheelchair for over 7 hours. She called again (two cell calls in a day is equivalent to a trip to the moon for her) in good spirits a little after 1pm, saying she was planning to wait it out. I offered to come get her, but I guess when you’ve lived through a Depression and a world war, airport delays don’t seem like that big of a deal. My boss being the mensch that she is suggested I go to the airport to see what I could do, so I schlepped the 30 plus miles back out to Dulles about 1:30 and arrived there shortly after 2pm.

The unfriendly ticket supervisor, who appeared to have done most of her undergraduate customer service training at McDonalds or some other high-caloric establishment, reluctantly provided me a security entrance pass so I could go see if my mother might need anything after her now eight hour airport stay. I found her in the gate area slumped in a chair with her head down sleeping, sitting along-side some other older passengers who seemed among the few to be waiting out what would be a scheduled 10 hour delay in the gate area. I fetched a cart driver and had him drive my mom and I over to the Red Carpet lounge on the other end of the D Terminal. It was a treat for my mom to enter the secret world of airport lounges, and as we sat kibitzing over complimentary screw-top wine and individually wrapped processed cheeses, I couldn’t get over the fact that she was in such good spirits. I asked her about it, and she simply replied “what are you going to do?...some things you just have to deal with and it’s not going to get any better by getting mad.” Well, that could be true, but when the next email arrived about 5pm stating the flight had been delayed again (now due to crew) until 6:45pm, my blood started to boil.

Shortly before 6pm we received another email saying the flight had been delayed until 7:30pm (again due to crew)…so I walked up to the ticket agent in the lounge and calmly explained that my mom had been there for 12 hours and that she was fading. I politely asked if we could re-book to a different day, and was matter-of-factly told that they could not rebook without a fee unless the delay was weather related. Determine to prove my mom’s theory about not getting mad wrong, I hit the ticket agent in the face with my clinched fist. I’d never hit anybody that hard before…especially directly in the face. When my fist sank deeply into his facial flesh…there  was a certain momentary satisfaction that is hard to…OK wait…that’s not really what happened…that’s only what I wanted to do. Instead, I politely re-explained that my 83 year-old mother had been sitting in the terminal for over 12 hours, and that it would be nice if United could find their way to booking on another day. I then suggested that even if they could not, it would be smart for the agent to pretend that he gave a rat’s ass and at least go through the charade of looking as if he was searching for availability before apologetically telling me he’d tried valiantly, but that it just wasn’t possible.

A nearby agent overheard the conversation and graciously offered to help. She politely and professionally rebooked my mom for Saturday, called to have her bag retrieved, and arranged for a wheelchair porter to take my mom back to baggage claim to get her bag. When we arrived in the United baggage claim area, there was no bag, but after the rigmarole to end all rigmaroles, the bag amazingly showed. An hour later we were back in DC sitting fireside, recounting the drama over a glass of corked wine as additional emails from United kept coming, announcing the flight was delayed until 8pm and then again ‘til 8:15pm, and then 8:30pm. Shortly after 8:30pm, United sent out an email notifying us that the 8:30am flight, now delayed a full 12 hours, had been canceled. In some ways it was validation that we’d made the right call, and I went to bed feeling good about the decision to rebook to Saturday.

At 4am on Friday I awoke to let the cat out and start my workout. When checking my emails I noticed an early morning email from United stating my mom had been re-booked on a 7am Friday flight…not the Saturday flight we had arranged in the lounge (and I had a ticketed receipt for). I could tell you about my next call to the airline, but that wouldn’t really serve any purpose. What’s the point of all this? Well, unlike most of the drivel that appears here the point to me seems to be to fly U.S. Airways or some other competent carrier. However what is amazing to me is that for the most part the United employees seemed to be trying, but the company just couldn’t seem to get it right. Seems to me when you’ve been in business as long as United, you should just be better at this whole flying game. I mean, I’ve been playing golf for over 40 years. I still shoot far from par…but I’ve gotten better and no longer shoot in the 120s. If I did, I’d just quit. To me, United just seems like they’re not getting any better, and for the sake of the airline industry, I really wish the company would try.

What’s the real point of all this? Hug your mother…however taxing on your nerves. The people that matter to you won’t be around forever (nor will you), so take some time this weekend and devote it to the people and pets that matter the most in your life. Have a good weekend…and start is with a little good music.

 

Happy New Year

 

BTW...Sorry for all the mispellings and typos. Didn't have time to proof this even once today. Spent the morning on the phone with the airline.

...and I need to find some good gifts soon

For more than a few years now, my mom has run a small antique business in the Scandinavian themed city of Solvang, California. The quaint town which was the area that served as much of the setting for the wine movie Sideways, sits inland on California’s famed Highway 101 about 60 miles north of the seaside hamlet of Santa Barbara. Specializing in antique smalls (jewelry, cut glass, china and such), Helen’s Precious Things in the Solvang Antique Center has been a fairly successful small business endeavor. Sure…it’s certainly not Fortune 500 material, but from its modest hobby origins the recreational business had turned into a pretty nice side income. More importantly, the antiques hobby has provided thousands of hours of enjoyment for my mom who at 83, still thoroughly enjoys scouring antique shops, thrift sales and just about any other venue searching for bargain treasures to add to her inventory.

About 15 years ago, when she move her antiques operation from Ojai, California to Solvang, I got the brainstorm that some nifty ink-pens marketing the name of her business (“Helen’s Precious Things”) would make a cool Christmas gift. I was actually referred to a woman named Janie that lived in my area that had just such a business, so when given her number by a colleague I contacted her and placed the order. I remember being somewhat alarmed because Janice seemed a little dense when I gave her the information. I wanted the pens to have the name of the business (Helen’s Precious Things) and the telephone number and address of the Solvang Antique Center. As I recall I ordered about 300 pens…and if I remember correctly the cost of this purchase at the time was somewhere in the neighborhood of $150.00.

At that point in my early 30s, it was more than a little out-of-character for me to be that prepared and to have it together enough to order the pens with enough lead time to arrive ahead of the holiday. I eagerly anticipated receiving the pens knowing my mother would probably be thrilled to have something promoting her business. The package was delivered to my home well-ahead of the specified time, and I remember thinking that Janice was obviously better than I’d initially assessed. I opened the box to look at the forest green and white pens and immediately knew I’d hit a gift home run. They were pretty cool looking, and as I scrutinized them more closely I noticed that Solvang was spelled Solvant…and just to put me further in the holiday spirit, Janice the monumental moron had also managed to muck up the address.

