All Your Blogs Are Belong to Us

And Now On A Much Less Serious Note...

2009-11-05T16:44:00.005-06:00

Special thanks to my pal, bbqguy for turning me on to this lil' gem.

Valkyrie didn't win an Oscar, but this clip should.

If you've ever obsessed over a band, you're gonna love it.

Good gawd I needed this. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time...like about a month now.

FWIW, the guy who did this clip, also did several similar spoofs using the same Valkyrie footage but with different subtitles (click through to YouTube to check them out); but this one was the best IMO.

Cheers...

finis

No Longer in Flux, But Now it Sux Even Worse

2009-11-03T23:49:00.000-06:00

Uncomfortably Numb…Again
The last time I felt this way was just over five months ago, when I learned of the impending death of my Father-in-Law.

It’s just too damn soon to feel this way again.

Yesterday I experienced another death in the family — mine…or at least that of my career at any rate.

I was laid off at my job of nearly eleven years, at which, when adding in the initial nine months I worked for The Company as a contractor before going in-house, I actually spent 11 years and 10 months of my life, devoted to one employer. That’s quite a chunk ‘a time, these days especially.

I’ll receive a nice severance package, which should keep us afloat financially until I’m able to find another job — providing of course the economy cooperates and I’m able to find full-time employment in a reasonable amount of time over the coming weeks.

Chances are more than likely that it won’t be until after the first of the year that hiring will rev up again locally, but who knows; maybe I’ll get lucky.

The reason I’m coming out with this is for those of you who’ve read between-the-lines of my previous post, as well as those new friends who have been checking up on me from my new hockey blog.

And to those who have, I’m aware of your visits and am encouraged that you care about what’s going on in my life. Thank you; I am both humbled and grateful for your concern.

Paralysis…Analysis
But I’m also feeling a lot of other things at the moment; the strongest of which is paralysis. I’m trying to fight it off the best I can, but at the moment, I feel that I’m losing the battle.

I had never been laid off from any job before; but now I have.

I’ve never had to collect unemployment before; but now I will.

I’d never imagined that I could be so affected by something like this; but now I am.

I’m well-acquainted with the feeling of rejection, but in my experience, being rejected has usually accompanied the realization that in some small way I’ve actually done something to deserve it.

But not this time.

This is a whole different ballgame. Even more frustrating than losing my job is the knowledge that nothing that I could have done would have prevented it.

And that sucks most of all because I’ve seen the handwriting on the wall for over a month now, and have been working my ass off to somehow stem the tide.

That’s why you haven’t seen a lot of me around in recent weeks — certainly not here, but not even on my new blog. But even though I leave with my head held high, working hard and knowing I did what I was supposed to do, to the best of my abilities, I can’t shake this feeling of helplessness and the questions that still beset me.

Could I have done more?

What did I do wrong?

And of course, the answers to these questions are: ‘no’ and ‘nothing.’

My job was eliminated. They didn’t just get rid of me because they wanted someone better. They got rid of someone who was a successfully functioning, integral part of the system — simply to cut costs.

But then again, maybe I’m over-estimating my value — and don’t think that thought hasn’t been dancing around, screamin’ in my head like a banshee.

There are just so many emotions raging through me right now.

Guilty As Charged
I know how I have viewed those who have gone before me in this economy’s crucible of job loss and forced career change. I previously felt the way any normally compassionate person would; genuine sympathy, but not empathy, as it had actually hadn’t happened to me — yet..

And now that it has, there’s yet another emotion added to the cocktail of of this gawdawful gauntlet of emotions I’ve been running; guilt.

Guilt for still not doing enough to save my job, despite the fact that practically, I know there’s nothing I could have done to affect this change in my life; guilt for being selfish enough to think that those who were laid off before I was were somehow less important; guilt that I’ve placed an undue burden on my wife Michelle, who for an undisclosed period of time will have to be the sole breadwinner in our household; a role she’s neither accustomed to nor well-built to bear.

Right now I just feel like a worthless piece of crap, to be perfectly honest.

But I know that I’m not.

I know there are brighter days ahead.

I know this economy will turn around.

And most of all I know that I can survive; full-time or freelance. I was self-employed 15 out of the previous 17 years prior to coming to work for The Company; I know that I can find work. I know my skills are marketable. I know that I can adapt however necessary.

In a lot of ways, this could be one of the best things that’s happened to me in awhile; and in retrospect, I should have probably left by my own volition a long time ago.

It’s clear that I grew — if not stagnant, then most certainly, a bit too comfortable — in my position with The Company over the eleven years I was with them. There are things I could have done to avoid that, but in all reality, I really should have moved on, probably 4-5 years ago.

But can you blame me for falling in love with a compelling, creative, and challenging environment, filled with high-character individuals? I genuinely liked the people I worked with, which is probably the hardest part of this whole scenario.

I’m gonna miss my crew.

Nonetheless, better days lay ahead; of this I am certain. But now, as Michelle said to me this morning, it’s okay to grieve a little. This is no insignificant loss that I’ve suffered.

And it sucks — big time.

finis

It Sux to Be in Flux (Again)

2009-10-07T07:44:00.003-05:00

Sorry doesn't cover it.
This is, I know, a feeble excuse, but it’s the only one I have right now.

I don’t have time to write, and I won’t be writing a ten-part series to explain why, either. All I can say now is that I’ll be back — soon. The only thing I’m making time for right now is (with regard to blogging), quite selfishly, a new blog on hockey that I started a few weeks ago. I’ll talk more about that here as well, just not now.

At the moment my life is in a state of flux; what kind of flux I don’t really want to say — because I don’t really know for sure, but given the current state of the economy, you can probably guess what it has to do with.

What I do know is that things are changing and I have to roll with those changes. Sometimes rolling is a lotta work, and right now I’m like a duck in the water — calm on the surface, but underneath, paddlin’ like a mofo — and hoping it’s not hunting season.

But don’t worry about me — I am and will be fine.

If you want to contact me, my email is in my profile.

If you care about the NHL and want to read what I’ve been doing, blog-wise, for the past three weeks or so, you can go here.

Again, forgive my absence from this space. I know that I had some high hopes for this current series, which is now no longer a series (and yes, JWL, you were right). It was a good exercise while it lasted, but alas, shit happens.

Shit is certainly happening right now.

Talk to you soon...

AJ

An Addendum to ‘Seduction’

2009-09-14T02:52:00.006-05:00

Anatomy of a Time Sink
Gawd I love etymologyonline.com! And I really don’t know why that is, as I never really was all that hot about English classes in high school (although I did take a Semantics course that I really dug my senior year), but as an adult, etymology has always been a real fascination for me.

Likewise, I’ve never taken a foreign language course, let alone Latin, but one of my most oft-used browser bookmarks is to Merriam-Webster Online. I constantly cruise this extensive online dictionary site for help with word definition, usage, punctuation, and root origin information.

I’m one of those types who would list the dictionary as one of my all-time favorite reads. I’m serious; I could lose myself in a dictionary for hours. I’m fascinated by words. And I’m also fascinated by etymology; the history of words. I find it extremely interesting to find out where words came from, what there roots mean, and how their definitions and connotations have changed over the ages.

The English language, being the amalgam of so many others that it is, makes for a particularly interesting investigation of how our words were formed and developed.

But back to seduction…

So there I was, last Thursday, reading Liz Strauss’s post, when she mentioned the part about getting seduced by an idea. And then, for some reason, a context alarm went off in my head. I thought about the word ‘seduced,’ and for me, the first thought I had was ‘sexual,’ because in our culture, for the most part, sexual seduction is the context through which we perceive that word.

But that just didn’t seem right to me in this case. I fully identified with Liz’s use of the word in her statement. She definitely used the right descriptor. But when I’m ‘seduced’ by an idea; when I’m led away from one idea by a different one, it’s not because I’m thinkin’ sexy thoughts. Where did the sexual context actually come from? I needed to learn more to understand the true meaning of the word.

So first I checked Merriam-Webster, and then EtymologyOnline.com, where I discovered some interesting things about the word seduce.

When placed in a historical context, the interestingly subtle change in the word’s meaning makes for an even more poignant object lesson in human nature.

And for the record, I don’t pretend to be any kind of learned linguist.** This is just a loose interpretation, but one that makes a lot of sense to me.

**For entertainment purposes only; your mileage may vary.

I learned that the moral and sexual applications of the word, seduce (i.e.: seductive/seductress), manifested themselves about 50 years into its first attributed origin of use, in the early-middle portion of the sixteenth century. It was only at this point that its connotation gave rise to the prevailing modern interpretation of the idea of seduction being ‘immoral’ or ‘sexual’ in nature. Quite to the contrary, in its original Latin root components, the word is much more neutral in its moral stance.

The original usage context of seduce was, “to persuade a vassal (a feudal servant or slave), etc., to desert his allegiance or service.” In other words, seduce simply describes the act of leading a feudal slave away from his duty. It does not necessarily insinuate the act to be evil or immoral.

Seduce’s Latin root word, seducere simply means “lead away, or lead astray;” formed by the component parts, se — “aside, away” + ducere — “to lead.”

I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t see any moral judgment there, but I guess it just depends on your point of view.

It’s interesting to note that according to most historical accounts, the early 1500s were the beginning of the end of the feudal system in Europe.

Oh the times, they were a-changin.’

The Middle Ages were over and so was the status quo (seein’ as how we seem to be on this Latin kick). The old guard obviously wasn't too terribly jazzed about this brave new world and its gradual disintegration of the feudal system.

Just as the abolition of slavery in the United States was met with extreme resistance from the establishment that had previously profited from it, the feudal kings and land barons who depended on those vassals to make their land productive couldn’t have been too happy when their way of life began to come to an end.

Again, this is just speculation on my part, but I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to assume that things worked much the same way then as they do now, with the noble and powerful, exerting control over opinion and most likely, language as well.

Is it therefore any less likely that a word, whose original meaning was purely descriptive, and without pejorative connotation, could be ‘turned’ by an establishment that disagreed with its action, than one of modern vintage, such as the word, ‘gay,’ whose ‘recent’ connotation over the past 100 years as a slang descriptor for homosexuality, has forever overshadowed its original meaning and primary usage from the previous six centuries?

It’s an interesting thing to consider, and one that I’m quite sure, if properly fleshed out, could very likely be a common theme in the evolution of our language.

Time sink concluded, now back to the series…

Next: The Difference Between ‘Alone’ and ‘Lonely’

SOBbin’ (continued)

2009-09-13T04:28:00.003-05:00

Time Stinks…er…I Mean…Sinks
Continuing to continue the conversation from Liz Strauss’s blog, on Thursday September 10th, 2009, the topic was, as she describes them: ‘time sinks’.

Liz says, ‘time sinks;’ I say, ‘black holes’ — but whatever moniker you wish to use — they’re creative enigmas wrapped in a practical riddle; that which simultaneously robs us of our creative energy while we are in the process of creating, and are often responsible for our being drawn away from those projects that we sometimes start but never seem to finish.

Time sinks can come in different forms; from the legitimate components of the creative process — like brainstorming and refining a project theme, to the practical evils of necessity in getting a job done — like research, or necessary governmental and/or legal due diligence.

For her part, Liz has focused on the spinning and development of ideas as her nominee for time suck numero uno. She invites us to think about the stumbling blocks that the rest of us encounter in comparison, offering,

“Getting ideas is so much fun. Making them happen is where the real work starts.

We lose interest, find a flaw, get seduced by a new idea, or land a job that offers more.

Have you found that the biggest time sink on the web are ideas that never get done?”

This, as are so many of Liz’s topics, just so apropos to my modus operandi, (which is why I’m doing this series in the first place), that it’s simply uncanny.

And then again it may not just be coincidental, but rather a common circumstance that other creative people with short attention spans (like me) experience over the course of everyday life.

However the one thing I wanted to key upon really isn’t any kind of exposition regarding the chasing of ideas down the rabbit hole, but rather my personal version of the time sink phenomenon (which not so coincidentally, I’ve been forced to deal with in the writing of this story).

Seduced by Seduction
Now I don’t consider myself an ‘idea guy,’ although I am called upon fairly often to contribute to brainstorming sessions at work, where everyone comes up with ideas regarding themes and such for the conferences and events our department is involved with.

Generally speaking, however, I consider my strong suit in that area to be a little less than the ‘nuts & bolts’ logistics that are essential in giving a project legs. Rather, I’m the type that is better suited at things like finding a clever turn of a phrase in naming a product or theme, or something else in a similar lighthearted vein.

But while that’s a large part of my external personality, it’s far from who I am as a whole. I might be a goofball on the surface, but my serious side in an equal part of my identity.

I think; a lot; sometimes too much. Oftentimes I’ll become drawn into an internal conversation so much that I lose the direction of my original thought. I’ll suddenly stop and marvel at how far off the track my train of thought had traveled. Does that ever happen to you? Unfortunately I do that when writing stories as well.

So when Liz listed, getting “seduced by a new idea” as one of the symptoms of a time sink, I stood up and took notice. That as much as anything had been the bane of my existence as a writer.

When I first began this blog, there were no roadblocks to my motivation or ability to tell the hundreds of stories that were practically bursting from my head. I’ve always written for myself first and readers second, so there was no concern about making my early blog entries ‘sexy’ for those other than myself. Frankly I never really thought anyone else would read them. I didn’t need to try and make them interesting — they just were — to me, and that was all that mattered.

Likewise, I didn’t need to work for story line material. The compelling issues of my family’s battles with Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease, the fact that my Dad married my Aunt, and that a little boy from a hick country town in Indiana ended up making good in a place so far away (physically as well as culturally) as Los Angeles is more than enough guts to build a few good stories around.

However my problem with ‘seduction’ began a couple years ago — after my life’s history had pretty much been told. That was the point where I realized how much work this gig can be. And given how much I’ve struggled with it, sometimes I scoff at the notion that I even fancy myself being a writer.

I began to find myself in a consistently frustrating place when embarking on a story: I would begin with guns a’ blazin’ — knowing (or so I thought) exactly where I was going with a thought or opinion. Then two or three pages into the tale, the realization would befall that I was so far off course that I practically had two completely separate stories written instead of just one.

Why it happens is still a mystery to me. It’s not an insurmountable problem if I recognize it early enough to head it off before it ruins the flow of the piece I’m writing. However, the damage inflicted is in the time sink, and the way it affects both the limited amount of time I have to write in the first place, as well as the creative energy the whole re-work process drains me of.

It has caused me on numerous occasions to abandon multi-part series, not because I’ve lost interest, but because I just don’t have the time to go back into them and re-sync my mind into that scenario once again.

And that again speaks to this idea the Liz threw out there, of the ‘seduction’ of new ideas drawing us away from completing projects: I don’t feel as though I ‘have time’ to go back and finish these incomplete stories, why? Because there are now ‘new’ stories that occupy my mind and beg to be written.

See what I mean? It’s a particularly vicious cycle.

BTW, that’s really all I wanted to say about my personal time sink demons. I’m workin’ on ‘em, and as I mentioned previously, this effort to base a week’s worth of posts on Liz Strauss’s SOB Blog topics is in large part an exercise in breaking free of the over-thought that has crept into my writing.

Somewhat ironically, I have an addendum to this story that’s actually an example of the problem (and why this particular post is two full days late). Nevertheless I found it interesting, so I’ll share it as a separate post.

It’s about that word, ‘seduce,’ and its connotation in our modern lexicon.

NextAn Addendum to ‘Seduction’

SOBbin’

2009-09-10T02:23:00.027-05:00

Lost Weekend
I've been knee-deep in Facebook and Twitter for the past couple months, and while I've enjoyed myself immensely, I've finally arrived at the realization that in so doing I've been — perhaps subconsciously — involving myself in these new media vehicles not only because they're fun, but also because they're a lot easier than blogging.

As I’ve mentioned before, it seems I’ve hit a bit of a dry patch in my motivation to write lately, due in no small part to the even drier patch I struck about two years ago with relation to coming up with new story material.

Problem is, I’ve pretty much always written only about my life, my family, and my moods. Unfortunately, over the course of five-plus years’ blogging, I think I’ve pretty much told the lion’s share of my life’s story, so the only thing left is my mood — and right now my mood stinks. I'm not inspired; I'm not motivated; I’m not really happy, but I’m not sad either. Usually one of those four things are at the personal forefront whenever I write. But right now, I got nothin’ — zippo; zilch; nada; the big donut.

