...and have I got a story for you...

In my former life I used to do a fair amount of public speaking…at least compared to the very little I do today. For a while the many invitations had me duped into thinking I was decent at it, but I’ve  since recognized that the multitude of speaking opportunities were much more a byproduct of the stroke of the position and the organizational clout that came with it than any perceived prowess I might of thought I possessed at the podium.

There was one particular large yearly conference that was kind of my baby to organize…or at least that’s the way I liked to remember it in my head. The truth is there were a host of talented people that worked tirelessly to put it on (they still do…and the product is even better), and man let me tell you, they poured their hearts into it. I remember one year in 2007 working 66 consecutive days leading up to the event without even thinking about taking a day off. About a week before the conference, I can even recall staying up for several days without even trying to go to bed (I didn’t even lay down).

In my second year on the job, the 2007 conference was held at the Hyatt Peachtree in Atlanta.  At least in my own mind, I was just getting the hang of things and really starting to understand what I thought it took to be adequately prepared. On the second day of the conference, I would typically give about a 10-15 minute speech to open the segment and the cool thing was most of it was spent highlighting the great work of others. The remarks were usually pretty rudimentary, but I would take at least a month practicing the words several times a day…and do so to the point that the teleprompter we provided for our plenary speakers was mostly unnecessary for me…as I had memorized almost every non-extemporaneous word I planned to deliver (one upside to having to only give one big speech a year).

After an unsettling night’s sleep leading into day-two of the conference, I awoke about 3:30am and went for my customary pre-dawn 3-mile run through the underwhelming  and somewhat sketchy streets of downtown Atlanta. The run was uncharacteristically easy that morning, as my mind was pretty much consumed with the pre-game excitement that comes with putting on a big conference. Day two was the construction seminar, and after spending the opening day in the production booth with a colleague and good friend Alan Freeman calling the show for nearly 1300 delegates (that was the real nerve-racking duty), it would soon be time to take the stage and do what I loved.

After showering I walked down to the plenary room about 5:30am. The ballroom was long and narrow and set with 1300 classroom-style seating so the rows seemed like they stretched for a mile to the back of the room. Though I’d probably run through the speech 200 times leading up to this day, I thought the pre-dawn solitude would provide the perfect time to walk up to the dais and rehearse the speech one more time. About mid-way into the remarks, I planned on talking about my father and the pride he felt shortly before he passed away when he learned I’d been given the opportunity to hold a prominent job for the organization he so loved. The segment came about 5-minutes into the remarks, and though the story was difficult, I’d managed to get through it countless times without stumbling on all the previous run-throughs.

The mic was oddly hot that early hour, and as I began practicing to the then empty and cavernous room, it was clear that all the previous rehearsals had paid off. I felt confident, comfortable and moved through the first paragraphs with ease. Then as got near the part about my father, I could feel the emotion swelling up. When I got to the specific section…I broke down for the very first time.

Thankfully I composed myself…but it was a struggle. I remember thinking “ain’t this a bitch?” Here’d I gone through this over and over without a problem…and now…just hours from show time…I was really struggling (oddly…the stuff I’d read suggested that preparing would help you overcome the intrusion of emotion on game day). After I finished rehearsing, I started to walk off the stage when a comforting and familiar voice from behind the curtain said “you sounded fantastic…you’re going to do a great job.” For a second I thought it was god, but then realized that unbeknownst to me, my friend and teleprompter guy Danny Patsko had been sitting backstage getting ready and listening the entire time.

I was embarrassed, and remember apologizing for getting emotional. I went on to tell him I wasn’t sure how it happened…as I’d practiced a gazillion times without a problem…and it was frustrating to deal with it now. Then, we had an exchange that I will never forget…and it went something like this…

Me: “I’ve practiced this thing a thousand times…and I know every word. If I feel myself getting emotional and get the sense I can’t get through it, I’ll just skip this section and move onto the next piece. Just scroll down on the prompter if you see me veer off script…and you’ll see where I’m picking up right after the story about my dad.”

Danny: “No…don’t do that. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Me: “What do you mean no? If I can’t get through it…I don’t want to breakdown so just skip over it. I’m not going to make a fool of myself, so if I want to leave it out…we’re not going to do it.”

Danny: “Well…we could do that, but I’ve read through this thing twice now and just heard you deliver it… the truth is it is by far the best part of the speech. The story about your dad is the thing folks will remember. Not the charts, not the stats, not the substance…but they’ll remember you talking about  your father. If you feel yourself getting choked up, just get through it…people will understand…but most of all…they will be touched.”