Thankfully, my time going through an electrical apprenticeship and coaching inner-city high school football in rough-n-tumble Los Angeles meant I was fully fluent in both Building and Construction Trades language and general male locker room exchanges. Though I knew the calendar meant there was no time to correct Janice’s galactic blunder in time to save the Christmas gift, I looked forward to calling the idiot and unloading with both barrels. The pen idea had been a rare show of creativity for me, and to have such uncommon gift genius (what does it mean that I had to spellcheck genius?) undone by an idiot that theoretically worked in the pen providing business…well…let’s just say I was looking forward to verbally tearing her a new one.

Well, given that you’re already bored with the story, I won’t make it worse by giving you the profane details of the call. But after her unenthusiastic husband answered the phone and transferred me to Janice (who almost sounded drunk), I clearly conveyed my displeasure with her piss-poor performance. She was profusely apologetic, but I was unrelenting, and because she’d essentially ruined a good gift plan, I really did skewer her. She made some feeble attempt to make it right, but I remember knowing it wouldn’t make much difference and pretty much hung up in disgust. Her mistake had been inexcusable, and her sorry attempt to remedy her unforgivable faux pas was all the more unsatisfying. It was yet another experience that vividly revealed that despite God’s omnipotent power, he (or she) really does see fit to routinely literally waste humane flesh.

About a week and a half later, on about the 23^rd I called Janice back to get some idea of when my next shipment of screwed up pens might show. Her nitwit husband again picked up the phone with the enthusiasm and clarity of someone undergoing a root canal and when I asked to speak to his wife, his voice kind of cracked and he said she had passed away about a week ago. She had been very sick for a long time, but that now “she’s finally done suffering.” I said that is all well and good, but that I had a pen order and needed to check the status of my delivery. Actually, I capable of some amazingly stupid behavior, but that’s not really what I said. I feebly offered my condolences and hurried to get off the uncomfortable call as quickly as possible.

Thankfully I don’t remember thinking much about being out $150 clams and having 300 useless pens (actually, they still provided a useful writing utensil). I remember being horrified by the way I treated this woman, and haunted by the fact that her medical condition surely contributed to the incorrect order. I remember feeling horrible about the awful things I said to her…just days before she passed away. I remembered too that she never fired back, took the high road, apologized and never complained about her illness or cited it as an excuse for the mix up.

Sometime in the forenoon on Christmas Eve, there was a knock on the door from a UPS man. He handed me a small rush package and inside the box were 600 (a double order) perfectly stenciled pens with Helen’s Precious Things and the correct address and phone number. There was also a check for a full refund made out to me for the first order and a handwritten note of apology from Janice for the mistake and any inconvenience caused me. Putting the time-lime together, she appeared to have taking care of all of this the day before she passed away.

You never know what somebody is going through or how long they’ll be around. You might just want to treat them a little better…or at least think about doing so.

Hope you have a tremendous holiday weekend. Remember to do something relaxing and fun, and to hug the people and pets that you love…and maybe even a few that you don’t.   

 

Sorry for all the typos, misspellings, bad writing and poor grammar.

 

...comfort and joy

...and some stranger needs to buy me a drink

A work valued colleague and one of my best friends in the world has this remarkable ability to get a variety of stuff provided to her for free. Oddly, it usually happens on Fridays…and often takes the form of some stranger buying her lunch or perhaps an adult beverage. Sometimes, if she’s dinning out when her better-half is on the road, she even gets a complimentary dinner. As a matter of fact, having an unfamiliar person or random bartender provide something gratis has become such a common occurrence for her, she’s taking to referring to the last day of the work week as “free Fridays.” She was bragging to a fellow male coworker and me this past Wednesday about her special skill, when the sheer inequity of her talent for receiving complimentary food and drink really started to get under my skin.

You see, here’s the deal. One of this individual’s most admirable characteristics is that I’m convinced she’s incapable of telling a lie. Much to my dismay…she doesn’t use profanity and always refrains from saying even the slightest mean-spirited thing about any fellow human being (even when she has the luxury of doing it behind someone’s back…I so don’t get that). So…it’s not like she’s embellishing her ability to have people buy her stuff…it just seems to happen and she’s just telling it like it is. As a matter of fact, just last Friday…the bartender at a swanky local restaurant picked up her lunch…and I believe a couple or beverages to boot.  

So…you’re probably asking yourself…what’s the problem? Well, it’s really pretty simple. You see, I just turned 51 and I typically eat out a minimum of about 7 or 8 times a week (5 lunches and two weekend dinners). I’m guessing I’ve dined out with basically this same frequency since the time when I transitioned from my construction electrician’s job to a largely office gig about 15 years ago. So…while I’m not real great at math, it seems to me that’s 7 meals a week times 52 weeks a year makes for about 364 restaurant meals a year. If you multiply that over the last 15 years (15 x 364), that comes to roughly 5,460 restaurant experiences since the late 90s alone. Prior to that, from the time I was 18 years old to the age of about 36 while I worked as an electrician, a very conservative estimate was that I ate out at least 5 times a week (usually more dinners). If you multiply the 5 times 52 weeks a years, I think that comes to approximately 260 times a year. Multiply that by the 18-year span from 18 to 36 (or however many freaking years that is), and you’ve got another 4,680 meals to add to the 5,460 modern era dinning visits. If you add those two totals together, it’s clear I’ve dined out well over 10,000 times from the time I was 18 years old. To be honest I’m quite certain the number is considerably higher…but for the sake of argument…let’s stick with the 10,000 figure.

So, over the last 33 years, I’ve been in restaurants a minimum of 10,000 times. Now, while I’m never confused for Brad Pitt or Denzel Washington (actually not true…but that’s another Friday story) or Aston Kutcher in manpris, I’m not exactly Quasimodo either. Sure, I could have hipper clothes, a six pack instead of a keg or a more stylish haircut, but aside from my frumpy clothing and deteriorating physique, it’s not like I’m chopped liver either. There have been ample opportunities for some stranger sitting across the restaurant to pick up my meal or send over a free drink, but the fact-of-the-matter is I’m zero for 10,000. Not one time in the span of 18 to 51 has anybody ever randomly bought me a drink or picked up my lunch. No waiter has ever said “this one’s on the mysterious lady in red in the booth by the window” or “compliments of Mr. Soros” or even “this ones on the masked man with the white horse.” Sure…a litany of cherished friends and valued colleagues have generously taking me to lunch or provided me with very nice restaurant gift cards, but with respect to random buys…I’ve got nothing…zero, zilch, nada.