This past Labor Day weekend brought my circumstance into focus.

It felt like a completely wasted five days to me — I had taken additional vacation days on Thursday and Friday to augment the three-day weekend and make it a mini-vacation. I’d had every intention of making it a blogging vacation. My wife was out of town visiting our daughter in Atlanta; I had four solid days with which to work. One would think I could at least ply a couple decent posts in that amount of time. Instead I got nothing done, apart from posting some photos on Facebook along with my typical Saturday barrage of activity on Twitter. Sure, I had some other tasks around the house that needed attention, and I did them. However I still had plenty of time with which to write if I’d applied myself; but I didn't. I just wasn’t inspired. I just wasn’t feelin’ it.

However, don’t get me wrong; my purpose for this gloomy preface really isn’t about flogging myself for having writer’s block; One positive thing did arise from my lost weekend: the realization of why it was lost in the first place. Things have been coming to a head in that regard for a long time, and as a result I’ve finally realized that I must somehow push back in order to stem the tide.

What I’m experiencing isn’t new or different from what every other writer who’s ever lived experiences from time to time. I just didn’t believe it would happen to me. I’ve needed a reason to do something different, and now I’ve got one. I’m going to experiment with something that hopefully will kill a flock ‘o seagulls with one stone.

I’ve decided to get past my dearth of inspiration by drawing some from another who never seems to run out of ideas, and who actually encourages folks like me to do what I’m going to do; to “carry on the conversation” to venues beyond her own blog; to add ideas and opinions that will hopefully spur others to do the same..

The LIZ-a-nator
Say what you will about the ‘preaching to the choir’ nature of Twitter, but this sometimes incestuous echo chamber of the social media channel isn’t entirely composed of regurgitated material. While some of the medium’s mavens can come off as at least slightly egocentric and self-absorbed, there are still many more who leave even the most personable ‘real-time’ types looking like narcissists.

One of these marvelous folks is Liz Strauss. Now Liz and I aren’t pals, per ce, but I’m certain that if ever we were to meet she would treat me like a dear old friend. Out in the Twitterverse those kind of personal characteristics can sometimes be a mirage, but in Liz’ case, after observing her for nearly an entire year, I believe that what you read really is what you get — either that or she should drop this gig and become a politician, ‘cuz she’s a natural.

A highly sought-after conference and public speaker, one of the daily irons in the fire of Liz Strauss’s career is the support and evangelization of blogging in social media. She herself pens three blogs, one of which is targeted directly at the support and growth of other bloggers.

Successful and Outstanding Bloggers (or, S.O.B. for short) is Liz’s daily invitation to hack thru the kudzu; an opportunity to apply fresh opinions to fresh ideas and release them into the blogosphere. Simply stated, Liz choses a topic, often one that’s been brewing on Twitter or other social media outlets for the previous 24 hours, and places it on the table à la Mike Meyers’ SNL character, Linda Richman, to “discuss amongst yourselves.” The effect can be manifold. First, it extends the discussion beyond its original bounds and potentially brings many more people into the conversation, providing new ways of looking at a subject, creating ideas and story material for others to write about, which can in turn spawn countless other potential conversations.

It’s a great concept, and nobody does it better than Liz. So, considering my current plight of not having anything compelling to write about, I figured I would take the opportunity to exercise my SOB genes and give it a try.

For the next seven days (or as often as Liz updates her SOB blog seven times) I plan to continue the conversation and see where it leads.

Wednesday’s topic was particularly apropos to what I’ve been involving myself with lately: Twitter and Facebook. Liz asked, “What IS Facebook” — not as in a literal definition, but rather as in relation to Twitter as a metaphor for a conversation. Some of the respondents to Liz’s poll related it to a party, whereas Twitter was more like a business meeting, “a huge networking room,” as someone put it.

The opinions were fairly varied, but whatever the analogy, the basic difference thing fairly unanimous: Twitter is the more formal of the two media, primarily because of its more restrictive 140-character input limit. And while conversations are trackable through the use of hashtags and more readily available with alternative Twitter interface apps like TweetDeck, that 140 character limit for responses just seems to create an air of formality that sometimes is hard to break through.

Facebook has no such barriers. It’s threaded commenting interface makes it easy to follow even lengthy conversations in a way that Twitter simply can’t do well on its own.

However the judging the physical merits of the two social media clients wasn’t really the question here, but rather, what they represent in comparison, metaphorically.

Liz Strauss’s initial question on the table was “What is Facebook”? She then refined that by adding, “If Twitter is a huge networking room, what is Facebook?

Allow me now to wax a little metaphorical…

Twitter is indeed a huge room; one whose only networking limitation is your willingness to walk up to someone and say hello. Some folks you encounter may indeed ignore your engagement, but if you’re genuine, and have something worthwhile to say, people are highly likely to return that engagement, albeit only 140-characters at a time.

Personally I love Twitter. I love the rapid-fire tenor of the conversations flying back and forth. It can be challenging to follow the story at times, but it’s never dull.

Facebook on the other hand is more like a large, but private, hospitality suite; big enough to house a large group of your closest friends or acquaintances you’d like to become friends, but intimate enough to hold lengthy conversations with any number of those friends, complete with the sharing of photos, videos, or even a party game or two.

So despite the fact that I still prefer Twitter, Facebook has really been growing on me of late, as I begin to plugin more and more to the lives of former high school mates and family members who are discovering its value as a connection tool.

Bottom line is, both are equally valuable for accomplishing the mission of social media, particularly as potential business applications — but that’s another discussion (and metaphor) for another time.

I promise it won’t be quite as long-winded.

NextContinuing the Conversation

Unfinished Business 2009 (Vol 1, No 1)

2009-08-16T01:42:00.006-05:00

Welcome to two months ago.
A little more than a year ago, I embarked upon a personal experiment, holding myself up to public scrutiny in the process.

...And failed miserably.

In an attempt to goad myself into begin writing again on a more consistent basis, I promised here in this space, to finish what I had started but not completed: my goal was to post the concluding parts to four series, as well as four short stories that had languished for a year or more in various stages of incompleteness.

Oh, and did I mention that I proposed to do all this in three weeks?

Oh well. At least I managed to get four posts out of the deal, which in recent years is actually pretty good output for me in three weeks’ time.

Additionally, part of that proposal was to backdate the new/old series posts to keep them in chronological order with the the original story parts; then to post a current page (like this one) with links directing readers to the new parts.

Trouble was, I never actually finished any of the four series I was attempting to get sewn up, so I never had any reason to post the backlinks.

But this time I’m gonna do it right…ehhhxcept that now I’m doing it for yet another series that I let slide; one, however, that is quite a bit more recent — as in two months instead of two years old.

It’s the conclusion to The Eagle Has Landed, a tribute to my Father In-Law, Ed Carpenter, who passed on June 7, 2009. I managed to get two of the eventual five parts of the series written and posted before an unfortunate event — one nearly as unfortunate as Ed’s death itself — reared its ugly head and robbed me of my motivation.

However all that’s in the rear-view now, and I decided that I would today finish what I started, both to honor this great man, and maybe…possibly… get myself back on the blog beam once again.

I mean this makes six posts in eight days — not too bad for ol’ slothmeister, AJ (but I’ll try to do better…).

Backlinks
So if you’d like to pick up where story left off left off, click here. This will take you to Part II, an intermediate post that ‘sort of’ explains what derailed my original attempts to get this tribute out in a timely manner (you’ll understand why I can’t be more specific after you read it).

On the other hand, if you didn’t get a chance to read it from the beginning, you can do so by clicking here and return to the Epilogue.

I’ve never before asked anyone to read my posts; I’m asking you to read this.

Please join me in honoring a great man, Ed Carpenter.

finis

John Hughes Addendum

2009-08-09T12:04:00.005-05:00

About Yesterday…
Okay. I was originally going to include all this yesterday, as a postscript to my longer-than-I-wanted-it-to-be tribute to John Hughes, but thought better of it for one very good (think: War And Peace) reason.

Nonetheless, today is another day, this is another post, and I’ve had nearly 24 hours to really think about what I wish to say here.

First, please understand that I was so torn up about John Hughes death as to be all but paralyzed. I wanted to write something, anything, that might convey the sadness with which I met the news of his loss to us all, but I really didn’t know how to say it, given the power of his legacy as a ‘Teen movie guy.’

You see, as I kind of indicated in the last post, I never really got that from John Hughes. I wasn’t one of the young people he connected with in the 80s. I never even saw one of his movies in the theater until Home Alone in 1990 — when I was in my mid-thirties, and just a year before he all but bowed out of limelight after directing his last major motion picture (Curly Sue) in ‘91.

As in so many other circumstances in my life, I was late to the party.

I never saw The Breakfast Club until probably the late 90s, because I really never thought it was for me.

I know that Home Alone was the ‘a-ha moment’ for me with regard to Hughes’ films, but perhaps just as great a revelation was Uncle Buck, a movie I very much doubt that Hughes — or John Candy — ever got enough credit for. THAT was the one that cemented John Hughes’ genius for me. But again, I saw it only several years later, after Hughes had stepped away from the Director’s Chair.

So here was my dilemma: I really didn’t know how to fashion what I rather felt was a relatively ‘johnny-come-lately-to-the-John-Hughes-bandwagon’ experience without sounding just that: like a bandwagon-jumper-on’er.

A Shout Out to a Couple’a Bloggers
So, all that to say, there is a reason why I was able to put my emotions into words yesterday. There is one person in particular who paved the way for me, without whose honesty I wouldn’t have been able to pull out of myself what I very much wanted to say about this humble, gifted, and genuine filmmaker.

An important acknowledgment of gratitude is actually due to two bloggers, without either of whom I likely would not have written yesterday’s post: Brian Clark and Alison Byrne Fields.

Brian is a tremendous writer and a really interesting guy. His blog, Copyblogger may on the surface seem to be all business, but his posts and the persona he exhibits on Twitter reveal the heart of a very personable, well-grounded individual. The kind of guy you could really enjoy hanging out with.

I’m a big fan of Brian’s, but have never been so grateful to him as yesterday morning, when he tweeted a link to a story of another blogger; an author whom I did not know, but whom, as I would learn later on (much to her chagrin, BTW), has become somewhat of an overnight Internet celebrity for her heartfelt post last Thursday John Hughes passing, and in particular, the pen-pal friendship the two held from 1985-87.

Alison Byrne Fields is a talented woman with an impressive career apart from her blog, however the publicity of her John Hughes story has apparently taken on a life of its own. The post registered well over eleven hundred comments less than 48 hours. Add in the interviews on NPR and full reprints of her post in the New York Times, and, well, you can understand why all the attention might be a little unnerving.

Her most recent blog post details the shell-shock she’s experienced, and for me reveals in no uncertain terms her true motives in revealing something that that could easily be perceived — and has, by a very few — as little more than a publicity grab.

I don’t believe for a moment that her intentions were anything short of a desire to confirm what we already knew about John Hughes, through the intrinsic nature of his work. I applaud her for her courage and her generosity for sharing such a personal treasure with us.

The Rest of the Story
Alison had mentioned her warm, yet distant relationship with Hughes a few times previously in her blog, but never called it out as any kind of claim to fame. She even admitted just last summer that she indeed knew why Hughes had disappeared from Hollywood, but sprightly declined to reveal the reason. She said that she wished to honor the fact that if the man himself didn’t want to talk about why he decided to step out from under the spotlight’s glare, than neither would she.

In retrospect I believe I appreciate her for that more than anything else she would do later. However, when that part did come this past Thursday, she granted us all the greatest of favors.

Alison finally told the story in detail, from the beginning.

In 1985, following a I’m-pouring-out-my-heart letter to Hughes, thanking him for making The Breakfast Club, the movie that made her “feel like he got what it was like to be a teenager and to feel misunderstood,” she received an unexpected reply.

Really unexpected.

Instead of a personal reply acknowledging her candid and heartfelt thank you letter to Mr. Hughes, she instead received a form letter, along with some Breakfast Club fan club paraphernalia.

Rightfully incensed, she fired back a letter to Hughes, blasting him for the ‘inappropriate response.’

Obviously realizing the seriousness of the influence his work had struck, and being the kind of person he has now demonstrated himself to be, Hughes wrote back apologizing, and later agreed to become pen pals with his young fan. Over the course of the next two years they exchanged letters, forging an active friendship that would last for many more.

Alison would keep Hughes abreast of what was going on with her life; with boys, with her parents; her pursuit of writing, her challenges, dealing with critical teachers, and her dreams for the future.

Hughes’ encouraging responses were more than lip-service. He shared insights, movie ideas, things that anyone, regardless of age would be thrilled to receive from a man of his stature.

He made her feel significant.

“I can't tell you how much I like your comments about my movies,” he would write, “Nor can I tell you how helpful they are to me for future projects. I listen. Not to Hollywood. I listen to you.”

“You've already received more letters from me than any living relative of mine has received to date,” Hughes confided at one point. “Believe in yourself. Think about the future once a day and keep doing what you’re doing. Because I’m impressed.”

Alison obviously took his advice. She would go on to a career that has been heavily involved in advocacy and non-profit concerns, including such notable positions as Creative Director and Chief Strategist of the late 90s ‘Rock the Vote’ initiative, and has also worked with a variety of private and governmental agencies on the formation of policies to combat the AIDS pandemic around the world.

She as well has been a driving force in the development of the use of social media strategies to promote issues advocacy, and currently holds the position of SVP/Group Account Director, Issues & Advocacy/Social Media Strategy Director for global Ad Agency giant, DDB.

Is it any wonder this former ‘misunderstood’ teen would impress John Hughes?

The Right Reasons
Alison Byrne Fields didn’t ‘need’ the story of her friendship with John Hughes in order to receive her fifteen minutes of fame. Hell, she was already going on her fifteenth hour…

She didn’t need to curry favor with the world by revealing the full story, including the contents of that fateful telephone conversation she and Hughes shared in 1997. She did it because she’s honest, and I believe, she wanted the world to know the true heart of the man; someone we already respected, but realize now even more how well-placed that honor has been.

John Hughes walked away from a movie career, making millions, in favor of a simple life on a working farm in rural Illinois. He did it, not because of any physical stress that lifestyle cost him, but rather out of concern for what it could do to his family. He feared that his sons could “lose perspective on what was important and what happiness meant.”

He walked away for the right reasons; he placed his family first. As always, his heart was in the right place.

So was Alison’s.

That was the incentive I needed. That was the light bulb that suddenly cleared the cobwebs from my emotionally-tangled head. THAT was who John Hughes was, and that’s exactly what comes through in his movies.

Thank you, Alison.

Rest well, Mister Hughes.

finis

He Made Us Comfortable in Someone Else’s Skin

2009-08-08T20:41:00.018-05:00

What a lousy year…
I’m really not in the mood to write today, but I feel I must. I need to do so in order to pay tribute on at least a somewhat timely basis to the passing of yet another luminary in our culture whose life has come to a premature end; a man whose movies defined a generation in a way that may never be duplicated: reknowned 1980s writer/director/producer, John Hughes.

_{Photo courtesy Cinetext/Allstar}

Over the past three months I’ve started and stopped at least four stories regarding the notable lives that 2009 has claimed; the list is staggering. It seems that each time I try to express my regret for one of the individuals who has passed, another one drops off and I’m once again crippled by grief and have to set it aside.

On June 25th we experienced the double-whammy of losing both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson within mere hours of one another. And though these were the two who captured the attention of the TeeVee news magazines for weeks, there were others who preceded them. Giants of significance to me, in the personal, entertainment, pop culture, and political arenas; names like Ed McMahon, Ed Carpenter, David Carradine, Dan Miller, Chuck Daly, Dom Deluise, Jack Kemp, Bea Arthur, Mark ‘The Bird’ Fidrych, Paul Harvey, James Whitmore, Andrew Wyeth, and the great Ricardo Montalbán.

But the Grim Reaper wasn’t finished in June; he kept right on going, and has in just the past six weeks claimed the additional lives of Walter Cronkite, Robert McNamara, Steve McNair, and Karl Malden.

Now if you’re looking at that list and either scratching your head because there’s a bunch of names there you either don’t recognize — or in whose passing you weren’t quite moved enough to really feel bad about, well, no worries here. Chances are you’re not 53 years old, have split your lifetime between LA and Nashville, and/or are married to the daughter of a late, former Apollo 11 Moon Mission engineer.