Me: “Pack up your crap and get out of here…you’re fired.” Okay…that’s not what I said. Plus, if I'd have tried to fire Danny...I would have been canned. I guess it was something more  more like “Okay…well you know this stuff better than I do…I’ll give it a try.”

So later that morning, when the show began, I got through my remarks and the story about my dad. Thankfully…I didn’t breakdown, but I was clearly right on the edge…especially at the end. It’s funny, I used to do presentations like this all the time. I build animated PowerPoints with video, music and colorful chats and data that would make the world’s hippest Prezi creator weep like a bullied schoolchild.  The substance of the presentations was compelling, but now years later, people rarely ever come up to me and say anything about the numbers I showed or the fluorescent trend lines that floated over graphics. I normally only get one thing…and it’s usually about some stories they remembering hearing…like the one I told about my dad and the IBEW.

So…what’s the point of all this? Maybe it’s that like life, making an impact on people is often much less about the substance…than it is about connecting emotionally. Have a great weekend, and if you can, do something that would make a good story someday.

Let's enjoy it while we can...

A friend and mentor once told me that the key to good writing was “seven drafts.” Well, if that’s true, than this hurriedly written, non-proofed pile is on the other end of the spectrum. Sorry for all the typos, bad spelling and just plain lousy grammar.

...and I don't even have time for baseball

We’d go almost every night there was a home game in Los Angeles (we rarely missed an evening in the summer). Sometimes, when our beloved Dodgers were on the road, we’d even drive down to hell (Anaheim) to watch the deplorable Angeles play.

The routine was  pretty much the same most nights, after spending the day working, or at school or  at the beach honing my wide riding skills, me and a couple of buddies (Steve and Rob Lurie, Steve and Chuck Price) would hop into my red ’72 pinto and jam to the Commodores as we drove eastbound on THE 10 towards Chavez Ravine. We’d cruise through Echo Park and turn up Scott Ave to climb one of the steepest residential hills in Los Angeles before driving past Elysian Park. We were too cheap (the little money we had would be better spent on hot dogs) to pull into the parking lot and pay, so in the early years I parked on a hill outside the stadium and we’d all walk up to the ball park. The last year I did this, I went to 56 home games. Often times in the later years I’d drive down by myself or with Julie (my wife to be), but would almost always run into guys I knew like Jimmy Pettersen, Jay Belshaw or Harold Katz.

The interesting thing is that in all the years we attended games at Dodger stadium, we never paid for a ticket. Never. We were among a small legion of dedicated ticket “moochers,” and we were proud. In the early years we’d stand just outside the entrance to the Field Box level on the first base side. If there were more than two or three of us we’d usually spread out, lean on one of the light-blue bollards that protected the turn-style entrance and the crusty old vendors selling programs yelling “you can’t see the ballgame without a program.” As the sea of fans would approach the entrance to the stadium, the line was always the same. “Have any extra tickets?”

Sometimes people would stop, open an envelope they’d pulled off a bulletin board at work and notice they indeed had four corporate owned tickets when they only needed two. The ticket price on those yellow and white field box tickets (the best in the house) was $4.50, and there was always some rookie fan that expected you to pay them at least face value for the ticket. We’d usually just respond with “sorry…don’t have any money…just want to see the game.”

Once in a while someone would even hand you a ticket and say something like “here you go kid…you can buy me a hot dog inside.” We never even blinked…before saying no. We had a code…and there was nothing lower than actually paying for a ticket in any manner. We were there to get in for free…and we never failed…even at World Series games (that’s a more involved story). We even believed there was some karma associated with the practice, and part of the moocher’s oath was to never resell or look to profit from the practice. We were there to cheer on a team we loved, night after night…and you never wanted to risk our good fortune by unethically selling a ticket we’d obtained for nothing.

There were a lot of occasions where someone would hand you more than a couple of blue Reserved Level tickets and we’d quickly hand them back saying something like “no thank you…we don’t sit way up there.” On many evenings we’d get more tickets than we needed, and found ourselves either having to eat them or look for other kids to hand them to. We enter the stadium and usually sit a few rows back on the first base side between home and first base…right behind the visitors’ dugout. We such snobs that we often wouldn’t even sit in the seats we’d mooched. We just used them to gain access to the prime Field Box level and then find open seats that notoriously late-arriving fans would make available. On the best nights the ticket holders would never show…or better yet, we’d actually mooch great seats and comfortably sit there all evening. We’d even roll our eyes in disgust when some affluent family would arrive late and look at us with this confused look on their faces as to why their seats were occupied. We always just hopped up and moved to another open seat…unless it was a really big game, then we’d move to the seats we’d actually mooched.