As my work colleagues mulled this over last Wednesday in the conversation alluded to above, we began to explore some possible explanations for her prowess and my dismal 51-year dry spell. My fellow male coworker theorized that at least part of the reason for my drought was due to my gender, and there were various other hypotheses offered about body language and facial expressions. I logically reasoned that it could be that I’m just too cool, or that I exude too much confidence. Maybe it’s that I just ooze some level of class or telegraph some extraordinary station of success that leaves folks feeling absolved from any need to randomly extend me charity. Then, amidst this exploration of these increasingly likely explanations, my dear friend with the amazing knack for getting her meals and drinks paid by strangers matter-of-factly offered this straightforward explanation. “Maybe people think you’re an A-hole.”

Now…usually it’s tough to follow up on a gem like that, but as if that wasn’t insightful enough…she continued by noting there is actually a new book that might offer some insight into my dilemma entitled “Assh#le.” Convinced to prove the “good things come in threes theorem,” she then closed with (I swear on a bible I’m not making this up), “maybe you just need to smile more.”

So the day started with 290 folks on my holiday card list…and ended with 289.

It’s Friday and I’m determined to solve this confounding mystery. I’m going to hit some bars and restaurants and get at least one random jackass to buy me one stinking drink…or at least pick up my usual side of brussels sprouts. I’m going to disprove this A-Hole theory and force my myself to chat up every simple-minded waiter or mind-numbingly boring bartender. Instead of rolling my eyes and shaking my head in disgust, I’m going to return any stranger’s inviting brief smile with a mildly pleasant manufactured expression. And when some nitwit tries to start a random buzz-killing conversation about the warm December weather or the Redskins playoff hopes, I’ll stay clear of my standard “hey no offense… but I came in here alone for a reason” response and attempt to feign some level of interest. Someway, somehow, I’m going to get to the bottom of this 51-year shutout. I swear…I just don’t get it.

Have a great free Friday and a wonderful weekend. If you can, enjoy the near 70-degree Washington holiday season weather and go out and do something really nice just for you.  Sorry for all the typos, poor grammar, improper use of words like “literally” and the many misspellings. I know this is a mess. Listen to some music…it will make it all better...or at least a little better. 

If you really love me so...

...and nothing provides clarity like a little perspective

It had been a perfect Thanksgiving, with great food, wonderful people, a roaring (OK…it was gas) fire and a somewhat unexpected early-evening snowfall (after an unseasonably warm near-record 60 degree high that day) that deposited a picturesque one-inch coating of snow on Maple Grove and throughout the greater Minneapolis area.  The Friday that followed was also nice, and started with an invigorating three-mile,  three-degree wind-chill aided run around Rice Lake before a day of shopping, my yearly movie (Skyfall) and various other luxuries provided by my generous brother and sister-in-law. Departure day on Saturday was also good, and included a leisurely IHOP breakfast with my nephew  before heading to a surprisingly quiet MSP airport for what was shaping up to be a smooth trip back home to DC. Even my slick new Ford Escape rental car was better than usual, and after cruising around for 48 hours listening to Siriusly Sinatra on the premium sound system in the comfort of heated seats, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to work re-entry and the holiday weekend coming to an end.

Given that I spend two-thirds of each year wishing my life away  looking forward to football, changing leaves, Thanksgiving and the holidays, it’s still sad to me when I think about how quickly they all fly by. Just yesterday I was celebrating the first college football game of the season and promising to really take in the Fall season. Now, once again, after barely blinking…Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving are all fading fast in the rearview mirror…and the weeks ahead will be the typical frenzied blur. Though I romanticize each holiday season about quiet nights by the fire in the glow of the lighted tree, history dictates it won’t be long before we’re mired in the charmless days of post-holiday winter. So...as I thought about these things and the realities of all the pre-Christmas work that waited at home while sitting in the United Red Carpet lounge waiting for the return DC flight, I wasn’t surprised to find the post-Thanksgiving blues starting to seep in.  

After all, after looking forward to it for months, the idyllic Thanksgiving weekend was now over and my mind shifted to the coming hassles of decorating, harrowing gift shopping, mounting chores,  and the unavoidable frayed nerves that result from the inevitable chaos of overbooked holiday schedules (why do I spend the whole year looking forward to this?). As I glanced around the imbecile convention (not sure what it means that it took me 5 minutes…including a google search, to find out how to spell “imbecile”) that is Gate E4 of the Minneapolis U.S. Airways waiting area, the conglomeration of de-evolving life forms preparing to board a commercial airliner adorned in their lint-covered jammies, camo pants and generally offensive leisure/trash wear had me feeling pretty low. Probably hard to believe, but by the time I plopped down in my upgraded first class seat for the 2 ½ hour flight to the nation’s capital…I already had a pretty bad attitude.

 As I sat there watching the people schlepping back to coach in their manpris and flip flops, my mind drifted to that old evolutionary chart from elementary school and I started to wonder if we were really improving as a species. Actually…in reality…you didn’t have to observe much to realize there wasn’t a need to waste much time contemplating that question. As they filed by…the answer seemed sadly obvious, and I started to connect the dots between my increasing back pain and man’s inevitable return to all fours.

Seated in front of me to my right against the bulkhead was a young couple. They couldn’t have been very old, and though the fresh-faced chap sported a fairly clean-cut look, their combined disdain of fashion indicated they were committed to validating my return to homos erectus theory. To compound matters, the dude’s holey jeans and graphic tee look were augmented by untied hi-top basketball shoes that must have been designed to give him kind of a pseudo hip-hop look.  He also exacerbated their obvious unwarranted intrusion into the refined First Class cabin by propping his left foot on a pillow which extended at least partially into the galley food-prep area and dangerously close to the public space that brave and desperate passengers navigate when they’ve thrown in the towel and decide to use the glove compartment sized lavatories.

After a bit I heard the flight attendant tell the couple that she’d put his crutches in the small coat closet. In the course of their exchange, she asked the young lad how he’d hurt his leg. “I got hit by a rocket” he replied… “in Afghanistan...I got to spend a couple of days at home but I’m headed back to Walter Reed.”

It was a good Thanksgiving. Somehow my problems seem a little smaller now…and my back hurts a little less too.

It’s Friday, so enjoy the magic of the season by having a truly wonderful and well-deserved weekend. If you can, do something fun and try to feel at least a little grateful for the fact you have the freedom to do so.

 

Sorry for all the typos and mistakes.