You Just Never Know
We all have our own individual list of people that have touched our lives; its not the same for everyone, just as we also wield our own sphere of influence that touches the lives of others.

Sometimes that influence is through incidental contact; other times it’s quite intentional. Sometimes it’s a part of our job; other times it’s none of our freaking business. Sometimes our influence is a good thing; other times it’s the worst thing that we could possibly do to another person.

There’s one constant in all of this however, and that is that we never know.

We never know how just a look from us can change another person’s day; how an encouraging word can either make or break a child; how the conscious decision to NOT let our ill mood affect our response can make all the difference in the outcome of an inter-personal situation.

We never know how years of direct exposure to another soul can either mold that person’s character for good, or cast an irrevocable die of pain upon their life.

We just never know.

My all-time personal favorite quote — the single greatest influence I have ever received from a poet, is displayed in the masthead of my blog. It’s not from a poem, but is from the heart of a wise and inspired poetess, Maya Angelou:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

This has become my mantra; something I attempt to use to govern my actions; to make each and every contact with another person a positive one, because…you never know.

A Hughe(s) Loss
John Hughes probably had a clue, but I doubt he ever knew just how influential his movies were, or how much he would be missed when he left us this past Thursday.

I sure as hell didn’t know how it would affect me.

And the thing is, at the time I heard the news, I really didn’t know why I was so shaken.

Perhaps it was just the straw-that-broke-the camel’s-back of this god-forsaken ‘another one bites the dust’ kind-of-year.

Perhaps it was the fact that just a few days earlier I had actually done a Google search on Hughes to try and find out what he was up to. I hadn’t heard anything about him making movies in what seemed like forever. Was he ill or just laying low? Why had he dropped out of the limelight? Why had he not directed a single feature film since the early 90s?

And then came Thursday...and he was gone.

The irony was simply too sharp. I really had to swallow hard as I read aloud to my co-workers the news of John Hughes death from the press release I received via email late Thursday afternoon.

I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut.

The man was 59 years old — just six years my senior. I had no idea. I’d always assumed him to be was much older than that. I’d never even seen a picture of him prior to that news release.

I guess I knew a different John Hughes. The filmmaker I admired was perhaps different than the one whose movies you connected with as a teenager. I was well beyond my teens in the 1980s, but instead was traveling through my late twenties and into my thirties by the time Hughes’ films exploded upon the scene.

Hughes’ original Brats: (clockwise from left) Ally Sheedy, Judd Nelson, Anthony Michael Hall, Emilio Estevez, and Molly Ringwald
_{Photo courtesy WashingtonPost.com}

I was, by MY generation’s directive, almost ready to join the ranks of ‘those not to be trusted’ when The Breakfast Club hit the theaters in 1985.

Oh, and did I mention, I what an ASS I was back then, too?

In the mid-80s I used to bristle at Generation X, as they recently had been dubbed. The kids born after the mid-60s; those malcontents who listened to Punk Rock, dyed their hair chartreuse, and spent their time yakking about ‘No Nukes.’ These were the age and experience group that John Hughes’ films were directed to the most.

I realized at the time that this must have been how my parent’s generation felt about me and my mates in the 60s, when the first so-called ‘generation gap’ formed.

I was aware of The Breakfast Club, although not necessarily cognizant of Hughes per se. What I did know, however, was the ‘Brat Pack’ — this group of up-and-coming actors, and how they were being hyped as ‘the next big thing’ in Hollywood. The Breakfast Club was ostensibly the birth of the Brat Pack, as noted in the 1985 New York magazine cover story which popularized the phrase.

Yeah, they were brats alright, I thought. Kids these days.

I just rolled my eyes.

But as has so often in my life been demonstrated, I later realized that I needed to stop assuming things that weren’t necessarily true. I mean, you know what they say about ASSuming…

So I went to a different ‘Brat Pack’ movie that came out that same year: St. Elmo’s Fire. It wasn’t a John Hughes film, but its ensemble cast featured three of the Breakfast Club’s five principles, including Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy and Judd Nelson.

I loved it.

But enough about brats; back to John Hughes.

An Overdue Present
I may have given the Brat Pack a second chance in 1985, but would continue to be late to the John Hughes love-fest for another five years, until a screaming kid would force us to take him to a movie about another screaming kid: Macaulay Culkin in his portrayal of the precocious Kevin McCallister, in Hughes’ comedic masterpiece, Home Alone.

Our kids were ages eight and six in December, 1990, and Home Alone was all the rage among most of the young parents we knew. So after much cajoling from our son Shawn, we treated the kids to the now-classic Chrismastime flick — which they loved.

However it was I who received the long-overdue present at the movie theater that day: the gift of John Hughes.

There are two movies from the Early 90s that simply enrapture me, not necessarily for their production values, or even their story lines alone, but rather the aesthetics created by the combination of those two elements that infuse the mind of the viewer.

One film, about which I’ve written fairly often in previous stories, is City Slickers — both for it’s breathtaking cinematography of the West and its humorous-yet-gripping truths about a man saying goodbye to his youth.

Home Alone is the other, and probably for exact opposite reason. Oh it’s funny, silly, and all of those things that one would expect from a plot about a young boy who believes he’s made his family disappear, but there was something more in it for me.

Home Alone reconnected me to my childhood — not that I ever spent any time fending off burglars by greasing up the basement steps or pretending I was a gangster joyously filling my enemies full’a lead.

What I got out of the movie — and the numerous other John Hughes films I would subsequently rent and devour over the years that followed, was pure John Hughes; a guy who was a child of the Midwest, just like me; a child of the 50s and 60s, just like me; and a filmmaker who poured out just the right amount of that part of his life into every movie he made.

I don’t really know how else to define it, but the ‘feeling’ of Kevin McCallister’s neighborhood in suburban Chicago is exactly how it ‘felt’ in similar settings throughout the Midwest I grew up in. The flavor was unmistakable to me. And amid all the movie’s laughs and high-jinx was the poignancy of this connective tissue that bound it all together.

This wasn’t just a movie about a kid in suburban America, it was a movie about me. And I’m certain that the way Hughes affected me in Home Alone is the same way so many GenXers felt about The Breakfast Club.

He made us feel connected.

John Hughes didn’t just make movies about teens; he made movies about the human spirit — weaving characters into whom we could lose ourselves and identify; seeing our lives through their eyes for just a little while, and then returning us to reality a little more enlightened; a little more encouraged to go out and make the world our own. He had a remarkable ability to speak to the heart, whether in laughter or in angst, making us comfortable in someone else’s skin.

And he will be missed.

Next: John Hughes — addendum

Dood...We Were Jobbed.

2009-08-07T19:16:00.001-05:00

Say it Ain’t So, Joe(job)
If you’re a fan of micro-blogging medium, Twitter, I think you’d agree that yesterday morning was just a bit of a bummer. Our Daily Affirmation-in-a-(Dialog) Box was wrested from us for better than six hours (depending on your locality) by what was originally assumed to be a coordinated DDoS (Distributed Denial of Service) attack on several social media vehicles, including Twitter, Facebook, LiveJournal and YouTube, but which is now believed to actually have been directed at silencing the political views of one individual; a well-known anti-Russian blogger, who has been particularly vocal in his criticism of the Kremlin’s policies toward the Republic of Georgia. I actually found that somewhat easier to stomach than the usual ‘because I can’ reasons many hackers choose as motivation for their mischief.

But politics aside, what I found most appalling of all wasn’t the kill-the-fly-with-a-hand-grenade approach that was taken in carrying out their mission, but rather the mindless assist these hackers got from the general public in accomplishing it.

This was no a sophisticated surgical strike of technical programming prowess, folks. It was a freaking ‘Joe job.’

What’s a ‘Joe job?’ you ask? Well the term was a new one on me too until I read this newsflash from the British IT website, The Register. To quote the author, “Joe jobs are spam messages that are designed not to push Viagra but to induce someone to click on a link in the hopes of harming the site being linked to.”

Sounds harmless enough. I mean, we’ve all received and deleted hundreds of these spam emails over the years; even more that we don’t see are corralled by our email client’s spam filters. But should one or two a day slip through, we know not to even open them, much less click on the links they offer, right? I mean what are we, stupid?

Um...weeeel...

Dis and DDoS
DDoS attacks are usually performed by malicious software (or ‘bots’) exacting furious request activity on a particular web site or service, over a short period of time; the result being overloaded servers and the target site being rendered inaccessible. Since DDos bots can’t be everywhere and thereby are traceable by IP address, their attacks are usually short-lived. However in this case, the attackers were people all over the world — who didn’t even realize they were attacking. And when thousands of people worldwide click the same links at essentially the same time, the impact is virtually impossible to combat; you just have to wait it out and hope that the damage of being out o’ commission was minimal.

So there you have it. What we thought were the coordinated efforts of cunning hackers in the shadows, perhaps making a power statement on the highly visible stage of the social media Web, now appears to have actually been an old-school, comparatively unsophisticated attack that became insurmountable only through the unwitting collaboration of thousands of know-nothing link-clickers in broad daylight.

The Register article explains:

"This was not like a botnet-style DDoS; this was a joejob where people were just clicking on links in email and the people clicking on the links were not malefactors. They were just the sort of idiots that click on links in email without knowing what they are."
_{Bill Woodcock, Research Director, Packet Clearing House}

Now I don’t know about you, but THAT pisses me off a helluva lot worse than the thought of some pimple-faced hacker dude, holed up in his Mom’s basement, hatching a plan to receive his fifteen minutes of fame.

But whatvs. People either get it or they don’t. But if they don’t understand the implications of their carelessness now, will they ever learn?

When will folks understand that clicking on links in emails you receive from unknown sources just to see where it goes is about as smart as sticking your finger in a light socket just to see if it’s on?

♫ And I get on my knees and pray...We won’t get fooled again ♪
Y’know, I can’t help but think the person or persons who actually launched this joe job are feeling like they just won the lottery. They must be bustin’ their buttons over their unexpected brilliance right about now. I mean this has gotta be better than Christmas for these guys.

Not so much for the rest of us, however.

Traditional DDoS attacks can be mitigated. User carelessness/stupidity cannot.

You don’t think other would-be copycat hackers are taking notes here? I mean, c’mon people.

Look before you leap.

Think before you click.

Google before you ogle.

This scenario could (and likely will) be repeated. It’s up to us to defuse the idiot-bomb before it explodes on our faces again once again.

WE caused Twitter, Facebook and the others to go down.

WE were the ones who made Joe Hacker’s job easier than it should have been.

And WE can be the ones to keep it from happening again.

finis

If Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, What Do I Get?

2009-07-28T23:43:00.000-05:00

Moody Tuesday Afternoon
I love The Moody Blues. Being a child of the 60s and 70s, I cut my musical teeth on the great bands of Rock 'N Roll's 'British Invasion.' First of course were the Beatles and Rolling Stones, but later, around the turn of the decade, came the incredible age of Progressive Rock, which (quite unofficially, by my own recollection) seems to have lasted from about 1968 to 1974, before that abominable 'Disco' movement came and completely enveloped the Pop landscape like kudzu in a forest.

The Moody Blues, who like many pop giants of that era have enjoyed revival periods in recent years, long after their salad days had passed, still occasionally performing, but no longer producing any real new material — and to be fair, really don't need to. Their fans are more than happy to simply come to their shows to hear the old stuff and relive their youth.

Speaking of old stuff, today is my 53rd birthday, and if you were expecting a mini-expose on Progressive Rock, I hate to disappoint ya. No, this is gonna be another one of my like-‘em-or-loathe-‘em naval gazer episodes.

I need to vent a little bit here, and my prior mention of The Moodies relates to something I've actually thought about for a long time, but which came into special meaning for me today, while pondering the events of the past several months.

If you are indeed a fan of the Moody Blues, then doubtless you recognized the title of my post as being derivative of their classic 1971 album Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, which produced one of their biggest singles, The Story in Your Eyes. That album came out in July of that year, while I was in transition from Junior High to High School. Those were some heady times in my life as I'm sure they were in yours. Self-discovery; the longing for love and meaning in life; the formation of a personal world-view and purpose; the beginning of that awkward transformation from boy to man.

These are the struggles we all faced more-or-less during that important late-adolescent-to-teen period, and being the melancholy soul that I am, I often return in my mind to bathe in the waters of that time in my life, comparing who and what I thought I was, to the person I ultimately have become.

Sometimes I like what I see as the a mature man who conquered his fears, and the social obstacles that could have held him back, to become a successful family man of 30-plus years, with likewise a great deal of positive experience in all aspects of professional and personal life.

Yet there are still other times (although thankfully, not so many), in which I wonder how I'm still standing; how it is that still have a job, why my wife hasn't long since left me, and how the HELL I'm ever gonna make it to retirement.

Yesterday was one of those days.

Where the aforementioned Moody Blues album comes into play is simply in its title: 'Every Good Boy Deserves Favour.' (I especially like the British spelling of the word, 'favour' — but I digress...)

In its definition as a noun, the connotation of 'favour' is that of a 'gift.' Merriam Webster defines it as a friendly regard shown toward another, especially by a superior, or, as an approving consideration or attention; approbation; partiality; along with the more archaic definitions of leniency and permission.

Sounds good, doesn't it; especially if you're a 'good boy' like me...

What a concept...album
One of the hallmarks of the Progressive Rock era was the preponderance of the 'concept album.' These still exist today, but not nearly to the extent that they did in the late 60s and more specifically, the early 70s. But while they may not have held to the purest of the concept album definition, The Moody Blues were at least, in my opinion, the masters of the concept album title.

While their works might not have been rock operas, their album titles were never the staid, regurgitated monikers of one cut they hoped would sell the collection. The vast majority of their album titles were centered around themes rather than the more common modern practice of the so-called 'title cut,' as seen so often today. Most of the Moodies' album titles have been cleverly-crafted phrases, oftentimes pointing to the overall theme of the album's collection of songs, or simply taking a common phrase and turning it on its ear as it were.

Such is the case of Every Good Boy Deserves Favour. The album's theme is introspection; the desire to make sense of one's individual life — something that people seemed to spend a lot more energy doing back in the 60s and 70s than than they seem to now. And since that's a concept that's pretty much in the wheelhouse of my emotional makeup, the phrase has captured my imagination for the past 38 years.

But what's so great about it is the fact that the title's original context really isn't all that deep. It's a popular mnemonic phrase used in musical circles to help students remember the notes on the treble clef: E, G, B, D, and F. But as in the case of most of their albums, The Moody Blues' wonderful ability to turn that phrase, coupled with the album's wonderful cover artwork transforms this common, somewhat pedestrian ditty into something more; something mystical and deep in its implications — well, to me, anyway.

If every good boy deserves favour, then what do I get? What do I deserve? Did I receive it already, or is it still coming?

Inquiring 53 year-old minds want to know.

Hell Week II
I didn't think that I could have a worse week than the one that preceded my father In-Law's death last month, but this one was pretty darned close. No there were no deaths in the family, but the fallout from my performance at work, could very well leave my career on life support.

Yeah, I know it’s been awhile since I played the ‘woe is me, I’m gonna lose my job’ card, but fear not; I won’t be burdening you with that sentiment. Nonetheless, the possibility definitely exists that if the powers that be at The Company where I work have any ideas of getting rid of me, they’d likely have just cause. It’s not a case of my crashing into the Bosses’ car in the parking lot or anything like that; no, this was something much more innocent, although no less egregious.

It was an innocent mistake, yet one that may actually cost The Company revenue, which in today’s economy is nothing to be viewed lightly. It could be considered by certain people in certain positions within the corporate pecking order a terminable offense if they wished to press the issue. However that's a rather large ‘if.’

The details are unimportant; it wasn’t a situation in which I violated any kind of corporate standard, unless of course, being temporarily brain-dead is against the rules.

I think it suffice to say that I placed myself in a position in which I allowed stress to interfere with common sense. I eschewed the proper safeguards that should have been adopted while hurriedly editing some web pages. Errors were made due to my haste; hopefully my career with The Company isn’t wasted as a result.

But that’s as much as I’m gonna allow myself to cry over this puddle of spilled milk. I’m actually feeling much better about things today, following an absolutely hellacious day and evening yesterday, when I first even became aware of the goof that cost our sales force nearly an entire week of Web business leads.