We’d sit there in ecstasy. Rooting for Ron Cey, Steve Garvey, Davey Lopes, Billy Russell, Joe Ferguson, Steve Yaeger, Rick Monday, Dusty Baker, Don Sutton, Reggie Smith, and Manny Mota. We’d listen to Vin Scully on our transitor radios, eat a couple of Dodger dogs (never did figure out how to mooch those) and look out onto the manicured field and palm trees swaying behind the out field bleachers. We weren’t in Iowa…but we were in heaven…and we knew it.

What’s the point of all this? If you know, use the comment section and fill me in. Could be that I’m feeling nostalgic this morning…could have something to do with recognizing that the best things in life are often pretty simple…and don’t need to cost a whole lot. Have a wonderful weekend, and if you can, try to take some time out of the busy world to do something you enjoy. You may even decide to take in a baseball game. If you do, bring your kid or grandkid and you might just get in for free. And by the way...take two minutes and four seconds to listen to this morning's song. While you do, close your eyes and remember.

 

Like most days…no time to proof this even once. It’s probably horrific…so I do apologize.

 

...if they don't win it's a shame

...and that annoying sand is taking its toll

It’s about 4:14am  on a Friday morning and for about the third week in a row, the well is pretty dry. I could sit here and try to think about something to pound out on the laptop, but after putting together a post on kindness last week that was about the poorest performing with respect to site visits since this blog’s inception, I’m really just not feeling up to it. Plus, after tooling around on the scooter last weekend in the Black Hills, re-entry into the real work-world was especially tough this week. It’s never easy returning from paradise and having to go back to reality, but one thing that doesn’t make it any easier is all the little crap you have to deal with.

 

That got me to thinking about a previous post that was among the most popular (and shortest) of all-time, so rather than try to make something out of nothing, here’s another 18 month old offering that is reposted in what you can consider part of the August series of summer re-runs. I actually just reread and it made me feel a little better already...

"It's not the work that kills men; it's worry." "It's not the revolution that destroys machinery, it's the friction."

At first, I wasn't entirely sure about the connection of the quotes to the free electronic iBook entitled The Art of Public Speaking I was reading during a return trip from Florida. Initially, the link between the lines and the chapter topic emphasizing naturalness (cadence, pitch, etc…) when speaking didn’t seem obvious. Essentially, the authors of the1915 book (Joseph Berg Esenwein and Dale Carnegie) were making the case against monotony, and arguing that mundane repetition is the enemy of genuineness. While it seemed like an odd reference, the more I thought about the quotes the more they resonated...and I found myself thinking about my own work life and the root of most causes of most of my job-related frustration.

You see, though I often find myself lamenting the actual work, it's really not the job that usually gets old; it's the unnecessary headwind. The ominous nature of most daily tasks are formidable enough to tempt a smarter person to throw in the towel, but like most people, I'm actually excited by the toughest of challenges. It is however the little things...the unending resistance, the annoying pushback, the aversion to even the smallest change...the friction, that too often has me perusing the Internet for retirement properties in south Florida. 

While thinking about this, I was reminded of an old story I'd read some time ago from a textbook on Public Administration. It was entitled something like "The Sand in My Shoes," and it was about an old man that walked across the United States from coast-to- coast. As you might imagine the long trek took him forever, and when he arrived on the west coast looking haggard and tired, he was asked by waiting reporters if he was ever tempted to give up when faced with crossing vast deserts and climbing over tall mountains. The old man surprised the reporters by noting that he viewed those formidable obstacles as challenges, and that he really had little problem mustering the needed will to conquer the monumental roadblocks.

"So," the reporter followed up, "you never thought about quitting?" "Oh yes" the old man replied, "I thought about it every day." "But you just stated you were motivated by the toughest of challenges...if you could cross deserts and mountains, why ever did you think of calling it quits?" "It was the sand" the old man said..."it was the sand in my shoes. After a while...it got very, very annoying."

Like the man, most of us are wired in such a way that we're happy...maybe even eager to do the toughest work. For us, it's not the size of the challenge or the frenzied pace of the work that destroys us....it's the friction. It's not the work that kills us, it's the worry. It's not the mountains or the deserts that tempt us to throw in the towel… it's the annoying sand in our shoes.

“Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big, worthwhile things. It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out - it's the grain of sand in your shoe.” - Robert Service

If it weren’t for my family, friends, red wine, books (picture books), pushups, red wine, trash TV, cigars, jumping rope, my speed bag, bourbon, copious amounts of red wine and an occasional cigarette, I wouldn’t be able to cope with the self-imposed frustrations at work. My best days, are those where I focus on the things I can control, and brush aside the annoying little grain of sand while keeping an eye on the big things that matter most. Too often, I fear that my focus on minutia at work is the grain of sand in some valued colleague's shoe. I sure hope that isn't the case, because the job is hard enough without the perpetual friction that can bring folks down.

Have a great weekend and try not to worry. Whether it’s family, friends, a chilled straight up Manhattan, hiking, pets, a relaxing dinner, books, exercise or wine, do something that brings some genuine chill to your life.

 

One of the great things about rolling around western South Dakota on winding two-lane roads through pine forests and green meadows covered with buffalo, antelope and prairie dogs, is that it just has a way of putting things in perspective. If you're really lucky, your generous cousin might even swap bikes with you so you can tool along in comfort on an Ultra Classic listening to some classic country music with the wind in your hair and the sun warming your face. When your in a setting like this...your dusty old cowboy boots could be full of sand and you wouldn't even care.

 

 It's alright cause it's midnight and I have...

...and you have an opportunity to err in the direction of....

As happens much too often these days, I woke up early this morning and there wasn’t a whole lot of value in any of the things swimming around in my head. More importantly, much like last Friday, there didn’t appear to be much at all which rose to the level of sharing with all of you.

It did dawn on me though that a good buddy had sent along an article in the middle of the week which included a speech given to college graduates at a recent 2013 commencement ceremony. I often don’t read things sent to me by other people, mostly because I’ve convinced myself that I I don’t have the time to read things I’d like to send to other folks, let alone the time to squeeze in their respective recommendations.

I also don’t typically read them because they’re often some advice about more effective ways to brush your teeth, or come with titles like “10 ways to fight halitosis” or “How to be a better manager.” Most of the time I’m not interested in the implication that I need to become a better listener, or use a more effective deodorant, but the email with the link to the referenced article came with a rare disclaimer, which assured me that it was being passed on not because I needed to read it, but ironically because I did not. I wasn’t long into reading the speech when I realized that my good friend had lied, but though it was sadly obvious I indeed needed to read it, I enjoyed it nonetheless.

The gist of the advice being passed along in the typical template for commencement speech had to do with the sage speaker sharing the things he was most sorry about in his life…and about how those deepest of regrets really weren’t about the big things that one might assume. I don’t want to ruin it for you, but in essence he contended that the thing he wished he done more of was to simply be more kind.

He recalled a story from his youth about an unpopular classmate, and all the opportunities he passed up to ease that kid’s torture and pain. This immediately resonated with me, as I am still excruciatingly haunted by all the kids I treated poorly, or at least not as well as I should have given the hell some of them faced at the hands of so many others.  Much like the author, these missed opportunities to have been better are the things that still make me cringe…even after as much as 40 years.

Even now, with the theoretical wisdom that should come with well over four decades, I screw this up almost daily. Sure, there are infrequent flashes when I may do better than C work, probably even a rare occurrence where I’m above average. But most days there are multiple missed opportunities for even the simplest acts of kindness, and reading the article made me realize all the more how miserably I still fall short.

Somehow the importance of this seems all the more relevant in the digital age. Though I try to fight it, I’m saddened at the snark that too often seeps into my electronic messages. Too frequently, there’s a tone that I would almost never use if the conversation were taking place face-to-face. There are also times where I’m forwarded email exchanges where the level of vitriol is off the charts…and at the very least, I’m reminded that I have a lot of company when it comes to missing opportunities to take a better path.

Not sure this is an ultimate truth, but I’m going to bet that as we get older, or face bigger challenges, or have a loved one receive a tough diagnosis (or get one ourselves), such added insight will tweak our perspective to the point where we place a much higher importance on simple things like kindness. As the article wisely notes,,, the people I remember most in my life are those that were the kindest.

I can’t be certain about this, but I’m guessing the preponderance of what I get most worked up about on an almost daily basis will seem like total trivial BS when the score is tallied up at the end. Even now, when I look back at some of the biggest fights, I remember more about the battle then I do about the specifics that led to the disagreement. I often wonder if there aren’t a lot of people standing in amazement at a mushroom cloud they created…trying to remember what it was that actually sparked the altercation that led to mutually destructive, all-out war.