 

Boy was he cool...

and it's time to go hunting

Growing up in the urban mecca of Los Angeles, I never really got the whole hunting thing. Sure, it seemed to make some sense if you were dressed as a Pilgrim or slogging through a nineteenth century South Dakota winter on the prairie before the advent of electricity and supermarkets, but why anyone in the modern era would look at a beautiful brown-eyed deer and want to blow it’s brains out just never made sense to me. I’d heard all the reasons why it was necessary or even humane…but somehow my limited citified mind was just never able to connect the dots.

I’d been told about the need to manage animal populations, prevent starvation or the value in thinning out herds to promote longevity, but somehow I just wasn’t buying it. I could never speak much deer, but somehow I always sensed if given the opportunity to pose the question to an eight-point Buck on the option between going without some quality grazing or a having a .308 long-grain ripping through their ribcage…the deer would respond with something like “let me take my chances finding some food before you thin me out.”

I guess the urge to look at an animal and think “God that’s beautiful…I’d really like to blow it off the face of the earth” makes some sense to me…but I always thought it was something we as humans should try to suppress. It’s kind of like the urge take naked pictures of yourself and text them…or to hold up banks or watch NASCAR. In my own life, I routinely feel the desire to actually knock out real people quite frequently…but somehow I reason the world is somehow a better place if I don’t follow through on that temptation. I also fear they might succeed in clobbering me instead…which would actually seem more sporting than any option the defenseless deer typically have.

I remember driving back from supper one evening in Minnesota with my then 90-year old grandpa. We came across the Red River through the heart of Fort Abercrombie, North Dakota just inside the Minnesota boarder. As we crossed the state line and curved across the river on the picturesque ribbon of highway that winds right through the middle of the old fort, there was a herd of deers (if you speak Minnesotan you know they sometimes say deers instead of deer) standing by the northeastern blockhouse down by the river. My grandpa suggested we pull over…and we sat there in the car for a few minutes just watching them feed against the setting sun. At some point my grandpa, a lifelong Depression era farmer, Roosevelt Democrat) and no virgin to barely scrapping by, said in a thick Swedish accent something like “aren’t they beautiful…I just never understood why anybody would want to shoot one if they didn’t have to.” For some reason, perhaps because I’m just a sissy city boy…that always just resonated with me. I acknowledge if I’d grown up in the country it would be different, but as a product of urban life I really just never really understood it all. That feeling pretty much stayed with me…until I moved to the District of Columbia. Now…I think it should be open season year round. Not on deer though…but on unruly and inconsiderate environmental rush-hour bicyclists.

When I think about the people that make up this selfish group of peddle-happy wasted flesh, all the rationale used to justify killing defenseless animals suddenly becomes crystal clear. Those of us forced to slog up 16^th street while some self-centered jackass peddles two miles an hour up the hill blocking an entire lane of commuters should be able to line them up with the hood ornament and step on the accelerator. Over time, people could develop some genuine cyclist hunting prowess…and would be able to knock self-centered riders up on the parkway or sidewalk completely out of the traffic with little or no disruption to traffic. Car commuters (now well-rested after arriving home on time the previous evening) could stand around the water cooler the next morning boasting of their successful hunts. Hey Bob, I bagged a nice red-helmeted 3-speed list night” or “Bubba, I nailed a blue-helmeted 10 –speed from 30 yards at 40mph. I was home in 20 minutes.”

Much like the hunting of animals…there could be a really, really humane component to this too. If at some point, people started noticing the consequence of this practice was somehow endangering the total number of selfish morons that take pleasure in screwing up the nightly commute for the rest of the city by peddling in the middle of a lane of a major artery at 2mph shouting “I’m superior to everyone behind me,” we could manage the hunts by rationing out tags to commuters that would only entitle them to taking out a limited number of bike riders per month. If, cyclists chose to use a bike lane or ride on the right side by the curb so cars could pass on their left (as I was taught to do when I was about 4 years old), they could be off limits. Hunting cyclists would be a good family and memory building exercise too as frustrated drivers could pass on the skill to children riding along in the car after a long day at school or daycare.

I know what you’re thinking…and yes…it’s true…I come up with some very good ideas. As a matter of fact, I’m going to head into the office now and see if I can’t bag a fit lycra-suited 15-speeder on Mass avenue. Seems to me it would make a great mount for the wall in the family room.

The election is over so have a wonderful weekend and try to take some time to chill and have some fun. You may even want to go for a bike ride, hunt some deer, or even cheer Brad Keleslowski's #2 Miller Lite car onto victory in the final NASCAR cup race at Homestead, Fl (or so I've heard).  Whatever your pleasure, try to relax and do something just for you. You can start it off just right with some nice music. Sorry for all the typos, poor grammar, lousy writing and misspellings.

 

I'd rather have a dollar than a dime...

...and it's nice to have a little wind at your back

After pretty much dodging a bullet with hurricane Sandy, the DC area also fully avoided the nor'easter that followed on the super storm's heels just about a week later. Though the second storm slammed areas of the northeast with as much as a foot of snow, all we seemed to get here in the District were some clouds, some late night flurries and a bit of wind.

I was hoping to see least a dusting of the white stuff when I headed out the front door at 3:58am for my Thursday morning run, but the only remnants of the nor'easter in Cleveland Park were some water beads on a few cars (the four in the neighborhood that were waxed) and about a 15mph stiff wind coming out of the north west. The breeze didn't seem like much of a factor when I started running east toward Connecticut avenue, but when I hit the major artery on the corner of Yuma and turned headfirst into the wind north on Connecticut, I realized the gusts were pretty formidable and cold enough (at least for early November) to immediately blow away any lingering effects of Wednesday night's red wine.

Exercising used to be fun for me...but now that I'm on the backside of fifty, it pretty much just hurts. In light of the rapid physical deterioration, I'm usually pretty content to use any weather-related obstacle like wind as an excuse to ease up...especially when I'm running. It just feels better when I don't have to push so hard. But something was different about Thursday.

I'm guessing it could have been the fact that I was still riding high from the election outcome, but for some reason I resisted the usual temptation to just cruise and pretty much pushed myself against the wind uphill on Connecticut toward Chevy Chase. When I turned left on Nebraska Ave the breeze became less of factor, and by the time I turned left again on Wisconsin, the northwest wind was squarely at my back. After fighting the headwind for more than half the run, it felt good to have the push at my back. I just kind of took long strides moving southeast on Wisconsin...and though I was clearly moving at a good pace...it didn't seem to be too taxing.

When I turned back into the wind heading north on 37th street toward the house for the last quarter mile, it would have been easy to let up. However after having the wind at my back for a while, the gusts in my face now felt more invigorating than anything...and I pushed harder before kicking it into high gear for the last few blocks.