However now after stepping back and giving my tongue a rest from licking my wounds, I’m seeing a different angle to things. I’m beginning to see a different level to the source of my anxiety in view of this abrupt interruption in my self-confidence as a professional being.

A Question of Balance
If you were wondering when this story would revert back to The Moody Blues, well, here’ya go.

The aforementioned 1971 MB’s album, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour was released less than a year following what is almost universally regarded as the Moodies’ greatest musical achievement, 1970’s A Question of Balance.

AQOB featured perhaps the band’s seminal hit, Question, a song that still chokes me up today, but which made me absolutely weep as a fourteen year-old boy, betwixt the pain of physical abuse I was suffering at home, and the emotional pain my heart felt, longing to be free; to be loved.

I’m looking for someone to change my life
I’m looking for a miracle in my life
and if you could see
what it’s done to me
to lose the life I knew
could safely lead me to
The land that I once knew,
to learn as we grow old;
the secrets of our souls.
_{From Question (From the album, A Question of Balance) | © 1970 The Moody Blues}

I was never so naïve to believe that there was anyone out there who could take away all my troubles, but I knew there was something. I knew that I simply couldn’t be condemned to a life of pain.

And sure enough, my fortunes did change. Not too many years later I was on the opposite end of the spectrum; instead of my life being cursed, I was convinced that it was charmed.

Success in school, athletics, strong personal relationships, and finally, the one; my wife Michelle, would bless my life; I was blown away at how great it was to be me.

Of course, different seasons of life bring different weather, and as you may know if you’re familiar with this blog, as far as storm clouds go, I’ve had some real doozies over the past 15-20 years. But for the last ten, things have been unbelievably good.

Despite some difficulties in recent years, transitioning to the programming side of being a web designer, I felt as though I had successfully bridged the knowledge-gap that threatened to relegate me to the pile of obsoletes in other professions who weren’t able to change with the times. Although I still have a ways to go to completely get to where I need to be, I’ve definitely come a long way since 2006, the year my scripting skills were suddenly exposed as lacking.

The point I suppose I’m trying to make here is that there’s always something to do; something new to learn; some way to make oneself better in today’s professional world. The option of doing one thing the same way no longer exists. That’s a tough thing for someone of my generation to accept, and even harder to adopt as an automatic assumption.

It’s harder to become a star, even more so to maintain the same brilliance over time. Seems there’s always someone or something just around the corner with the apparent sole intent of snuffing out that flame, just when you think it will burn forever.

What I’m experiencing right now isn’t fair, but neither is it unfair; it just is. It’s the way of the world. Its part and parcel to the vigilance we must all endure to be the best we can be. And if that vigilance is not met, we stand the chance of being swept aside — plain and simple.

I believe God opens the doors, but its up to us to get where we need to go once we walk through them. And He doesn’t hand out skates for the journey.

The Boy on His Way
One final (brief) detour. Sunday night I saw Maia Sharp at 3rd & Lindsley. Great show. Hopefully I’ll soon have time to give the experience the description it deserves in a future post.

Maia is a grossly under-exposed, but superbly-talented singer-songwriter, who has simply had bad luck with record labels — usually as a result of them not giving her the support she needed at the proper time. However this time she decided to do it right and released her new album on her own record label, Crooked Crown Records.

On Maia’s brand new release, Echo is a song that truly struck a chord with me (no pun intended — for a change). It’s a song about a woman, perhaps somewhat autobiographical in nature, but I’m not assuming anything here.

All I know is it’s a great song; one whose sentiments could be applicable to nearly anyone approaching middle-anything; a time of life where if you haven’t quite yet arrived, either personally or professionally, you (and probably everyone else) are likely wondering if you ever will.

It’s called The Girl On Her Way. Sung from a third-person perspective, it’s about an actress whose promise, at least in her own mind, has never been fully realized.

The singer wonders,

How long can she be the girl on her way
before she’s just the woman, who never got there?
How far can she ride the dream of someday
before her ticket is only good for the nightmare
of seeing everything that almost came,
every spark that never made a flame;
Are they saying ‘she’s a star,’ or ‘what a shame’?
How long can she be the girl on her way?
How long can she be the girl on her way…?
_{From The Girl On Her Way (From the album, Echo) | © 2009 Maia Sharp}

It’s a concept that crosses gender boundaries, to be sure, and is in fact a scenario I’ve often placed myself into — especially in recent days.

How long do I assume that someday I’ll be the professional success I always assumed I would be? How long until the promise that seemed so close to surfacing in my own life finally fades from view. How long until I’m just another man ‘who never got there?’

These are the kind of questions I was asking myself 24 hours ago, but not today.

Today, in addition to being my 53rd birthday, is also the first day of the rest of my life. Trite saying; deep truth.

Whether or not I ever ‘get there’ doesn’t invalidate who I am or where I’ve been; the successes and tangible value that God has blessed my life with will remain long after The Company forgets I ever darkened its hallways.

I am indeed grateful for all the good things that have come my way, but I am once again reminded that I must never take them for granted. This week was a wakeup call to remind me of that.

If every good boy deserves favour, what do I get?

Another day for which to be thankful, and another opportunity to prove my worth all over again — and nothing more.

finis

BTaO-AP-H…With Fleas

2009-07-16T11:29:00.002-05:00

Just a quick update
Time flies when you’re having fun; including sometimes, even when you’re not — sorta like right now.

For the past six weeks, I’ve been ‘flyin’ low’ as my late MIL, Maxine was want to say.

My first issue was negotiating the wake of the inevitable family turbulence generated by the loss of Michelle’s father. That’s the part I won’t talk about (for obvious reasons). It was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. ‘Nuff said there.

Next, and more recent, was the equally-inevitable fire drill of the preparation, then post-trauma dance that I must do anytime I go on vacation, which Michelle and I did last week, traveling to Southern California to celebrate my Dad’s 86th birthday. We had a great time, spending time with Dad & Helen, but we also got to spend a day in Laguna Beach, break tortillas with my step-sis, Janice and her husband. We even managed to squeeze in a brunch with MakeMineMike and TheDailyRandi on our way out of town.

So it was a relaxing, but eventful five days, however this week’s process of catching up after the fact has been absolutely maddening.

I'll certainly be writing about it, but I can tell you it won't be on a scale with my LA Stories of previous trips to my old stompin’ grounds. Frankly I’m tired of starting but never finishing those somewhat over-blown yarns. Hell, I still haven’t finished the series for my trip in 2005, let alone 2008. This one will be short.

Other than that, there’s not a lot going on right now, other than work, although I do have a lot of notes from unfinished stories that I could be expending more effort trying to transcribe and post, even if some of them are a couple years old.

Oh yeah, I guess this is something — my laptop’s hard drive died on the plane out to California, taking with it at least three unfinished blog stories with it. I can't freakin’ win. Don’t know whether or not the drive's salvageable; finding out is just one more thing I’ve had to add to my to-do list for this next week. I still haven’t taken the time to send in the thumb drive I lost back in August of 2007 to a data recovery place I found that showed some promise for possibly retrieving the irreplaceable data I lost on that little device. I really need to do that as well.

Speaking of which, could it really be possible that we’ve been in our new house for more than a year and a half already? Sheesh! They say time goes by faster as you get older; well, I’m definitely living that truism right now. Sure hope it starts slowin’ down at some point. At this rate, I’ll be 65 in a couple months...

Sorry for the stream-of-consciousness, but it’s all I really have time for this morning, and even at that, it’s communication to you (or just myself) that’s long overdue.

Painful as it will be (for a variety of reasons), I’ll be finishing up my current series, the tribute to Michelle’s Dad, hopefully before the week is out. I say this here to give myself a deadline — not that I’ve been all that great at following my own mandates, but I suppose it can’t hurt.

Here's wishing us all a pain-free rest o’ the summer.

Talk to you again soon…

finis

I Finally Know How He Feels

2009-06-21T18:00:00.012-05:00

Baton received
In what has now become somewhat my custom, I am once again taking a break in my current series, paying tribute to my recently-departed Father In-Law (an intermission, BTW, brought about by more than just the specific occasion of today’s post — and I’ll explain more about that later on), in order to pay a different kind of tribute; one marking what I consider to be somewhat of a watershed moment for me.

Today is Father’s Day; a day of wildly conflicting emotions for your truly.

Dad’s Day has always been an occasion in which I’ve spent time reflecting on the relationship I have with my own Father, one that has grown so much closer in the past ten years or so since the passing of my step-Mom, Maxine.

I can’t accurately describe just how special it’s been for me in recent years to receive the love and focused friendship that I have from the man whom I worshipped from afar for so many years, but whose attention seemed so unattainable when I was growing up.

Hmm; I guess I need to explain that last statement.

My Dad and I weren’t particularly close when I was a kid, although I never had any doubt that he loved me and appreciated me for whom I was. It’s just that there wasn’t enough of him to go around, what with him being virtually a single parent to five boys throughout much of my early childhood. And given my somewhat introverted personality, I was never the type to openly vie for his affections or attention.

He coached my elder brothers in Little League as well as being highly involved their Cub Scout troop activities; heck, he was even the president of the PTA for awhile. But by the time I had reached the age to be involved in those types of activities, my natural Mother was already well into the throes of Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease. We were all in flux; those extra-curricular activities no longer had a place in our family’s life.

Within the next five years, my Mom passed away, my Dad remarried, and we moved to Southern California. My life underwent changes too numerous to recount here. I suffered considerably at the hand and tongue of Maxine, and my Pop was never the wiser. He was under enough pressure to keep a roof over our heads; I was more concerned with keeping mine, which I might not have if I made trouble for Maxine. I just decided he didn't need to know. I just kept quiet and lived with the abuse.

Ours was the quintessential Cats in the Cradle kind of father/son relationship. He wanted to spend time with me, but just couldn't find the time. But it was okay, really. I was realistic.

As time passed the passive nature I inherited from my Dad began to kick in and I grew surprisingly comfortable with the fact that he simply was who he was and never held him in contempt for it. In fact, I believe it was just that firm belief that he really did love me that kept me from going off the deep end during those confusing and emotionally-charged early teen years dealing with Maxine. However as I entered high school things slowly began to change.

I became involved in gymnastics in 10th grade and in relatively short order began to emerge as a successful athlete. My Dad attended nearly all of my local competitions in high school, sometimes with my step-Mom, but usually without. However when it came time for the CIF* Finals my senior year — the highest wrung in the ladder of high school athletic competition to which I could attain — he wasn’t there.

*_{California Interscholastic Federation}

Unfortunately for me, CIF Finals were scheduled the same week as Maxine & Dad’s fifth wedding anniversary, which they’d planned to celebrate in Hawaii.

Sure, I understood; the arrangements had been made; the tickets purchased well in advance. It was Cats in the Cradle once again; but this time it really hurt.

I took first place on rings that night, and for all intents and purposes, validated my existence as a significant human being; I was no longer the under-achieving, pint-sized, boy who Maxine routinely told, “you’ll never amount to anything.” I was a champion; I had now accomplished something that no one would, or could, ever take away from me.

Call me narcissistic; call me overly-dramatic, but that moment, I believe, set the tone for the rest of my life. I won more than a medal that night; I won my dignity.

And the woman who branded those words into my young brain, along with the only man I’d ever wanted to emulate, weren’t there to see it.

What a bittersweet moment that was, and how sobering it is to realize only now that I have come full circle in understanding its true meaning in my life.

It’s important for me to note that unless you’ve read my blog for awhile, you may not realize that I don’t hate my Step-Mom, but have completely forgiven her for the way she treated me. And contrary to the tone of the last few paragraphs, I don’t blame her for anything, but in fact, appreciate the many lessons and practical applications she taught that have stayed with me throughout the years.

Old emotions, however, no matter how distant in the past, don’t exist in a vacuum. They may become augmented over time and/or diffused by forgiveness, but we never truly divorce them; they never truly go away. Some of them we even keep around like pets, feeding and nurturing them on a daily basis. However sometimes they need circumstances to resurface; sometimes reinforcing the forgiveness that changed their previous destructive course in our lives, other times, simply floating just above the brink of consciousness, soothing or tormenting our psyches, whatever the case my be.

Such is my frame of mind this Father’s Day.

It’s in the cards.
I’ve said it so many times it might as well be my mantra: I’m a lucky guy. Lucky to have had a taste of success in this life on a variety of levels; lucky to have a pair of kids who are well on their way to leading happy, successful lives in their own right; and damn lucky to have a wife who not only puts up with my shortcomings and goofiness, is simply a superstar in the eyes of nearly everyone who knows her.

Like most men, I’d like to think that I’m the go-to guy in my household, but I know better. I’ve never had a single worry about what would happen to Michelle if I met an untimely demise; she would be fine; she would be taken care of, financially; she would no doubt live out her life confidently and in full charge of her faculties. That’s just the way she is: a take-charge kinda gal; a scrappy, yet incredibly generous and giving soul. Apart from certain members of her family (whom like I said earlier, I’ll talk about another time), I’ve never seen a person who’s had any chance to known her who hasn’t felt completely at ease. I’m obviously biased, but I’m not stretching the truth here — everybody loves Michelle.

And while I am obviously buoyed by that fact, I’d have to say that I’m just as proud — or even more proud of the fact that so much of her has rubbed off on our kids, particularly, our daughter, Amy.

One of Michelle’s most astounding traits in my estimation, is her ability to procure greeting cards that offer the coolest design as well as the most poignant, heartfelt, perfectly worded sentiments. I honestly don’t know how she does it. I do okay in picking out cards, but every now and then I just have to settle for ones that are ‘okay’ and then attempt to offset the ‘cheese’ factor with a more appropriate hand-written addendum on the card.

But she never needs to resort to such unnecessary extra effort. She just signs ‘I love you’ and her name; the card says the rest — every.freaking.time.

Well, the good news is, she’s somehow mystically transferred that power to Amy. My daughter already had a string of greeting card hits several times over coming into to today, but this morning, when Michelle presented me with an envelope adorned with an Atlanta postmark, I knew it would be more of the same. What I didn’t know was that this time, Amy would truly hit it out of the park.

It’s little things
that make Dads heroes,
Things not seen…
Sacrifices made
while living out
each day’s routine.
It’s the little things a father does,
the things he knows he must,
the ‘being there’ when each day’s through,
the love that builds up trust.
And though there’s not a list
of everything he’s done,
the heart remembers
and gives thanks
for each and every one.

You’ve always been there for me —
and since Father’s Day is here,
I wanted you to know
how much I admire you,
how much I love you,
and how proud I am
that you’re my Dad.

My heart melted as I read those words, despite the sappiness, because I knew they were true.

And as if that wasn’t enough, she, unlike her Mother, didn’t stop there. She took a page out of her Pop’s book and added a lengthy, wonderful, killer hand-written note about how well she appreciated the bond that we share, and how every year that passes, our relationship grows stronger and stronger. I mean, for gawdsakes, how can you beat that?

Say what you mean to say
I started out this story with a point to make, and it wasn’t to rattle on emotionally about my bragging rights as someone lucky enough to be a part of a great family.

What I had today was an epiphany; an ah-ha moment. And I didn't arrive there by accident. I was preceded there by my Father; I just never realized before today how similar our respective paths had been.

I finally understood why my Dad responds to our relationship the way he does; I now know why he repeatedly reminds me that he loves me each and every time we talk on the phone.

Back in 2004, in my first and most prolific year of posting to this blog, I wrote a three-part series in response to the question asked by a dear friend and fellow-blogger, “Who was your Father?” In that story I explained in detail much of my early relationship with my Dad, as well as the basic gory details of my misadventures with Maxine. It was the first of my oft-mentioned allusions to Harry Chapin’s seminal 1974 hit Cats in the Cradle.

It’s highly unlikely I need to explain the gist of song’s message, so very apropos to father/son relationships in our day and age. But just in case you’re unfamiliar with it, simply put, its moral is that of the irony of learned behavior — more specifically — if you think you don’t have time for your kids now, beware; they probably won’t have time for you later. The concept that, ‘we all eventually become our parents’ plays a particularly key role in Chapin’s wonderfully astute but simply-crafted object lesson.

After I turned 40, my life changed a great deal. I did a lot of soul-searching; a lot of prospecting for perspective. A few years later, my StepMom, Maxine passed away, and I began to search my heart for how I truly felt about her. During that process is when I rediscovered my Dad.