So…what ‘s the point of all this? Well, unlike most weeks there actually is one…please read the linked article. It’s a bit long, but I’m guessing you won’t be sorry. Have a great weekend, and whether it’s a simple gesture, an encouraging word, a warm smile or even just a genuine hug, look for every opportunity to be kind. Do it now…so you don’t regret it later like me.

The Article

The Song

BTW…It’s Sturgis Rally week. So while everyone else is sleeping I’m sitting on the porch of my cousin’s South Dakota ranch answering emails and trying to write a blog.  Made one pass at this baby, and I can only imagine the level of poor grammar, lousy spelling and just plain bad writing. So…just know I’m sorry.

...and though I still miss my Ross 3-speed, here's the rest of the story...

What do you do when you produce a poorly written weekly blog that’s faithfully (but unexplainably) read by a loyal group of followers but you have nothing fresh to share? Well, what you shouldn’t do is be like the chap that begins by acknowledging they have nothing of value to say, and then spends the next 15 minutes proving it. But the reality is that on days like today, I really am drawing a blank.  I woke up at 3:55am, stumbled down the stairs, brushed my teeth, turned on the lights in the basement gym and flipped open the laptop…but there was nothing there. The rule of this blog is to write whatever is on my mind in the wee hours of a Friday, but some days, probably even most days, there really isn’t much there (in some ways, I guess this site is actually a weekly validation of that point).

So…what do you do the times you have nothing? Well, in looking over the blog’s most popular posts, I came across this one from about 18 months ago. It’s one of the few that appeared here that received a significant number of pageviews that didn’t have anything to do with bad television or infomercials. I’m not sure what was behind the popularity, but there must have been something about it that resonated. So…consider this part of the summer re-run series…with a couple of edits (removed the word “literally” from several places where it literally added nothing) and a Paul Harvey like “rest of the story” added at the end. With any bad luck, I’ll be back next week with an original thought.

It’s Friday…and I miss my Ross 3 Speed

It was a genuine thing of beauty…forest green paint with bright chrome wheels and shiny handle bars that exceeded my wildest expectations for a new bike. It was Christmas Eve 1969, and after being coaxed outside for a game of catch by my beloved uncle Ted (he was on a Battleship in Pearl Harbor on December 7^th, 1941 and could give you a blow-by-blow account of the attack), I returned inside to the living room of our West Los Angeles home to find a brand new, sparkling Ross 3-speed bicycle parked right next to the fireplace. There are not a lot of vivid holiday images stored in my memory banks, but the picture of that glistening new 3-speed is etched in my brain with crystal-clear clarity.

It had to be a pretty heavy lift at the time for my electrician father and stay-at-home mom. With a car payment, house note, I can’t imagine the purchase was particularly easy for my conservative Depression era parents. But like a lot of things it was the quintessential testament to the value of collectively bargained wages that allowed hard-working union construction workers like my dad to provide a quality middle-class life for his family, As I rolled the bike outside and hopped on for the inaugural ride, I remember my father telling me to take good care of my new prized possession. As I careened up and down Esther Ave that night in our late 60's Wonder Years neighborhood (this was long before helmets or even illuminated bicycle lights), I remember thinking life couldn’t possibly get any better.

A couple of weeks later I was riding my new wheels back from my friend Stanley Carmack’s house who lived in Cheviot Hills about two-miles from our place in Rancho Park (at that time, an eight year-old could travel 2 miles to a friend’s house alone on a bike…I still think that’s true…but that’s a whole other subject). Just as I passed the bridge that went over the old railroad tracks into the east end of Palms Park, I notice two shady young teenagers walking toward the middle of Northvale Ave. I probably should have turned around, but I proceeded ahead and as I came upon the two, one of them held up is hand and indicated I should stop.

Not really knowing any better, I slowed to a halt to see what the two needed. When I did, the eldest of the two (I’m guessing they were about 16) put his hand on my handlebars and asked me where I lived. Not thinking, I said simply “oh…a ways away from here” and with that he instructed me to get off the bike. The other teenager looked scared, but he moved behind me and grabbed onto the bike rack to prevent me from pulling backward. The kid again told me to get off the bike, but I said I would not. The thug then jerked the handlebars and implored me to get off. He held an object I had not seen before to my stomach, and as he pushed a button, a platinum colored blade swung out. I’m guessing it wasn’t more than a four inches long, but at age 8, it looked to me like a machete.