If you believe in the power of a strong middle class, the virtues of equity, fairness and justice for all Americans and if you think diversity is a strength and not a weakness, this past Tuesday was a good day. It wasn't a landslide, or even close to the mandate that many of the spinsters are trying to imply, but it was a clear repudiation of extremism and a good night for people that work for a living. For progressives, there's been a fair amount of headwind for way too long. But now...thanks to a few million folks that pulled the right lever...the wind is at our back for a while. It won't likely last forever, or even for more than maybe a couple of strides. However it would be good to enjoy the fruits of victory, and to reap the replenishing benefits that can only come from a wind-aided run.  We're going to need to be rested for the next test, so let's enjoy this outcome and replenish our resources in hopes we can keep this going for a while.

 

You can start by having a good extended weekend. If you can, spend at least a minute to think about the men and women that served this country so we all have the right to cast a vote.

Have a good Veteran's Day weekend.

Close your eyes and relax...

...and I wish I could just go fishing.

The ominous  charred ruins of the short-lived Pacific Ocean Park Amusement park and pier that served as the border between Santa Monica and Venice beaches when I was a kid looked like a movie set, and as I later came to find out, it actually was. POP (Pee-oh-pee as it was affectionately called by the locals) opened in 1958, and was envisioned at the time that it would compete with Disneyland. The nautical theme park in the Ocean Park section of Santa Monica, California drew 20,000 visitors the day it opened, and though it saw early success, a host of factors contributed to plummeting attendance and it eventually closed down in October of 1967.

My mom took me to POP several times when I was a little chap, but my most vivid memories of the old amusement park are tied to the period between its 1967 closure and its eventual demolition in 1974.  Though I’m not sure when the practice actually started, I went to the beach every single summer day from the time I was in about 5^th grade until the beloved wave-riding ritual was rudely interrupted in the summer of 1977 by the need to begin my planned path to the National Football League (likely with the Los Angeles Rams…via an underwhelming career at Hamilton high school and an even more disastrous stint at UCLA).

 

Every day, regardless of weather, a couple of buddies and I schlepped down to the beach via the No. 28 Blue Ocean Park Santa Monica bus and spent the day frolicking in the Pacific where Ocean Park Boulevard met the sand at lifeguard station 26.  As we bobbed in the salty water waiting for the next set of rideable waves, the burned out skeletal remnants of the abandon amusement park’s pier framed the view to the south...and seemed to beckon us to visit the seemingly haunted ruins which served as the setting for the final scene of the famed TV series “The Fugitive.”  

 Some mornings, probably about twice a month, my friends Michael Cooper, Keith Sylber and I would get up early and head down to the shore before 6am to spend a couple hours fishing before starting the more taxing surfing routine. On those days we’d often have to catch the Blue Pico No.7 bus (which ran earlier…it was a 3-mile trip), and walk the mile on the boardwalk in the dark down to Ocean Park. The jagged pilings of the abandon pier were menacing, and we had to ignore some threatening “danger” and “no trespassing” signs before negotiating a couple of formidable chain-linked fences (with barbed wire on top) to gain entry to the abandoned amusement park area. Once in there, there was a rickety ladder (made from burned out 2x4 wood) you had to climb to get up to what was left of the pier, and it was always a challenge to get all of our gear up to that level. Once up to the pier, it seemed like a war zone. Everything was battered and broken and seemed to be covered with soot. What was left of the decaying buildings and former thrill rides were covered with graffiti and danger signs.

There were two sections where the pier was completely washed out or burned away, and someone had constructed two planks to bridge the two 15’ or so spans (it seemed like the Grand Canyon) over the 30’ drop to the rolling ocean and broken pilings below. It always took a few minutes to get the nerve to cross, and we usually had to flip a coin to see who ventured across first to test sturdiness. The plank, which was no more than 12 inches wide, looked like a toothpick above the churning sea…and it always bowed a bit as you made your way to the other side. Thankfully nobody ever fell, or even really stumbled as I recall, but once we made it out to the end of what was left of the pier to where an old roller coaster once stood, we were usually rewarded by a morning’s catch of some pretty nice butter-mouthed perch.

One time, as we were heading back to shore, there were a couple of older kids just on the other side of the last span and as we approached they picked up their end of the plank and acted as though they were going to toss the “bridge” into the sea. I remember the smile on the guy’s face as he motioned as though he was going to throw our only safe way of passage into the water. I looked into the guy’s eyes and essentially pleaded with him not to do it. My buddy Michael’s older brother Scott was with us that day, and as I tried to negotiate with the cat on the other side Michael’s brother Scott said something like the following…

“Listen motherfu#ker$, go ahead and throw it in. When you do, I’m going to jump into the water and swim to shore. I’m going get there before you do, and I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom of that ladder and when you climb down, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you with a two-by-four.” Not sure if he could of pulled it off, but at least to me, he didn’t appear to be bluffing. The kid on the other side who was unmoved by my more diplomatic passive approach seemed to do some math in his head and decided to buy it too. Not long after Scott’s promise, the kid gingerly replaced the plank so we too could cross. As we started, they ran…and though we gave chase for a while…we ultimately decided to let it go.  I think Scott’s plan was to beat them to a pulp anyway…we just needed to get across the span first.

What’s the point? I’m lost too. Just trying to fill some space on a Friday morning…and maybe take your mind off the east coast storm damage and looming election for just five minutes. Hope it helped.

It’s Friday, and whether you’re relaxing or working to elect folks committed to freedom, justice, fairness and equality, start the day with a little music. If you do, you will have a better day, and a better weekend.

BTW...sorry for all the mistakes...I know this is a disaster

Another sunny honeymoon

...so sit for a spell and visit with a friend over coffee

As she does just about every Sunday morning, my mom called at about 11:40am (8:40 PDT) to chat a bit before heading out to church services at the Disciples of Christ Church in Santa Paula, California. Amidst the conversation mostly about the goings on in her relatively small California citrus agriculture town southeast of Santa Barbara, she pivoted subjects to the old home area of Abercrombie, North Dakota and mentioned that longtime resident Louise Haarstad had passed away. Louise was the wife of Oscar Haarstad, who along with his brother Selmer (Sam) owned the old Ford Dealership and Oliver Farm Implement store on the north side of Broadway toward the east end of the main business district of the small Midwest hamlet.