Unfortunately for both of us, due to the overpowering strength of Maxine’s personality, my relationship with him had remained basically unchanged since the time I’d lived at home — warm, but still distant. It was nobody’s fault; it just was.

But now I had the opportunity to really get to know him; to truly know and appreciate him for the man he was; I finally began to see the similarities in our respective personalities — the good as well as the not-so-good. I could for the first time in my life say with conviction, “If there’s anything you like about the person I am, you can thank my Pop.” I was proud to realize how much we had in common.

As mentioned in that story I wrote five years ago, in a Father’s Day card I sent to my Dad sometime in the early 2000s, I added a hand-written sentiment, similar to the one Amy included in her card to me today. I transcribed the chorus from the song, Wind Beneath My Wings, not because I’m partial to cheesy songs, mind you, but because of one eloquently-crafted line from it that perfectly emulated the sentiment I wanted to deliver to my Dad that day:

Did you ever know you are my hero; you’re everything I would like to be?

I’d been thinking it for years, but was totally unaware that I’d never actually said it to him before. The next day he called me in tears. “Did you really mean that,” he sobbed, “Am I really your hero?”

I don’t want to take even a moment of your time here psychoanalyzing that moment in my father’s life. I don’t know if was really that surprised at the notion or merely caught off-guard that after all those years I would suddenly offer such a compliment. But I do know one thing; it changes a man when someone truly regards him as a hero, especially when he really doesn’t believe he’s earned the title.

I finally know how my Dad felt that day. I know what a humbling thing it is to truly experience the Biblical concept of having one’s children rise up and call you blessed.

Like I said, I’m a lucky guy.

finis

The Eagle Has Landed (Epilogue)

2009-06-14T01:03:00.005-05:00

The Right Stuff
There are — thank you, Jesus — a number of things in my life for which I feel very proud. Most of them are privileges I have been given, not necessarily of my own making.

I feel as blessed to be me as I could possibly imagine any man could feel. I am humbled by my fortune in this life.

Among my proudest and most honored moments came when Michelle’s Mom asked me to deliver the eulogy at her husband’s funeral. It was an assignment I received with gladness.

I can’t say that I was quite as nervous as I was almost exactly nine years earlier, when I delivered my Step-Mom, Maxine’s eulogy. However this one held added meaning to me.

Not only was I honoring a wonderful Father to my wife, Granddaddy, to my kids, and friend to me, but also a great man, whose humble service to his country — and really, to our society — cannot be easily measured.

I’d like to close this tribute to my Father In-Law with the text to his eulogy, which I delivered on Wednesday June 10, 2009 at Williamson Memorial Funeral Home & Gardens, in Franklin Tennessee.

But before I do, I kinda need to explain one more thing; not because I’m worried no one will ‘get it,’ but rather to underscore the way I feel about this man; something even now I’m a little shocked at myself for feeling.

Right now, even months after his death, I actually, feel closer to my Father In-Law than I ever did when he was alive. And as you might imagine, I feel a little guilty about that.

Is it only now that he’s gone that I realize what a special guy he was? Did it take losing him to make me realize how valuable he was, not only to his family, but to me, personally? I mean c’mon, I’ve never been ANYONE else’s freaking ‘guru.’ It’s always been me who has pursued relationships with others — never the other way around.

But he valued me. He appreciated what I knew and who I was. Why the HELL didn’t I appreciate him more while I had the chance?

Why didn’t I make the effort to spend more time with him individually — particularly over the past year, when we actually lived in the same state; when the distance between us was only 30 miles instead of 650?

These are always questions that have no answers; that are always asked too late; that will haunt us if we let them.

He called me ‘Fell’r’ — you know, the country equivilent of ‘fellow’ or ‘fella’ — a term of endearment.

I really liked that.

And I really miss him.

Ed Carpenter had the right stuff.

No, he wasn’t an astronaut, or even a test pilot; he wasn’t ‘Scott’ Carpenter, or James Lovell, or Neil Armstrong, but he knew them all, worked with them all, and ALL of them trusted him with their lives.

Someone once asked if he ever wanted to trade places with the astronauts whom he helped send to the moon. He replied simply, “No, I don’t want to go…I’ll just make sure that all who DO go are safe.”

My Father In-Law was a significant spoke in the wheel of U.S. History, but he’d never tell you that. “Just doing his job,” he’d say. I never once remember hearing him brag or boast about the work he did in the Space Program, or the fact that the GPS navigation units we all consider a part of our lives exist in significant part due to his efforts.

Nope; he wasn’t anything special.

The heck he wasn’t!

His dedication and excellence as lead test-conductor for the second stage of the Saturn V rocket that powered Apollo 11 to the moon wasn’t his only calling card. Edwin Lee Carpenter was everything to his family, because his family was everything to him.

He learned that from his parents, Bill and Louise Carpenter of Pensacola, Florida. Born in 1931, Edwin and his younger brother Larry enjoyed a happy childhood, despite beginning their lives in the latter years of the Great Depression.

Bill Carpenter was a mechanic at the Naval Air Station there in Pensacola, where his impeccable work ethic and sense of dedication in supporting his family during those lean times heavily influenced his two boys.

In his teen years Edwin was fascinated with all things mechanical and especially, all things electronic. He and Larry were grease monkeys, always working on boats, cars, motorcycles — and Edwin’s newest fascination — radio and television sets.

That fascination with electronics would serve Edwin well, as when he entered the Army in 1949, his superior test scores landed him the role of radar technician — stateside, instead of being a soldier ‘over there,’ fighting in the Korean War.

His career as an electrical engineer was a direct result of that experience.

Ed joined North American Aviation as a technician in 1955, launching a 35-year career with the company that would eventually become Rockwell International, arguably the largest and most important technology contractor in the history of the Space Program.

The key word was LAUNCH.

His integrity and attention to detail as an engineer won him the respect and admiration of both his military and civilian managers, from his work on the Hound Dog Missile project, to the Saturn V Rocket that helped place the first man on the moon, to the Navstar Global Positioning System initiative that sent the first round of GPS satellites into orbit around the Earth.

And when the U.S. Space Program’s proudest moment arrived, on July 16, 1969, it was Ed Carpenter who was asked to give Apollo 11’s final launch countdown to zero before turning things over to Mission Control in Houston.

Just another day at the office for the man who one day, correcting me for introducing myself to someone as his ‘Son In-Law,’ said, “No, he’s my ‘Son in-LOVE.’ Sure it was embarrassing…but I know why he said it; he said it because he had so much love to give.

Ed Carpenter loved his family, and his family loved him just as much.

He met Mary Ellen Collier quite by accident one afternoon, when she accompanied a family friend to his parent’s house. It was truly a love-at-first-sight circumstance, as 8 weeks later, Ed and Marian were walking down the aisle, and would remain by each other’s side for the next 55-plus years.

Eleven months later, a daughter, Vickie, was born, followed by Michelle and Kal. Their life together as a family was a celebration of all he knew and believed in.

Ed Carpenter LOVED his family; in 1979 when I married Michelle, I found out how much (in no uncertain terms either, buddy). But I soon learned that this was a man with a heart as big as all outdoors.

Today, his loss leaves us with a hole in our hearts that’s about the same size.

He is survived by his brother, Larry, his wife, Mary Ellen, their daughter, Michelle, son, Kal, and three grandchildren: Trevor, Shawn, and Amy.

Ed Carpenter LOVED the Lord, and served dutifully and humbly as a Baptist Deacon for many years.

But while we’re all feeling a little lonelier at his passing, he no doubt has plenty of company there in the presence of our Heavenly Father.

His Mother, eldest daughter, and Father preceded him to Heaven and there’s no doubt in my mind that they’re all here with us today, celebrating the life of a great man; a great American; a man who made me feel like a son to him; a man I loved and will miss very, very much.

Thanks, Fell’r…

finis

The Eagle Has Landed (Part IV)

2009-06-13T01:00:00.001-05:00

Enter the ‘Son In-Love’
In 1973, Rockwell transferred Ed to their new base of operations in Seal Beach, in Orange County California, just south of Long Beach where I lived. He was hand-picked by the U.S. Air Force to be the launch propulsion test expert on the initial round of the top-secret Global Positioning Satellite initiative.

I obviously didn’t know him during his days at Cape Canaveral, and I’m sure he was wound fairly tight back then as well, but dude, I’ve gotta tell ya, he was a pretty imposing figure when we first met in 1978.

Maybe it was the pressure of keeping a lid on the details of his work — still years away from becoming the household name that GPS has now been for more than a decade.

Perhaps it was that the stress of his job was being multiplied by the constant travel to and from Vandenberg Air Force Base — all the way up in Santa Barbara County — the site of the testing and initial GPS launches, and more than a one hundred fifty-mile trip, one way, from his home North Orange County.

All I knew was that he was a big, intimidating man, and it was in my best interests not to piss him off.

Ours was the typical ‘prove-to-me-that-you’re-good-enough-to-marry-my-daughter’ dynamic early on (or at least that’s the way I perceived it), but thankfully, things got much better a few years into the relationship, sometime after he and Michelle’s Mom were transferred back to Cape Canaveral in 1982, where Ed would finish out the remaining five years of his career before retiring at age 55.

We talked about that during our extended time together, that Sunday, a week before he died. Although any tension between us had long since passed, I’d always wanted to know what he really thought of me back then.

I knew that they accepted me, but I always sensed there was something about me that Michelle’s parents just didn’t trust. No one ever said anything to my face, but I sure as hell felt it.

I now wanted to know if the vibes I had received from him in those early years were real or just an emotional mirage on my part, exacerbated by my own raging insecurity and me-against-the-world attitude of my early adulthood.

He hadn’t minced words at any point during our five-hour confab, but in this particular instance rather caught me off-guard when addressing the question of how he first assessed his new son in-law.

“I saw you as a guy who worked in a grocery store, and I was concerned about that,” he said matter-of-factly.

In all fairness, Ed had no reason to see me as anything else back then, as it was more than ten years after Michelle and I were married before I actually went out and got a ‘real job’ — the Art Director position at the Record Company I held from 1990-92. If the shoe had been on the other foot — particularly in view of what I now know from my 15 years’ experience as a freelancer, I’m sure I would have felt just as — if not more — uneasy than Michelle’s Dad did.

However, happily, the apparent uneasiness on either side of the relationship would fade as the years passed, particularly so following Ed’s retirement and subsequent heart attack (resulting in the first of two bypass procedures that he would undergo).

I don’t know if it was the relief of the pressure he felt previously in such a high-intensity job, now mitigated by retirement, or if perhaps it was meeting death squarely in the face by virtue of the heart attack that changed him, but by the mid-80s, Ed was a different man; a kinder, gentler soul; a man I could now identify with and friend instead of fear.

I guess, to be absolutely fair, the process began even before Michelle’s folks returned to Florida in 1982, on Ed’s final reassignment to The Cape. It was sometime within a year prior to their departure from SoCal, when Michelle and I attended church with them one sunny Sunday morning — the same church in which my bride and I were married.

I don’t remember whether it was before or after the service, but we were outside in the courtyard, mingling with the other parishioners, being introduced to friends of Michelle’s folks. At one point, I made the proactive move of introducing myself to one gentleman while everyone else was otherwise occupied. As I was shaking his hand and introducing myself as Mr. & Mrs. Carpenter’s Son In-Law, Ed turned to the two of us just in time to correct me, mid-sentence, in trademark Big Ed style, booming, “No, he’s my Son In-Love.

Yeah. He really said that. And yeah, I >really was floored.

Was it for show; something to say that sounded ‘right’ on a Sunday Morning at church? Perhaps; but in the nearly 30 years that have passed since, I don’t think he was just making nice — not based on the man would come to know in later years.

It took a long time for me to completely overcome the inferiority complex I felt around my In-Laws, but If they truly hadn’t accepted me, I’m quite sure I would have known it in no uncertain terms. I believe the perceived ‘problem’ was much more about me than it was about them.

And things would indeed get better; much better.

An Unlikely Guru
In years of observing not only my own circumstances, but that of other married men I know, there’s a single consistency in most Father in-Law/Son In-Law relationships: The FIL wants his little girl to be protected — regardless of how independent and capable she might be — and the SIL wants to prove that he doesn’t need to be told how to accomplish that task.

It’s a Battle Royale of male egos, no matter how amiable things appear on the surface. I’m sure it goes the same way on the opposite end of the gender scale with Mothers and their sons. But unfortunately, since my natural Mother was gone and the relationship between my Step Mother and me was still distant at best at that time, I only saw one half of the equation. And it really ate me up.

But then in the late 80s, something happened that changed everything: Personal Computers.

I began working with computers at what nowadays seems like an ancient age of 34 years old. My friend, Randy had offered to set me up, support, and train me in a desktop publishing business he wanted to try to develop In Southern California. Attempting to scratch his own creative itch; he only needed an artist, and believed that the two of us could make it happen.

I hadn’t done anything to deserve the favor — the least of which was show and aptitude for computers. In fact, we weren’t any more than just ‘church friends.’ I didn’t even really like the guy all that much; I thought he was kind of a blowhard. But it was just another example of why you should never judge a book by its cover.

I’ve written plenty about my gratitude to Randy for launching my career as a graphic designer, Art Director, and later, Web designer. However I don’t think I’ve ever given him proper credit for also providing the means for the relationship I would later enjoy with my Father In-Law.

Yep. Hard to believe it, but if it wasn’t for what Randy did for my career, my relationship with my In-Laws might have been completely different — I know my friendship with Ed Carpenter would have been.

Sometime in the late 80’s-early 90s, Ed bought a personal computer. Now I would have thought this to have been a marriage made in heaven, Ed and his PC. After all, we’re talking about a rocket engineer who was among the first class of people to even work with computers. I would’ve thought he’d know ‘em inside and out, but surprisingly, no, no he did not.

In fact, the computers that he knew and used — you know, the big ol’ UNIVAC-type — the kind that filled up an entire room and worked with punch cards and tapes? Well apparently those things were a lot bigger in size than they were in computing power.

I was absolutely floored the day that Ed told me about those late 60s-early 70s computers that he and others worked with to send the Apollo astronauts to the moon. My jaw hit the floor when he revealed that they in fact had LESS computing power than a circa 1989 IBM 386 PC.

By the time we moved to Tennessee in 1992, I had been building my own PCs (with plenty of telephone support by MY guru, Randy), for more than 3 years. I was fairly competent, but no expert by my own estimation. Ed Carpenter would beg to differ.

He would call me constantly to ask how to do this or that, and how to deal with the sometimes buggy Windows 3.1 operating system. I would walk him through steps in DOS to partition and/or reformat his hard drive. I sent him boot-up floppy disks to use whenever his system would crash — which happened at an alarmingly consistent rate.

He just seemed amazed that I nearly always had the answer to his computer problem. I was glad to help, and more than just a little embarrassed by the fact that he seemed so helpless on his own. Had he not lived in Florida at the time we would no doubt have spent hours on end together at his house, troubleshooting his ‘puter.

But to his credit, although it never seemed to keep him from having more (and sometimes, the same) problems again later on down the road, he was usually able to resolve the problems on his own, after a little coaching from his unlikely guru.

Diff’rent Strokes
That, I believe was the breakthrough in our relationship. He never looked at nor treated me the same after the mid 90s, following the dawn of our ‘new’ roles. He finally seemed to respect me for who I was now, rather than who he thought I should have been earlier.

And please understand that I have never held any avarice or cynicism toward Ed in regards to the ‘computer guru’ thing. I was and always will be grateful to God (and Randy) that there was something — anything that could develop a true common interest between us.

We were, quite frankly, cut from completely different cloths. He was a self-starter, having forged his career out of a love and interest in electronics as a boy in the 1940s. He studied, built crystal radio ‘kits,’ became an aficionado of early television technology, and then parlayed it all into an Army career as a radar technician.

Following his four years in the service, in which he served at the top-secret Nevada Proving Grounds, where he was engaged as a ‘Ground Zero’ atomic test soldier, he stepped right into the new and burgeoning U.S. Space Program, and began a 35-year career with the company that would become Rockwell International.

Compare that to me: a passive, shy, athletic-but-non-aggressive artist/introvert, who’d never had a full-time job (and never wanted to), who was somehow going to supposedly support his stay-at-home wife and two young children.