Well, to be honest, I pretty much froze. I thought about my possible courses of action, but at the end-of-the-day, all I could figure out to do was reluctantly hop off the bike and give it up. I remember the kid climbing on my new bike and riding away with his accomplice sitting on the bike rack. It was a sobering experience that played out over-and-over in my young life, and for a long time, I was haunted by all of the things I could have done. I could have picked up a rock and clocked the guy in the head as he rode away, or ran to the nearest house (literally 50 yards away) to call the cops. I could have chased after them screaming and trying to draw attention to them (they really couldn’t ride too fast). However instead of doing any of those things, I ran home the entire two miles sobbing, and I was such a basket case when I finally arrived at the house that it took a good 20 minutes for me to convey to my mother what had transpired.

Aside from losing that beautiful new bicycle, I was probably pretty petrified about what my dad would likely do. He had grown up in a rough-n-tumble neighborhood with little in the way of excess, and I suppose I feared he would be disgusted with the way I handled the situation…and the fact that I didn’t fight for my prized bike. In retrospect, I think he probably was a little disappointed. He’d spent hours teaching me how to fight and how to defend myself, and I’m sure he thought there was little chance they would have actually stabbed me just to get my bicycle. To his credit though, if he felt any shame or disappointment he did not show it…not even a hint. I remember him trying to calm me down…and saying “it’s only a bicycle…you did the right thing.”  There are few things I can be so sure of, but one difference between me and father was he would have never given up his bike without a fight. Actually, I’m pretty sure if they’d have jumped my dad when he was 8, the guy with the switchblade would have had to go to St. Johns to have it removed from his sigmoid colon.  

That was the last I ever saw of that bicycle…or those two criminals. I was hoping to hear they’d been broadsided later that day by a car on Manning Ave, or hit by the Southern Pacific freight train as they crossed the tracks on Motor Ave by the old Tootsie Roll factory, but we never heard anything. There are stretches of years that pass between the times I recall that story now, but when I do I try to derive some sense of peace by telling myself those two delinquents are doing hard time at Folsom with huge unwashed cellmates that have leprosy. Sometimes, I fantasize that they got the chair…and that maybe when I did electrical work I wired the substation that delivered the voltage that ridded the world of their pitiful existence. (For the record…I’m not bitter).

The rest of the story…

I don’t recall the timeline really. I suspect he waited a week or two to see if the stolen bike ever showed up…but the cops never called. One evening when I returned home from school, I walked up the driveway and heard the unmistakable rhythm of my father hitting the speed bag in the garage. He could hit that bag like a prize fighter, and when I turned to walk up the steps to the back door, he stopped and abruptly said… “hey…don’t you have some chores to do? Get out the mower and get busy on the front lawn.”

Unlike the highly evolved Ivy League educated parents of today that get into discussions with kids about such things, there wasn’t any kind of negotiation when my WWII era dad barked out a command…it was just a whole lot easier to suck it up and mow...you were going to end up doing it (and probably more) even if you argued, so you may as well get started.  When I dropped my bag and walked into the garage to fetch the push mower (I was the motor), there was a brand new silver Schwinn 10-speed parked right behind our 65’ black Thunderbird.

If the Ross was a high-end Chevy Impala, the new American made Schwinn was a Cadillac Coup De Ville. My dad bought it from Russ at the Schwinn bicycle store on West Pico boulevard…and man…when I jumped on that beauty I was cooking with gas for the next 8 or 9 years. Sometime later my dad inherited that bike when I moved onto my red 72’ Ford Pinto in 1979 (actually…he inherited it earlier but that’s a whole other Friday story). As a matter of fact, that same bicycle, well over 30 years old, hung in the garage of my parent’s home in Santa Paula, CA until my dad passed away a few years ago…and he continued to ride it well into his 80s, until the cruelty of old-age robbed in of that pleasure. Like a lot of things my father purchased with IBEW wages, his diligence around the upkeep (it was my diligence for the first nine years) of that bicycle meant it didn’t look markedly different in 2000 than it did in the garage the day he brought it home in 1969. Just thinking it about it now, I remember sitting on a small wood stool in the garage, listening to Vin Scully on the transistor while polishing the chrome wheels to a mirrored finish.

Have a fantastic weekend, and if you can, spend some time with the people you love and make some memories that will last long after much of the work-related stuff you might be focusing on too much now fades with added years to the mere trivial. And because it is Friday, start today with a song. If you take the time to listen to this tune you might even find yourself smiling…and that really isn’t such a bad way to kick off the weekend.

Sukiyaki Succotash?