I didn’t know Louise particularly well, but whenever I was back “home” in Aber (as it’s called by most locals) and would walk into the Community Hall for coffee each morning, Louise always greeted me with a smile and warmth one would usually reserve for a beloved grandkid. The news of her passing got me thinking about that little town that sits just west of the Red River which serves as the border for the neighboring state of Minnesota, and about how much time I spent there from about 1980 to 2000. At least once each year (usually more) over that two-decade span, I would go back for extended periods to visit my family and even worked several times out of the IBEW hall in Fargo. There were a ton of good things about those yearly excursions, but one of the best was walking uptown each morning when possible and kibitzing with the old folk over coffee at the community hall.   

The community center where they’d meet Monday through Saturday in the Richland County, North Dakota town of approximately 264 stands almost in the center of the main drag on the southwest corner Broadway (County Road 4) and 2nd street. The almost exclusively American made cars and pickups that belong to the townsfolk and farmers that gather each morning for coffee are parked head-first into the curb at a 45-degree angle along Broadway across from the old meat market. The former butcher shop, which was converted into senior apartments, sits sandwiched between the Abercrombie, ND post office and the building that formerly housed the Aber Café (which was owned by my mom’s brother and my uncle Donald). Just as a side note, that old meat market had a sign in front of the front driveway on the garage door that made the Paul Harvey radio show one day. It read something like “Park here and be ground.”

The Aber Bar, with its classic red and white Schmidt’s beer sign, still operates just west of old Café (there’s a new metal building which houses the Aber Grocery in between) and just east of the post office on the north side of Broadway is the old building that housed the old Haarstad Ford dealership (mentioned above) which closed several decades ago. Across 2^nd street from the Community Center are the remnants of an old gas station (Texaco as I recall) and just south of that on the east side of the gravel 2^nd street heading south is the old brick blacksmith shop that still stands today. I believe the town uses it to store various machinery.

 

 

The west end of town is bordered by the Emanuel Lutheran Church and cemetery where generations of area folks rest peacefully along “Old 81.” That once major north/south highway which stretched northward through Fargo to the Canadian boarder and once as far south as the Mexican line has long since been replaced by Interstate 29. Like so many of the towns that dried up and died when bypassed by the Interstate highway system, Abercrombie should probably have perished too…but it didn’t. The Fargo & Southern and Milwaukee Road railroad tracks are gone. So are the banks, several gas stations, the hardware store, the Ford dealership, the café, the Blacksmith and several other businesses. But the Post Office, the Standard gas station, the Grocer, Red River Telephone, a newer truss factory and of course the bar, are still all operating. At least part of the reason  the small town survived is probably due to the historic Fort Abercrombie which sits on the west bank of the River. Parts of the fence and several blockhouses still stand today, and County road 4 which leads into Aber literally stretches across the Red River from Minnesota before winding directly through the Historic Fort.

 

 

As mentioned above, at least for me my favorite thing about this place was going up to the Community Hall each morning was chatting with the various old characters that sat around the table. They always seemed to get a kick out of the kid from Los Angeles, and by first time I’d walk in for coffee each trip, it usually wouldn’t be a surprise because the news of my blue pickup with California plates parked in my Grandpa’s or Uncle’s driveway had usually made its way around  town. I’d always receive a warm greeting from everybody...better than I ever received back in LA, and would often spend hours just sitting and visiting with regulars like Phil Balmey, Ed Herrick, Wayne Herrick, Munce, Kenny Jacobson, Jalmer Larson, Eddie Miller, Fritz Snyder, Maynard, Chief, and a host of other staples. My grandpa would never come up...he saw no good reason to part with 35 cents for coffee that he could brew at home for less. The men sat at one table and would talk about the weather, the price of wheat, how many bushels per acre of soy beans they got on the Anderson land, and the amount of moisture in the rain gage out in their various yards. They’d also repeat a lot of old stories…and tell some really bad jokes. I always laughed though…there was just kind of a weird therapy to it all.

A not so slightly higher grade of conversation took place at an adjancent table where the women would sit and visit too. They’d also collaborate on some daily puzzle in the Fargo Forum newspaper (Jumble I think) and I always got points for crossing the forbidden gender lines and daring to sit with the women a spell. I’d chat  with folks like Irene Erickson, Ceil Larson, Elaine and always Louise. Folks always seemed appreciative…but I always left each morning knowing full-well I’d gotten far more out of the experience than any of them ever received by talking with me. The best part was the daily ritual offered a consistency and peace that was so lacking in the chaos of a big and socially cold city like Los Angeles. No matter what, no matter how crazy things were in Los Angeles, I knew I could hop in my pickup anytime and within 40 hours (of driving) or so, I’d have the healing of the Abercrombie Community Hall and it’s wholesome people that I knew would be there forever.

I haven’t by back there since my uncle Donald died over five years ago, and the last time I did visit one of the old chaps that was always happiest to see me looked at me with a confused expression after we talked for a spell and said “who am I talking to…I don’t remember you.”  There are still one or two of them left, but to the best of my knowledge almost all of the folks mentioned above have passed away. Many…have been gone for years. Now…Louise has joined them too.  

What’s the point of all this? I don’t know either. But if you find yourself too wrapped up in the day-to-day chaos of life, you may want to take at least a moment to recognize that the things you may take for granted that won’t be here forever. Stop…inhale, look around, and take in the people, pets and things about the world that mean the most to you. You can initiate that perspective gaining experience by having a good weekend, and by starting it with a little good music. Have a good two days, and whatever you’re doing, don’t forget to breathe.

 

Any old time...

...and if you haven't been on the cover of GQ...read on

It’s not often I waste much time reading drivel on the internet. Sure, I sit for endless hours at home with my laptop open, but that’s mostly light multi-tasking like looking for Fort Lauderdale retirement properties or shopping for a new ukulele. The cool thing is that I can do this casual surfing while enriching my brain by keeping up with the Kardashians or watching the New Jersey Housewives 3-part reunion on television. Just as a side note, there are times, like say a NASCAR Sprint Cup race were I’m just too focused to be distracted by a computer…but that’s not what I’m talking about here.  I can get into some heavy laptop work when my wife is watching some mindless hogwash about a new book on CSPAN (Zzzz…) or the snore-fest presidential debates, but for the most part I put off serious computer work that requires a ton of focus (like adjusting my fantasy lineup) for times when I’m alone and can really concentrate absent the interference of television.

One of the few benefits of getting up at 3:55am each weekday is I have just that kind of time to focus on online work. This past Wednesday I was down in the basement gym and between bench-press reps, answering emails and checking my ESPN waiver order, I noticed a news story on MSN about the craziest men’s fashion faux pas of the last 20 years. If you’re forced to read it appeared to be the dream story with lots of big pictures and short captions, so I dove in.