I’ve been an athlete and a pro sports fanatic my whole life; Ed never played any kind of organized sports, and was much more at home doodling in his garage than watching a game on TeeVee.

Ya see what I mean?

The fact that we were ever friends was really a minor miracle. Oh, I could be cordial with a turnip, but to say that we actually enjoyed hanging out together…well that’s a pretty amazing statement right there.

Next: The Right Stuff

The Eagle Has Landed (Part III)

2009-06-12T00:56:00.003-05:00

Ed WHO?
I had known him for 31 years, but really knew very little about him. But there, on a sunny Sunday morning, May 31, 2009, I would have a unique opportunity.

Ed had arrived at the hospital early Saturday evening, following a visit he and Michelle’s Mom made to our house for dinner; a dinner of which Ed would not partake. Hw was already in too much pain by the time they arrived at our house. Michelle took him immediately into the front guest bedroom where he could lay down, hoping that he would soon feel better.

But nothing would assuage the knifing pain he felt in his lower back; every movement was agony for him. He’d never complained about anything quite this severe before. We all grew concerned. Finally Michelle insisted that her Dad be taken to Nearby Williamson Medical Center, where the doctors could perhaps get a gauge on what was going on and help relieve his pain.

As I described previously, that trip to the hospital was the beginning of the end for my Father In-Law. He would early the next morning be diagnosed with a cancer that was no longer operable, but which had spread like wildfire all over his body. He was given weeks to months to live, but death would instead come just a week later, on Sunday morning, June 7th.

However that morning as I came to spend what would be the most wonderful five hours we would ever have alone together, I would leave with answers to questions I’d had about him our relationship began.

I knew a little about his accomplishments, but there were a lot of holes in the scant few stories I’d ever heard him tell on his own behalf. We had a great time together, and he seemed genuinely happy to finally get through an entire story uninterrupted.

He also told me about how he felt toward me — at the beginning of our relationship and now. These are the things I’ll always treasure. This is how I will always define him as the man he truly was.

He was a significant part of the Apollo Space program. He was a pioneer in the testing of Atomic and Nuclear weapons. He was the man responsible for getting the first GPS satellite into orbit.

And though I knew a little about all of these things, I never knew what he really though of his accomplishments; I never knew how they impacted him as a man.

But I’d find out over the course of those five hours we had together.

Pop History
To channel Magnum P.I., “I know what you’re thinking…” Most of you who know me are already aware that I’m telling the truth here about my Father In-Law, but some of you may be thinking to yourself, “If this guy was so great, how come I’ve never heard of him? Why can’t I find him ANYWHERE — on Google, Wikipedia, or even the Rockwell/Boeing Corporate web site?”

It’s a valid question; the same one that could be applied to my own claim to having won the NJCAA (National Junior College Athletic Association) Men’s Gymnastics Still Rings title on back in 1976.

If you knew my real name and Googled it in relationship to the NJCAA gymnastics finals (held at The College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn, IL that year), you wouldn’t find word one on that meet or anything else about me. It doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen — only that there’s no record of it on the World Wide Web.

Y’see — and I KNOW this is gonna come as big a shock to some people — not EVERYTHING is what I refer to as ‘Pop-History’ (i.e.: stuff you can find on Google and other search engines — the vast majority of which has found its way onto the Inter-Webz only in the past 15 years or so). The reason for that is simple. In order for something or someone to become immortalized on the Internet, somebody has to consider it important enough to write about first. And unless that writing takes the form of a blog, whitepaper, or online news/periodical story, I’m sorry to tellya, but you ain’t findin’ it, folks.

So how disappointed do you think I was a few years ago to discover that even on the NJCAA’s official website, not only is there nary a mention of Long Beach City College’s 1975 Team National Championship, but no mention of mine in ’76, nor any information at all on LBCC Men’s Gymnastics. I could only conclude the reason being that gymnastics is no longer listed as one of the sports the NJCAA sanctions for competition.

To be fair, however, I did see at least scant recognition of past gymnastics championships for existing NJCAA member schools, found in their various collegiate profiles on the website. However, LBCC itself no longer has a gymnastics program and is no longer is an official member of the NJCAA; hence, no online profile and no love for AJ and his teammates.

So you’re gonna have to just take my word for it — at least until the time someone makes the effort to go back and transcribe 33 year-old stories from Long Beach Press-Telegram sports sections.

Don’t hold your breath.

And while the fact that the information isn’t readily available does wonders for my online persona’s desire to remain anonymous, it DOES kinda shoot my real-time ego all-ta-hell.

But anytime you ever want to come over to the house and see my gold medal, I’ll be happy to show ya — although it may take me some time to unearth it; I’ve had my trophies packed away for years now.

The bottom line is, recorded human history didn’t start in the late 80s — or whenever it was that Al Gore invented the Internet. And even as it is now and has been since the dawn of the Internet age, history is still subjective to the point that humans decide what gets recorded and how that record is couched, slanted, and vetted.

There were thousands of people who played important roles in the success and safety of the Space Program; they are all to be honored and congratulated. I’m just a little biased because of what I know Ed Carpenter was responsible for — and the seriousness with which he took that responsibility.

On the other hand, I’m sure my Father In-Law, wasn’t bugged (assuming he ever even cared to check) by the fact that his name wasn’t plastered all over the history books and on the Internet. Although he was active online, he didn’t participate in any of the hundreds of Space Program-related message boards, crowing about his participation the historical events that surrounded his career — that’s not what he was about.

As a matter of fact, being low-key was the way that he and so many others of his generation preferred things. They didn’t need to see their names up in lights to know that what they did was important. The work was their reward.

And given that the men-behind-the-scenes have never really been granted much of a fair shake in the historical record (quick — tell me who was Christopher Columbus’ first mate on his 1492 voyage to discover the New World? There…told’ja!), unless someone who has a vested interest in honoring such a person steps forth and offers that information, the chances are we’ll never see it — that is, unless the person in question goes out and toots his or her own horn. But that’s just not the kind of man that Ed Carpenter was; not by a long shot.

However as lead Test Conductor for the second stage of the Saturn V rocket so crucial in transitioning the Apollo 11 spacecraft from mid-launch into orbit, he was indeed on that last line of defense for the lives of those three astronauts, as well as for the success of the mission. He was more than just a cog in the wheel, in my opinion.

No one who was ever involved with Ed Carpenter would say, “Ed Who?” It was more like, “Ed — well, who ELSE?”

Next: Enter the ‘Son In-Love’

The Eagle Has Landed (Part II)

2009-06-11T00:54:00.003-05:00

I Plead, ‘No Contest’
Okay, before you start going, “Hey, nice to see ya again, AJ, what’s it been, eight and-a-half weeks? Back to your old habits, aren’t ya — starting a series then either never finishing it or stringing it out for so long that people need a freaking compass to find their way back to the storyline?

*sigh* Guilty, as charged, your honor(s)…but with explanation…

I posted the previous installment of this series the day of my Father In-Law’s funeral, which in addition to the emotionality such a day would hold on its own, included me delivering his eulogy.

No stress there, right?

I had used the first two parts to this story about my Father In-Law as the subtext from which I would derive his official final tribute. And after that I honestly felt as though I needed to take a step back for awhile. I needed to place a little bit of emotional distance between myself and the event. It was already a much tougher circumstance to deal with than I thought it would be; and even more so for Michelle’s family.

Yep, the emotions at my house had been pretty close to the surface. Funny thing, emotions; just when you think they’re going one way…

Soon after the funeral, something happened that made absolutely no sense and actually left me with little to no motivation to even finish this story. I was so steamed that I wanted to shout it from the mountaintops. Now two months later, I’m really glad that at least one cooler head prevailed (namely, Michelle’s).

To put it mildly, my wife had a falling out with her Mother and only remaining sibling, her younger brother— and we’re talkin’ a top-o’-the-Empire-State-Building kinda falling out here, folks. The two of them basically declared civil war on the two of us. It was been beyond belief how quickly things turned, and for how silly a reason, apparently.

However that’s all I’ve decided to say about it. This is obviously something that’s literally too close to home for me to go into detail about here, although. I may eventually write about it sometime; perhaps when enough time has passed to sufficiently distance the hurt. Needless to say, I was completely disgusted by the way this incident ripped my wife’s family apart at such a fragile and obviously sensitive place in time.

It’s like Festivus…minus the Pole (and the Feats of Strength)
The good news is, after a six-and-a-half week standoff, apologies were delivered and received, and grievances were calmly aired (and all I wanted to do was pin somebody). However now that everyone is once again on speaking terms I’m obviously happy that nobody wants to do anyone bodily harm, and I’m even happier because now I can write about it, and finish up my tribute to a truly special man, for whom I still feel a great deal of respect and admiration, my late Father In-Law, Ed Carpenter.

Next: Ed WHO?

The Eagle Has Landed (Part I)

2009-06-10T13:00:00.007-05:00

♫ What a drag it is getting old... ♪
I apologize in advance if at first blush I appear a little narcissistic here, but that’s really not what I’m going to say is about. It’s not about me; it’s about reality; a reality we all avoid but will never escape, no matter how far into the sand of our youthful lives we bury our heads.

Getting old really does suck — especially when you don't feel or ‘think’ old. But none of that matters when you're knockin’ on the door of 53 trips around the sun (like yours truly and his wonderful spouse); it may be nice to hear that you’re regarded by your co-workers as “the youngest old guy” they’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean beans where the rubber meets the road; it doesn’t change the one specific reality, that no matter how young you think or feel, 53 ain't young, baby. And when you're 53, that means your parents are probably 25 or so years older than that, which means that they're in a place in their lives where time is the most precious — and fleeting.

It means that they're in a place where they can leave you — for good.

And no matter how prepared you think you are; no matter how tough you think you might be — and especially in my case — no matter how emotionally indemnified from loss you assume your heart is (because after all, they're not your parents), I’m here to tell you that you are NEVER ready.

You can NEVER really handle it ‘like a man.’

You can NEVER stiffen your gut enough to withstand the punch that knocks the wind out of your sails.

You can NEVER know how horrible and helpless it feels to realize a relationship you've had with someone your entire adult life is coming to an abrupt and very final end, until it’s there, staring you in the face.

That’s how my week was.

Interview with an Unsung Hero
The only bright spot in my week from Hell happened seven days before my Father In-Law died, the morning following his first night in the hospital. It wasn’t exactly a day filled with good news. We had already learned that Dad C. was losing his race with cancer.

But while Michelle and her Mom were out Sunday morning picking up some things that Mom would need while spending extended time in the hospital with her husband, I had five hours alone with my the man — more concentrated time than we’d probably ever spent alone together in the 30-plus years I’d known him.

I realized this was an opportunity I’d likely never have again.

Y’see, I had questions; questions about Ed Carpenter. I wanted to know more about his career — a subject that I could have easily spent hours talking with him about every single day, but which it seemed we’d actually only spent minutes over the years discussing.

My Father In-Law was a significant cog in the wheel of U.S. History, but he’d never tell you that. “Just doing my job,” he’d say. I never once remember hearing him brag or boast about the work he did in the Space Program, or the fact that the GPS navigation units that are a now such a common part of our lives exist in significant part due to his efforts.

Nope, he wasn’t anything special.

The HELL he wasn’t!

I was a Space Program nut growing up in the 60s. The Apollo Program’s execution of President John F. Kennedy’s mandate to put a man on the moon before 1970 was the most compelling event of my early lifetime.

When Michelle and I got married I was totally stoked to learn of the fact that my new Father In-Law’s career was so closely tied to one of my all-time childhood passions. Nonetheless it was sometimes difficult (if not impossible) to get Ed to talk at length about his career.

In addition to his natural aww, shucks humility was the fact that most of the of the projects he worked on involved the military, and as such, many were classified. In keeping with his sense of duty he held the oath of secrecy he took on behalf of those projects in the very highest regard. He was truly a man of honor and integrity, and he flat-out didn’t give away secrets he was sworn to protect — even years after the fact.

But as much as I wanted to know more about the things he’d worked on in our early years together, you didn’t want to press the issue with this guy. He was the epitome of the “I could tell what I do, but then I’d have to kill ya” sort. And he said it with that glint in his eye that made you think, “yeah, he’s yankin’ my cord, but then again…maybe not…” And given that attitude — particularly back then — I wasn’t about to give him any push-back.

Smarter than the Av-R-age Bear
When I first met him, Ed Carpenter was a bear; an intimidating, burly, booming-baritone-voiced, walking figure of authority. He was also the father of the woman I wanted to marry. And though he granted my request for Michelle’s hand, throughout the first few years of our marriage, we generally spent very little time together. Frankly, I was terrified of the guy.

He was an important man with an important career in the Space Industry; an engineer for Rockwell International, arguably the leading technology contractor in the history of the Space Program, but particularly so throughout the 60s and 70’s. Rockwell was the primary manufacturer of the ginormous Saturn V rocket that powered all of the Apollo Program missions to the moon — including the all-important second stage (S-II), on which Ed worked.

He was the lead Test Conductor for the Saturn V’s S-II; which you’ve no doubt seen a million times over the years depicted in the NASA mission video as seen below. The S-II was responsible for a pivotal part of the rocket’s flight, allowing the space craft to climb to an altitude of 115 miles into the atmosphere, before the single S-IV engine cut in to actually break the Earth’s gravitational pull and power it into an orbital trajectory.

This was his Baby

Above is the famous mission video taken on unmanned Apollo test flights 4 and 6. The ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-II Interstage Staging’ and ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-IV-B Staging’ depict the portions of rocket that my FIL was responsible for the success of (from either side). It was YEARS after the fact that I knew this famous piece of filmography was of his work. He just NEVER talked about it, voluntarily. Can ya believe THAT?

And in this clip, the previous ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-IV-B Staging’ scene is shown in a rare and extended real-time version (the original video was filmed in slow motion), showing the S-II’s roll and descent toward the Earth.

And just in case you cant view the video, below is the action sequence referred to previously as screen capture images, as the Saturn V’s S-II Interstage Ring separates and tumbles back to the Earth. This famous scene was used in the Star Trek Enterprise TeeVee series’ opening credits. It was also used in an episode of the Star Trek original series. If Ed Carpenter had residual rights on that piece of film, he’d have died a very wealthy man.

This was the part of Ed’s career that he was most proud of — and with good reason. And despite the fact that he still didn’t care to talk about it all that much, it was the one thing he would talk about, if pressed, simply because so much of the Space Program is now in the public record, making it pretty much all fair game.

However, there were bookends to his Apollo career about which he wasn’t forthcoming at all. These were the stories I really wanted to hear; the things that you can’t learn much about no matter how much you Google or scour Wikipedia.

I didn’t get much on those subjects during our five-hour conversation one week before he died, but what I did get answered a lifetime of questions for me.

Next: I Plead, ‘No Contest’

The Eagle Has Landed (Prologue)

2009-06-09T13:25:00.007-05:00

Welcome to Hellville
There is no joy in Mudville...Nashville...Nolensville, or whatever the hell, ‘Ville’ it is in which I live. As a matter of fact, ‘Hellville’ is probably the most apt description of the place in which my family and I have resided over the past week and-a-half.

The bad news we received a week ago last Saturday came to fruition in the wee hours of this past Sunday morning, June 7, 2009, and the way it has affected me makes me feel even worse than I could have imagined.

My Father In-Law, Ed Carpenter, moved on from this world, to his new digs in Heaven, sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 A.M. CST Sunday morning, ending a long and painful battle with a variety of cancers that began sweeping his body about three years ago. He would have celebrated his 78th birthday next month.

Having successfully battled various skin cancers throughout his adult life, Ed was no stranger to a disease, once quite accurately referred to as ‘consumption.’

He was a tough cookie; a real fighter. But this was one battle he just wasn’t destined to win.

Skin cancer couldn’t stop him; two separate heart bypass surgeries couldn’t knock him down. He took a lickin’ and kept on tickin,’ y’all.

However three years ago, he noticed some blood in his urine. Cancer had this time established a foothold — one that it would never relinquish.

No matter how aggressively or quickly the doctors moved to get ahead of and treat his disease, Ed’s cancer always seemed to be one step ahead of the game.

It started out in his prostate and bladder; they irradiated this and scraped that and thought they'd gotten it.

Then it showed up in his colon; they opened him up, cut it out and thought they'd gotten it.