Well, as someone who is pretty confident I’m styling by virtue of my adult Garanimals (click here to learn more), I always take special pleasure in catching up on the idiotic styles of men who are convinced they’re reinventing the world through drawing attention to themselves by looking like morons.  Thankfully the article didn’t disappoint.  The goofy pictures accompanied by blistering comments were hilarious, and the piece effectively poked fun at a myriad of incredibly stupid fashion trends tried by adult males.

They covered a ton of ground…blasting guyliner (eyeliner for men) and ridiculing ridiculous hairstyles that included frosted tips, faux hawks and mullets. They made fun of wallet chains (noting that most knuckleheads that wear them have little or nothing in their wallets to secure), and slammed Ashton Kutcher for wearing manpris (capris pants for men…and they had pictures of him). They rightfully crucified men’s sandals or “mandals” (permissible perhaps if you’re parting the Red Sea…otherwise just wear shoes), sweat suits (OK for aging mafia folks), carpenter jeans (but only if you’re really working with a hammer and nails) and chinstrap beards (fine if you’re pre-puberty and can’t grow real facial hair).

They pummeled soul patches, flat-billed baseball caps, sagging pants (if you’re going to wear them that low, just walk around in your underwear), wind pants and visors. They even addressed those that have completely thrown in the fashion towel, and made fun of men that were Crocs.

Needless to say the dead-on piece was funny, and while scrolling through I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at all the foolish fashion don’ts committed by so many of my brethren. It was also refreshing to see somebody telling it like it is when it comes to such poor style sense. I was thoroughly enjoying all the fun when all of the sudden, the next picture was of the once popular loose-fitting clown pants known as  Zubaz. While these baggy pants may have looked a little weird, I used to wear them with regularity back in the late 80’s and when I did…I looked cool. I had a white-and-black pair and  a pink-and-black pair, and along with my bare mid-drift Pit Bull Gym muscle tees and lime-green fanny pack, I actually looked pretty hip.  

The arrogance of the article was starting to get a little annoying really, and I begin to wonder who in the hell anointed these folks as fashion police and gave them the right to make fun of men’s fashion…especially former staples of my wardrobe. I let it slide though, because while they were wrong about the Zubaz, the rest of the previous pictures were truly spot on. Then…I scrolled to the next picture.

It was a photo country singer Kenny Chesney with a puka shell necklace and a caption that read simply “No Shelled Necklaces.”  Now…while the first part of this lame article was barely worth a chuckle, this was clearly not funny at all.  What the hell is wrong with wearing puka shells? I’ve proudly sported a tight white shell necklace every day since about 1975 (perhaps that’s their point), and I don’t see what the heck is wrong with it. Sure…it may be a little old-school, but it’s not like I’m walking around with pierced holes in my earlobes big enough to hang a week’s worth of dry-cleaning or going out in public wearing bright colored skinny jeans. These shells are who I am, and represent a  youth where every, single summer day was spent riding the waves in Santa Monica. Every single summer day.  I’ve earned these shells, and now that I’ve heard they’re taboo (for the hundredth time), I’m never taking them off. Never.

This is why it’s a waste a lot of time reading…especially the junk that’s online. Most of it just isn’t credible. Thank god for Deadliest Catch and Iron Men…now that’s the way to spend your discretionary time.

When this whole Friday morning email/blog thing started, it really was more about the music. I suspect only one of two of the six folks that read this pitifully performing blog each week actually click the link to the song. If I were you I’d skip the poor mistake-filled writing that leads into the music, and just click the link to the tune. That’s really the idea…to start your morning with a song before the business and craziness of the day conspire to rob you of the morning peace. Today’s offering won’t be everybody’s favorite musical genre, but the vocal harmonies and solo instrumental riffs in this tune should be enjoyable even if you’re a man sporting a mullet and wearing a sweat suit with mandals (and socks).

Have a great weekend.

It's too late...

…and if you’re interested…here’s the article.

Mandatory - Craziest men's fashion styles

...and those jingle bells are fast approaching

There are fourteen tabs along the bottom of the holiday card Excel spreadsheet, one for each year since 1999 when the then rather simple process of writing a few festive greetings to friends and business associates became a bit more formalized. I always sent out a few cards to family and friends in the years prior to that…but when going to work for my local union in the late nineties, it seemed like a good idea to keep track of the names and addresses in a more organized way. If you click the 1999 tab you can plainly see the 16 business-related folks (didn’t list the family cards in the early years) that received cards that first more organized year, and all but one of the original sixteen recipients are still on the list today.

The spreadsheet is really pretty systematized for a generally scatter-brained person like me, and includes columns for names, addresses, date written and the date the cards are eventually mailed. There are 285 cards on the 2012 tab (there were 283 in 2011…which means only 2 were added in 2012…I’ve gotta get out more) so I started the process of writing the first one this year on October 2nd (last year it was October 14th). Basically, I have to average roughly 5 cards each business day to get them all done by the preferred early December mailing date. I come into the office each weekday about 6:30am, click on the Butch Thompson Trio holiday station on Pandora and start writing…usually covering the entire card with a hand-written note. You see, that’s the deal…to me a genuine old-school holiday card has to contain at least some old fashioned hand-written writing. For the love of god, I’ve never figured out why folks send cards containing only an antiseptic pre-written message…often failing to even sign their name. However as we rapidly plunge into a prosaic (learned that word this week looking for an antonym for romantic) headphone-wearing culture that increasingly proposes marriage via mobile device, it’s obvious that’s no longer the prevailing sentiment.

The reason the list is so long is that you can engage in some pretty sketchy behavior without getting removed. You can routinely ridicule my work, insult my politics, fail to stay in touch, gleefully point out my poor grammar, correct my use of the word “literally” in this blog, make fun of my poor spelling, vote Republican, be a bully, drive cars made by children in Korea, consistently dominate every conversation, possess an ego bigger than Kansas and even generally act like a jackass and still receive a card.  I’ve got all kinds in there, including folks that I haven’t talked to or heard from in over ten years and at least a couple that don’t care for me at all.

 

For the most part though the cool thing is the list is made up of people I largely admire and adore…who put up with all my bad behavior (including many of the sins listed above) throughout the year while still managing to give me more out of a relationship than I ever provide or ever will give back in return. It’s a good list…and to be honest, other than changing your address  without telling me (there’s even a workaround for that), I really can’t think of one thing you can do to stop receiving cards.   Well…then again…I guess there is one way.