Then it returned once again to his bladder and also latched on to one of his kidneys; they were preparing to go in and surgically remove those infected organs, hoping to finally catch up with this Speed Racer Cancer, but then came a week ago last Saturday.

Hell Week Begins
Michelle’s parents were experiencing a trying time. Ever since Ed’s colon cancer surgery in February, his overall health had rapidly regressed. His sudden back pain, continued weight loss and overall weakness were becoming an increasing concern.

In order to even survive this proposed bladder/kidney surgery, it was imperative that Ed at least make some strides toward strengthening his constitution; instead, however, it appeared things were going in the opposite direction.

But even prior to his colon surgery, the indicators were there. Just before that time he had developed what was diagnosed as shingles, an extremely painful viral nerve-related disorder that made his shoulders and back painful to even the slightest touch or pressure.

He’d also recently begun experiencing what was thought to be sciatica, bringing with it a burning pain that shot down through the hips and into his legs. But to me, someone who has been no stranger to back pain or sciatica, it all seemed too sudden. Why now? Why would he be having all these problems at once? It just didn’t make sense.

Before they scheduled the surgery, his bladder oncologist, who would be performing the organ removal, wanted to call Ed in for a bone scan and hopefully surmise the source of his back pain. The diagnosis was acute arthritis, which sort of made sense, but not enough to convince me that his problems weren’t being caused by something more serious.

A week ago last Saturday, in an effort to give her Mom a break from cooking, Michelle invited her folks over to our house for dinner. However her Dad was already feeling so poorly that by the time they arrived, he had to go straight to the front bedroom and lay down. He was in excruciating pain. His back hurt so badly that any movement for him at all was nearly unbearable.

Michelle and her Mom were obviously worried. That diagnosis of arthritis rang more hollow each minute we witnessed his pitiful condition. We all began to see the handwriting on the wall. Ed was losing the race.

Michelle suggested that we take him to the hospital, where at least they could make him comfortable, and hopefully figure out what was going on with his back. They took him on while I stayed behind at home.

Michelle and her Mom stayed until he was finally checked in to the ER, which was unusually packed for a Saturday night. I waited up until they arrived back home well after midnight. They were obviously drained, both emotionally and physically. I told Michelle I would stand wait for the call that was to come from the hospital, giving us an update on her father’s status.

About 4:30 A.M. that call came, and it wasn’t good news. The nurse reported that the CT scan they took indicated that the cancer had spread, but that we would need to wait until later that morning to get the specifics from the doctor.

Uncomfortably Numb
When the horrible truth was revealed, I remember the feeling as being somewhat similar to that of the time I broke my back in a gymnastics meet and was myself rushed to the Emergency Room. I had suffered a compression fracture of my fifth lumbar vertebrae, near the tailbone. Ironically, they gave me morphine, just as they were now giving it to my Father In-Law. However it wasn’t the circumstantial coincidence that I was thinking about at that moment, but rather the memory of the sensation.

I just felt numb, but not to the extent that I couldn’t feel the pain of my injury; the experience was much more akin to a feeling of helplessness. I was comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd might say — but certainly not comforted. The pain was still there; I could definitely feel it, but it was sort of like listening to on-hold music; you can hear it, but it’s somewhat masked; muffled; you recognize the melody, but you can’t quite connect with it — as if it were just out of the reach of your senses. It’s a weird feeling, but the most important aspect of it to me was that while I may not have been fully aware of my pain, I was still very well aware that something was wrong — very wrong.

Ed’s cancer had now spread throughout his body. In addition to his bladder and kidney, it was now in his liver and spine as well — the latter of which was indeed the source of his excruciating back pain.

The surgery was called off. The race was now hopelessly lost; the cancer had lapped the field and was heading in for the checkered flag. They gave my Father In-Law 4-8 weeks.

It turned out to be 4-8 days.

Next: What a drag it is, getting old…

I’m on Staycation

2009-05-19T10:04:00.002-05:00

"Hey you know, the first time I tried to talk to you, you embarrassed me. So I teased you a little bit which maybe I shouldn't have done, so I'm sorry. And now you're sitting over there playing with your knife, trying to frighten me - which you're doing a good job...

But if you're gonna kill me, get on with it; if not, shut the hell up - I'm on vacation."

The preceding isn't just dude ranch hand-for-a-week, Billy Crystal’s ‘Mitch,’ pressing his luck with Jack Palance’s gristled cowboy, ‘Curley,’ in one of my all-time favorite flicks, 1991’s City Slickers; no, today, it's me, giving life a two-handed chest-push and saying, “Step back, Jack.”

For the next seven days I’m the one callin’ the shots. I’m tired of being tired and mentally beat-down by the Man. Sure, I’ve got things to do, but I’m gonna do them on my own schedule. I’m taking a week off of work to do some more work, but on my own terms and at my own pace; neither will I be under the thumb of activity or travel schedules during this working holiday; Michelle and I aren’t going anywhere. However we both have agendas that we plan to stick to and goals we intend to accomplish — although mine will be a site bit looser than hers.

So, bite me, o shrieking banshee-of-an-alarm-clock. Up your nose with a rubber hose, rush hour traffic. Kiss my pitootie, mind-numbing staff meetings. You’ve all tried to kill me but failed; so shut the hell up — I’m on staycation.

finis

Bad Dream

2009-05-02T08:46:00.000-05:00

Ever been scared shitless?
Ever been so scared you think you’re gonna crawl out of your skin? Ever wonder what it is that could generate a nightmare so emotionally devastating that it forces you out of bed at 4:30 AM, pacing the house and sobbing uncontrollably?

I’ve always heard it said that you should write down the details of your most vivid dreams immediately after awakening from them, as the memories are so fleeting that they only last for minutes, so I’m doing that now. However this is one dream I won’t be forgetting for awhile, even though I desperately wish I could.

I dreamed my wife said she was leaving me.

I guess those who know me, and especially those who know my better half, Michelle, realize just how true that little euphemism really is in my case. It’s no secret to anyone who has ever known us as a couple just how incredible she is, not only as a person, but as the completer of my character; the essence of my happiness; the guardian of my viability as a functioning entity.

I’ve always had a pretty healthy self-image, but she’s the reason why. I figure if someone as special as Michelle could choose a nimrod like me over all the other men in world, well there must be something okay about me too; I’m not all that certain I believe there really is, but apparently it must be so.

Is it any wonder then I awoke so terrified, so shaken to the core, so devastated by such a horrible vision? As a general rule I don’t have bad dreams. I rarely dream at all; even less often am I awakened by one.

This one was a real doozy, however: disjointed, without any real sense of story or reason; just a couple of scenes, really, with the climatic one featuring me behind the wheel of a huge RV, winding down a country road, and Michelle delivering her usual back-seat driver oratory.

However my driving wasn’t the real source of the obvious tension between us at the time. Rather it was my attempt to pry out of her whatever it was that seemed to be bothering her, and her refusal to discuss it. It’s a scene we’ve acted out numerous times in our 30-plus years together, although, thankfully, not often; and very thankfully, never like this.

Generally, Michelle pulls no punches whenever she’s got a gripe with me. She’s the kind that lays awake in bed at 2AM with something on her mind, then calls out, “you up?” and (whether you are or not) starts airing the grievances. She rarely holds things in.

But sometimes…

Sometimes she gives me ‘that look’ or delivers ‘the tone’ that sends the alarm bells clanging in my soul. Something’s bugging her, and it usually involves me. I try to tread lightly whenever those situations crop up — but I never run from them. Maybe I should sometimes, but nope, not me. I always assume the worst. I assume that it’s something major that I’ve done to piss her off, and I want to right the wrong before it somehow becomes a festering sore that might someday become a threat to our marriage.

I once came far to close to losing her — and that mistake was of my own volition. I never want that to happen again.

But don’t get me wrong; I don’t live in fear. There are no abandonment skeletons in my closet. I spend less time being afraid, worried, or concerned than just about anyone I know. I guess that’s why it’s so devastating when something like this sneaks up from behind and takes my knees out from under me. This dream was as shocking as it was disconcerting. I’m not in the habit of being fearful about anything. God has blessed me above anything I deserve, in all aspects of my life. My heart is constantly filled with gratefulness — never fear.

But there I was, struggling to keep this huge boat-of-a-vehicle on that windy country road. I felt totally anxious; out of control. Perhaps the anxiety I felt about keeping the vehicle on the road was a reflection of my state of mind about Michelle, who just sat there on the passenger side with a faraway look that spoke louder than words.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” I pleaded.

“I’m fine,” she deadpanned. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I can’t stand it when you won’t tell me what’s bothering you!” I responded earnestly. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“In a few weeks it won’t matter…” she muttered.

Then I remember feeling as though my head had burst unto flames; I lost control of my emotions as I nearly lost control of the Winnebago.

“Are you leaving me? I gasped. “Is that what this is about?”

“Yes, AJ, I’m leaving. I’ve decided.” She said sternly, peering at me with ‘another look’ I’ve also come to know over the years; a look that every woman possesses — the one that resembles what happens whenever that X-Men dude in the removes his visor; a look that could cut a man in half.

“What? Why?” I demanded. “What did I do?!”

“I just don’t think you can hold it all together,” she said matter-of-factly. “You just can’t be what I need you to be.”

OhhhhhMiGod. Is there anything more devastating a phrase that could be uttered by a wife to her husband?

“NOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I screamed. “No! We have to talk about this! I’m pulling the car over!”

As the Winne hit the shoulder and ground to a screeching halt, I sat up in bed, terrified. I ripped the covers off and sprang to my feet, not fully realizing what had happened, but somewhat relieved that it must have been a dream.

However that realization wasn’t much help to me, emotionally. I walked out of our bedroom and proceeded to pace the house, frantically, in the dark for the next ten minutes. I was absolutely beside myself; inconsolable. How could I have had such a dream? Did I secretly, inwardly fear that Michelle will leave me, or was it just ‘Pancho’s Revenge,’ resulting from a combination of the Mexican food, margarita, and Starbucks mocha I’d had for dinner?

Like I said before, I may be a dreamer personality-wise, but I rarely dream — at least ones that I can remember; so I just as rarely spend any time trying to interpret them. I don’t and never have believed that dreams are anything more than the subconscious confluence of miscellaneous brain activity. I don’t believe they foretell anything. That’s why I’ve never really been frightened by a nightmare. I simply refuse to live in fear.

But I gotta tellya, boys and girls, this one scared me.

Again, I don’t believe it means anything except to remind me of how much I love, need, and adore Michelle. But beyond that I suppose it may mean at least one other thing; how horrified I am of the thought of life without her.

We’ve talked about it quite a bit over the years. Although we’d definitely prefer to die together — at a very advanced age, mind you — Michelle insists that she could get along alright by herself if and when something ever happens to me. She says she doubts that she’d remarry.

On the other hand, bigawd, she knows her husband. She knows what a hapless train wreck I’d be if her life were to end prematurely. She has told me repeatedly that if she was to go first that she would want me to seek out someone else to marry. She knows I could never be happy alone.

But while I really can’t argue with that, I know that while I might be able to find another companion, I know that I could never find anyone that could replace her. We are truly one flesh. That will never change.

Well, crap.

I sat right down and wrote all this out, thinking it would make me feel better.

So much for that.

finis

It’s Just Another Kind of Grass

2009-03-17T23:49:00.004-05:00

Thank you, Mister Mayer
Twitter, as it has become with so many other folks, is now a regular and important part of my life — sometimes to the unfortunate end that it can be all-consuming. That’s not always a good thing when you have a bent toward stints of obsession like I do.

I’m trying my best to overcome it, but the Twit-o-holic that I have become has wreaked havoc on my blog-posting habits, which were sporadic at best even prior to the point last summer when I first began dabbling in this hottest of social media pool-parties.

As is typical of Twitter newbs, it took me awhile to get the hang of dispensing anything of value in within the considerable constraints of a 140-character limit. For someone as typically wordy as I am, that seemed tantamount to asking Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling in a dozen strokes.

So I watched and followed the apparent ‘masters’ of the medium, and soon began to learn the power of brevity. I certainly haven’t figured it out completely — and probably never will — but amongst its many other benefits, Twitter has been a tremendous aid in making me think about what I say, maximizing the impact of my words, and helping me to convey my thoughts more succinctly. Such constraints can drastically change the way we think about telling a story.

This weekend, my way of looking at the words that make up the story of my marriage changed immeasurably, thanks to a Twitter ‘celeb’ who put forth a challenge that I found to be a fabulous exercise in the art of storytelling.

Singer/Songwriter John Mayer is one of the more significant popular music artists to have embraced Twitter thus far. And while most of his conversations appear to be directed to the small group of friends and family he follows, on Sunday he actively pitched the entire Twitterverse with a challenge based upon a quote from author Ernest Hemingway, whom Mayer asserted, “once claimed he could write a great story in six words or less. His story: ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’”

While admitting that he wasn’t the first person to invoke Hemingway’s feat of storytelling brevity, Mayer surmised that Twitter would be the ideal place to do so, and he was right; I mean, what better forum in which to tell a truly ‘short’ story?

I was immediately intrigued when I saw Mayer’s challenge, however it was only in passing, as I was making a last quick check of my email and friend’s tweets as my wife Michelle and I were preparing to check out of the Gaylord Opryland Hotel on Monday, following a weekend celebration of our 30th wedding anniversary, which actually happens to be today, St. Patrick’s Day.

With it being our 30th, we naturally had planned to take the day off from work, but decided to augment our celebration with a hotel getaway over the weekend, maximizing our time, and making it a truly momentous occasion (which, if I may boast just a little, in this day and age, it IS).

Quite rightfully, my attention was focused upon Michelle, so I didn’t really have the opportunity to sit down and craft my own version of Hemingway’s six-word soliloquy.

I mean, who would you rather pay attention to?

However later that evening, after we were back home and settled in, I returned to Mayer’s Twitter page to see his comments about what others had come up with. Most of the ones he posted I thought were quite good; to wit:
@stevesalkin: Home is not home to me.
@Vincenza72: At least I got the dog.
@mytimetoshine: This time, I won't look down.
@taylorswift13 (yes, that Taylor Swift): My diary is read by everyone.

Mayer’s own entry, which sort of explains why he’s the songwriter and we the hacks, was typical John:
This heart didn't come with instructions.

But the one I especially liked, was such because it could have easily been penned by my own wife:
@DailyChameleon: True love: He's shorter than me.

My Six-Word Story
Unfortunately, due to indecision on whether or not I should try to throw my hat into the ring, not to mention the fact that coming up with a concept and THEN distilling it into six words was indeed a pretty daunting task, I thought…and thought…AND thought about what I might say until late in the evening — well beyond the time John Mayer curtailed his posts on the stories he’d received.

I could have thrown something out there, but I really wanted it to be a story, not just a tagline. I came up with, I can’t make this stuff up, but relented in posting it; again, a nice thought, but not enough substance behind the phrase.

Then it hit me; something based upon the saying that Michelle has long since adopted as her personal philosophy in light of what we’ve been through in our thirty-year trek together.

It was a piece of advice she had offered someone just 24 hours earlier.

But first a bit of background…

30somethings
Sunday evening at the Opryland Hotel, our hand was somewhat forced in choosing where we were to enjoy our ‘big dinner’ — the one in which we would officially celebrate our 30-year milestone at one of the four signature, really nice, and fairly pricey in-house restaurants featured in the sprawling hotel complex.

I’ve been a sucker for Italian Food my whole life, and Michelle enjoys it as well, so we’d planned to dine that evening at the well-reviewed Ristorante Volare. However to our dismay, upon attempting to make reservations for the evening, we learned that the Volare would be closed Sunday night, due ostensibly to the current economic downturn. I learned that the hotel’s normal 70-80% occupancy rate for a typical Sunday was down to a mere 12% that day.

We certainly hadn’t noticed any lack of folks on hand when we arrived Saturday, however. Following a busy end-week (Thursday thru Saturday), the hotel indeed enjoyed its usual compliment of guests attending the various events and conferences that are the lifeblood of its existence. However the difference in these current tougher economic times is that people aren’t staying over that extra day for pleasure as they often did; they come into the hotel on business, a conference, etc, and when that business is concluded, they’re out the door; hence, the considerably lighter occupancy on Sunday.