Early each October when I turn my attention to the card writing ritual, I always open the Excel program and create a tab for the current year. When I do, I scroll through the list and reminisce fondly about (or cuss at) each person. Eventually though I happen upon the name of someone that’s passed away…and when that occurs, I highlight the name in yellow and make the appropriate note. Usually, the impact of having to mark these passings causes me to reflect a bit, and count up the number of those that are gone since the process began. Sometimes I go back to see how long a person has been gone…and it is figuratively (actually…I think this is where you can actually use literally) shocking to me to see how long it’s often been. Many times I’m thinking the person passed just a year or two ago…but usually I am figuratively blown away (I think I’m getting this literally/figuratively thing down) when I realize it’s often been five or more years.

This year I had to highlight the names of good close friends and true mentors. When I started writing their respective cards at this time last year, there was zero indication that they wouldn’t be around this season. As far as I and most others knew they were perfectly healthy…and now, they are no longer here. There are seven highlighted rows on the 2012 spreadsheet, and all of the folks made a profound impact on my life and are people that I thought would be here forever.

I don’t want to highlight any more names in yellow in 2013, so please slow down long enough to enjoy life and the approaching holiday season. Life is far more fragile than so many of us realize, and if you think work is the most important thing in the world than you really do need to go for a run, or pour a glass of red wine, or watch a sunrise, or walk a dog, or hug a child or do whatever meaningful thing floats your boat.  As a matter of fact, it’s going to be a wonderful pre-election Fall weekend, so if you’re doing a little understandable electoral work, you might want to also make the time to do at least some of those other important things too. I’m sending out 285 union made holiday cards this year, and I want to order and use at least that many in 2013 so take care of yourself and stick around.

Have a great weekend and don’t forget to listen to a little music.

 

Through many dangers, toils and snares...

...and if you're a teacher, you really should smile

While finishing up a relaxing dinner Wednesday night I heard the unwelcome sound of the revving motorcycle ringtone on my mobile device and reluctantly walked into the kitchen to retrieve the phone and see who was calling. Thankfully, I recognized the name that popped up on the screen as my good friend and NFL agent Chuck Price. It would be a better story to go on about how he was calling to suggest I vindicate my embarrassing collegiate punting career by suiting up as a modern day George Blanda for the Redskins this weekend, but being a good judge of gridiron talent and a successful agent, that’s not why he was calling.

As it turns out he was sitting out in California with Rahim and Hasan Mohamed, a couple of former players of ours dating back to our high school coaching days at Fairfax High School in Los Angeles. The two talented brothers had been our quarterbacks back in the early 90s (first Rahim…then his younger brother Hassan), and both of them also started in the secondary for me  on our defensive squads (almost everybody played both ways). Rahim and Hassan also lead the Fairfax Lions to consecutive undefeated league titles, all while maintaining decent grades which they both parlayed into college football careers and solid four-year degrees.

Chuck opened the call by saying the three of them were sitting around after practice (they’re now all coaching part time at a school in LA) telling old stories and they started laughing when the conversation moved to me. He handed the phone to Hassan first, and though it’s been over 20 years, we started reminiscing and laughing as though we were still standing on the Fairfax Ave field of the West Hollywood campus. After talking and cutting up a bit with Hassan, he passed the phone to his brother. Rahim and I also were also instantly time-warped back to the early nineties, and it was good to laugh and catch up with a great former player…and a now successful fully matured adult. Both brothers are doing well, have families, and are working as coaches molding the lives of young athletes. It was good to chat with the guys…and though it’s been over 20 years since those glorious football seasons at Fairfax, whenever I run into any of the “kids” from those great teams, they almost always make it a point to pass along thanks for the impact their coaches had on their lives.

Though I now reside in the east, each Fall I make a trek to Los Angeles and always take in an inner-city high school game while there (Last year it was Fairfax vs. Dorsey at the famed Jackie Robinson Stadium on Rodeo ((not the one in Beverly Hills)) Road on the west end of the Crenshaw District). There is nothing like an inner-city game on a Friday night under the lights, but the best part of the experience is that almost without fail, some former player (or players) will inevitably walk up on the sidelines with a warm fraternal greeting that transcends the decades. It is always so good to see these guys all grown up…now…as not so young men. But the best part is they always say thank you…over 20 years later…and to be honest…it always blows me away.

Perhaps it is just the dynamic of teaching young people that lends itself to the expression of gratitude from former students (players) so many years down the road…I’m not really sure. I only know that it really hasn’t happened in any other job I’ve ever held since…or in the one I have now. Maybe 20 years from now folks will swing by the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility on Connecticut to say thank  you for the annoying memos I sent them about not bringing their dog to work…but I’m thinking it won’t happen. There’s something about teachers that are special…and though I’m now 50, I think almost daily about former educators and coaches and the extraordinary impact they still have on my life still today.

 

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I get up before 4am and head out for a run. As I limp through through the dark DC streets, I am tempted to ease up...or just plain pack it in. Almost without fail, just when the pitfalls of aging, red wine addiction and my general physical deterioration conspire to convince me to quit, I can literally hear and see my old football coach Don Threatt screaming at me. "Come on boy...is that the best you've got..that's a crying shame." Then, just as I did over thirty years ago...I suck it up and kick it into high gear. Three decades later, and he's still encouraging me to do better.

So…to Mrs. Frazier, Miss Chan,  Miss Valenta, Miss Ito, Miss Sedor, Mrs. McConnell, Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Mc Elrath, Mr. Pearlman, Mrs. Lee (my piano teacher), Charlie Johnson, Leroy Nelson, Scott Porter, Gary Ledas, Leslie Williams, Coach Threatt, Jimmy Petterson, Jerry Solender, Coach Hahn, Coach Price, Coach Smith, Coach Donahue, Prof. Hoefer, Dr. Sue Schurman, Dr. Louis Gawthrop, Amanda Pacheco, Bob Pleasure, Fred Kotler, Mark Breslin, Gene Morrill, Jeff Grabelsky and most of all Mrs. Brungard, thank you for being the extraordinary educators and coaches that continue to influence my life and countless others every single day. It ain’t (only one of those named above taught English) always easy…but there is no nobler profession. Thanks for being a teacher. Thanks for making a difference. Thanks for making it last.

 

One of the best things several of named above passed along was an appreciation for all kinds of music. About the only good thing about this blog  each Friday is the attached song. So, in honor of another week in the books, take a minute and listen to a little music. This one has been played here before...well over a year ago...but it's worth the repeat. Have a great weekend.

 

Rock me mama...