The hotel therefore determined that it wasn’t worth having all four of their signature restaurants open with such a low potential clientele for the evening, so they decided that only one, the world-famous Old Hickory Steakhouse would be accepting reservations for dinner.

While we were obviously disappointed at first, I had always wondered about the Old Hickory. Located in the hotel’s ‘Delta’ quadrant (Trekkie-pun intended), it offers their finest dining experience, featuring as one would expect, a pricey-but-impressive array of à la carte entrees: steaks, chops, chicken and seafood, with the greatest emphasis of course on their world-class steaks and accompanying sauces.

To say it was a little beyond our normal price range would be an understatement; nevertheless, we figured 30 year anniversaries don’t come around too often, so we went for it — and we were oh so glad we did.

The meal and the ambiance were worth every penny. We decided to go for the Old Hickory's signature offering: the 8 oz Fillet Mignon; it was like buttah.

But as incredible was the food was, it was kinda fun being the center of attention too. Y’see, when I was making reservations earlier that afternoon, I just happened to mention that we were celebrating our 30th, and as a result, from the receptionist’s first greeting and throughout the rest of the evening, the staff went out of their way to congratulate us many times over. Our server even went so far as to mention the fact to the couples occupying the tables on either side of ours, both of which it turned out, were newlyweds on their honeymoon.

Michelle took the opportunity to pass on her one-sentence testimony for a long and successful marriage as each of the couples stopped by our table on their way out. Her advice was simple: “The one thing I’ve learned is that the grass isn’t greener on the other side — it’s just another kind of grass.”

What that means is that it’s important to realize, when things get tough in your marriage, not only is there no guarantee that life would be better with a change of scenery, it may not even be all that different when all is said and done.

Michelle and I endured a tremendous amount of hardship, both emotionally and financially in our 30 years together; stuff that most people these days wouldn’t think twice about ending a marriage over. I didn’t make enough money; she was unresponsive to me emotionally; I had an affair; our mortgage went into foreclosure; we reached a crossroads. Our marriage was a train wreck. We had to look within ourselves and decide whether or not the work it was going to take to salvage our relationship was worth the effort. We decided that it was.

The cost I counted was in learning that the grass I had been longing for through my unfaithfulness wasn’t what I thought it would be. For Michelle’s part, she realized that the life-altering thought of being a single Mom and being alone for the first time wasn’t quite so liberating as it first appeared when she self-assuredly prepared herself to counter my act of rebellion with one of her own.

This is the backdrop to Michelle’s little ditty, not that it’s often explained in casual conversation for obvious reasons; Michelle certainly didn’t offer any elaboration in passing it on to those young couples we met at dinner on Sunday evening.

However it did spark a powerful, strangely satisfying conversation between the two of us, as we strolled the Opryland Hotel grounds after leaving the restaurant.

I am still amazed that my wife truly considers what we went through a positive thing, and that she harbors no resentment toward me for all the pain I caused. She considers it worth it because of the way it changed her; the way it forced her to grow up, to be less idealistic, and in her words, to “get scrappy.”

She says that if we hadn’t gone through those things; if we hadn’t fought back from the possibility of losing everything — emotionally and financially — that she wouldn’t have become the person she is today.

And quite frankly, she really likes that person now.

Now that you know the rest of the story…
So now that you know the background, perhaps you’ll better understand my own version of Michelle’s personal mantra, told Hemingway-style.

Monday night, as I thought about those conversations at and following dinner 24 hours earlier, I finally came up with my own take on John Mayer’s six-word Twitter challenge, based on the bitter reality I had faced after seeing the grass on the other side up close and personal.

It’s a story that may never be published, but now that it’s been written, can never be taken away from me; forever reminding me what I learned years ago when I nearly lost something I didn’t truly know I had:

@ajinnashville: That ‘other’ grass wasn’t even green.

finis

!SENIREVLOW!

2009-03-07T17:19:00.000-06:00

Just in case you haven't heard. It's Red Dawn Weekend b'cause Jenny says so.

That is all.

:)

Three Things That Guys Want for Valentine’s Day (...that don’t necessarily involve sex)

2009-02-14T10:54:00.011-06:00

Can we tawk?
This post is directed exclusively to all the better halves out there. Today is Cupid’s Holiday, and while it may be unfair to generalize, but let’s face it, ladies, it IS all about you. I mean, can you actually think of a guy who has ever been genuinely upset about not receiving a gift from his lady on Valentine’s Day? However if the gender tables are turned in that scenario, you generally wind up with an incident registering somewhere between mild disappointment and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Like it or not, in today’s society a man’s response to Valentine’s Day has somehow become the litmus test for the depth to which he cares for his significant other. And to you ladies who actually come through for your man with a gesture in kind (and you can take that to mean anything your smutty little minds desire), bravo, bravo, bravo to you for your genuineness and sense of fair play. You are not necessarily in the minority, BTW, but with all due respect, it is far less expected of you to be the giver than the recipient of good things whenever the 14th day of February rolls around.

But while I know this story might appear to be leaning a little in the direction of a rant, I assure you that is the furthest of my intentions. I simply want to establish that whether or not you consider it purely a media-driven event, Valentine’s Day has become above all else the annual, culturally-imposed mandate for men to display some sort of significant outward gesture of honor and/or affection to their wives or girlfriends.

And surely there’s anything wrong with that; it’s just that the playing field isn’t exactly what one would call ‘level.’

Pompous Ass-claimer
Now if you know me and my blog, you know what’s coming next.

This is an opinion piece, based on the way my experience in life has shaped my view of the world in general, and of society in specific. I’ve been known to offer strong opinions on things, and for that I do not apologize. Such is the part of me that my wife Michelle often refers to as my ‘inner pompous ass.’

So I offer this standard disclaimer if in fact you agree with her regarding what I’ve said so far: I only call ‘em as I see ‘em. My opinion is mine alone and I mean no offense to anyone’s sensibilities, particularly with regard to the notion of honoring women. Hell, every day should be Valentine’s Day in my opinion.

But by the same token, every day should be Affirmation Day to everyone you love, should it not?

So all that to say, I believe that Valentine’s Day should be, if not completely reciprocal, at least loosely mutual; perhaps not to the point that the ladies should be showering their men with candy and jewelry; that’s not anything that even the man who has nothing really needs.

What a guy really wants are three things that he’ll likely never ask you for but needs desperately; down to the core of his soul: Dignity, Self-Respect, and Significance.

And ladies, the best part? You can give your man all three of these gifts every single day and it’ll never cost you a dime.

“Heh,” you say, “Aren’t we just being a little obvious here, AJ? I mean, doesn’t everybody need those things? And shouldn’t we all freely bestow them on our loved ones, regardless of gender or relationship?”

The answer to those questions is an obvious ‘yes.’ But the reality of whether or not we act upon that imperative is far from affirmative.

Dignity
Like it or not…and believe it or not, men and women are cut from different emotional cloths. I believe that above all else, a men craves dignity — dare I say, even above sex — to truly be happy and satisfied in life.

Ever heard the old saying, “at least he escaped with his dignity intact?” Well I don’t know about you, but what that phrase indicates to me is that a man’s dignity is so precious that it’s the last thing he would ever want to lose.

A man’s dignity is so close to the core of his being, it’s like his second skin. It’s what drives him; it’s what makes his strive to be more the sum of his parts. It’s so powerful a need that sometimes he’ll even sell his soul for it.

The root of the word, ‘dignity’ comes from the Latin, dignus, which means, ‘worthy.’ Webster defines it as the quality or state of being worthy, honored, or esteemed. A man needs to feel as though his life counts for something; to believe that it has ‘worth.’

Of all a man’s relationships, none so affects him as that with the love of his life. And for the sake of this argument, with no offense intended to those of other persuasions, I’m going to assume that love is a woman.

Ladies, you have the power — in more ways than one. With a word, you can make us feel worthy, or render us worthless. I don’t think I need to delve into the length and breadth of human relations to make my point here. Just understand that no matter how rough, tough, or detached we may try to appear on the outside; at our core we need your approval; we need your support; we need your love in order to love ourselves in return. ‘Nuff said.

Self-Respect
Respect is a hotly debated topic these days, isn’t it? In some social circles, there’s nothing so egregious for a man as to be ‘disrespected,’ It’s to the point that some people demand respect, regardless of whether or not they’ve done anything to deserve or earn it.

Again, I have no intention to plumb the depths of social stereotypes, or in this case, macho bullshit paradigms. However I will offer the following observation. I’ve rarely seen anyone who demonstrates the qualities of self-respect, in turn demand respect from others. I contend that the two concepts are polar opposites.

Can a man who demands to be respected actually respect himself? That’s a rhetorical question I cannot answer, but I can affirm its corollary: the man who respects himself has no need to demand the respect of others.

So then where does self-respect come from? Are some people just born with it while others are forced to beat it out of those around them? Hardly; self-respect a gift, given by those who love you; who nurture you; through whose interaction in your life you are granted dignity.

Oh yeah, did I mention? Self-respect is a product of dignity. It’s like a two-for-one deal. You grant one, and the other automatically comes with, like, for nothin.’ And when I say grant, I again return to the Latin; to its root word, credere, or, to believe.

When the woman he loves ‘believes in him,’ a man becomes empowered; dignified; he respects himself. But don’t confuse the aforementioned macho bullshit counterfeit version of self-respect — which merely attaches pride to tyranny — for the genuine article. True self-respect emerges from dignity, just as dignity emerges from love.

Significance
Finally, if dignity is the long underwear of a man’s soul, and self-respect that in which he is clothed before the world, the final layer in this trinity of a man’s character is significance.

Significance is perhaps the most elusive of the three gifts you ladies can give your man for Valentine’s Day because it, more than anything else, depends on your active participation to build it into the thick, warm coat of confidence that insulates him from even the most inhospitable of life’s circumstances. It’s the most external of the three; yet like the other two, it emerges from within.

Some people say that we men are pigs. I like to say we’re more like dogs. And in this dog-eat-dog world, in the words of Norm Peterson, we’re all walkin’ around in MilkBone underwear.

Significance means importance; but while self-importance is a mostly deplorable characteristic, true importance is truly honorable.

Feeling — and more importantly — being significant to a woman completes the foundation of confidence and inner-strength that every man needs to compete in this world — and YOU, ladies, likely hold the greatest power in building that strong foothold in your man’s life.

But this is where it can get a little dicey, not only to carry out but in my case, to explain as well.

Say WHAT?
See, I know what some of you ladies are thinking; you’re rolling your eyes and saying, “Sorry, AJ, this Tammy-Wynette-Stand-By-Your-Man business died out in the 60s; that isn’t how women operate these days, or perhaps you’ve never heard of gender equality.”

Well, hopefully you’re not saying that, but if you are, allow me to kindly note that you’re missing the point. If you really believe that men and women are exactly the same in every way, emotionally, I’m sorry, but you’re just wrong. The two sexes have distinct features that allow us to complement one another, not just mimic the other’s qualities.

Women are, predominantly by nature, nurturers; men in turn, are gatherer/providers. This is NOT to say that men are incapable of raising children, nor women incapable of bringin’ home the bacon. All it means is that we are who we are, speaking to the basic emotional differences between the sexes that must be addressed in a successful relationship.

A man’s significance, particularly in American culture, is often tied to what he does, with the problem being, that this status can change — sometimes quickly — in the case of losing his livelihood, suffering a disabling physical trauma, etc.

On the other hand, a woman’s significance — at least in the eyes of us guys — is much more about who she is. This is particularly true with regard to motherhood. Mom is always the most significant person in the home. No one needs to ascribe that significance to her; it’s the only office that has no term limits. A woman’s significance, for the most part, is built-in. A man’s significance must be constantly reinforced.

And of course I don’t dismiss the constant and rightful need for woman to be honored — on Valentine’s Day or any other day. The point that I seek to emphasize is that we men may act like we have it all together, but it’s mostly for show. We need you to make us whole; to make us feel loved.

Bottom line, ladies, I encourage you to simply be mindful of this, just as I would likewise hope that those of my gender would consider your needs and all that you do to make your relationships work.

Hear me now and believe me now (with apologies to Hans and Franz).
I’ll never claim to be an expert on relationships, and honestly I don’t really think that anyone can be. Although the sexes do indeed hold common, consistent emotional needs, we’re also different in many ways and each individual couple must determine which adjustments to make to successfully coexist with their life partner respectively. On the other hand however, I’m not going to deny the fact that being married to the same woman for just shy of 30 years gives me a little more perspective on the subject than the average person.

That being said, I hope this offers encouragement and hopefully, some insight into what makes men tick. I doubt that most guys have ever really thought about it on this deep of a level, but it’s something that I seem to devote a lot of time to pondering, for better or for worse.

So here’s wishing you and your man a wonderful Valentines Day. May you be pampered and celebrated for all that you do and mean to the relationship you’ve created together. And may you also celebrate your man the way that only you can, granting him an inner strength that allows him to be everything that he — and you — want him to be.

finis

Seven Things You Never Knew About Me

2009-01-20T01:23:00.012-06:00

BetheMeme
I never cared all that much for playing ‘tag’ as a kid, mostly because I wasn’t very good at it. Then again, maybe it was just that I always ended up playing the game with the wrong kind of kids — namely, ones that were bigger and faster than I was. I never seemed to be able to get away from them; to avoid being tagged. It seemed as though I was always ‘it.’

Well it looks like one of the big kids got me again — and this time I had a 2000 mile head start.

I had the distinct pleasure to meet the lovely and talented Will, A.K.A. Be the Boy, and his lovelier and brilliant better half, The Slackmistress this past summer in Los Angeles at the wedding of mutual blog friends Michael and Randi.

So now Will has tagged me to participate in a meme whose theme is ‘Seven Things You Never Knew About Me,’ and as he himself indicated in his meme post, it may be kinda tough, seeing as how I too have been blogging for a long time, and have pretty much shot my wad with all the deep, dark secrets.

Seven things you never cared to know about AJ, and forgot to ask...
So if you don’t mind a little minutiae, I’ll see if I can come up with a few more items that hopefully might resemble information you’ll find interesting.

I am a distant relative (6th cousin to be exact) of a famous American war hero, one whose name is emblazoned upon numerous federal buildings and institutions across our great country. But history being the dying subject it is in our culture, I would say that you’d recognize his name if you heard it, however I find that it’s typically only folks my generation and older who have any sense of who this great man was or what he accomplished. But here’s a hint: An iconic Hollywood actor, whose name you WOULD recognize, in the 1940s portrayed him in a film about his extraordinary life.
You may know that I saw the Beatles in concert in 1964, but my elder brother Jack saw them three times; twice in ’64 and once in ’65. And though my first concert ever was indeed a memorable one, it would be thirteen years later before I’d attend my second: Electric Light Orchestra at The Forum in Los Angeles in 1977.
I came within one letter grade of flunking the 4th grade, but graduated high school with a 3.75 GPA. You can thank my stepmother, Maxine, for teaching (read: forcing) me to do my homework.
Although the bulk of my professional life has been spent as a graphic designer/web designer, I came out of college an illustrator. My limited success in that profession included illustrating the Masters of the Universe characters that were featured as ‘puffy stickers’ inside boxes of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies during the fall of 1983.
During the mid-90s, I was such a groupie for my favorite radio station, WRLT Lightning 100 in Nashville that I had a stretch of eleven consecutive months in which I was a ‘call-in’ winner of various on-air contests from 1995-96. During those years I was working from home and had the radio on all day long. I had a system.

I won stereo equipment, concert tickets, and many, many CDs.

I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that it was in the midst of that streak that the station first instituted their current policy of ‘a maximum of one win every 30 days’ in regard to their contests.

Geeze Louise…I can’t hep it if I’m good…
This one’s not about me, but I’ve always thought it was waaaay cool: My father-in-law was one of the lead engineers for the Apollo program at Cape Canaveral, FL. He was actually the last person to leave the project after it closed shop in favor of the space shuttle program in the mid 1970s; he was charged with the responsibility of closing the books on the whole shebang.

He followed that historic assignment with nearly a decade of work with the U.S. military in its top secret project of placing the satellites in orbit that now comprise the GPS network we all use on a daily basis, but which was one of those things at the time about which he’d joke, “I could tell you what I do, but then I’d have’ta kill ya.”

He’s a great man, and I’m proud to know him.
Lastly, it’s probably not fair to talk about only the ‘cool’ facts about myself, so this is probably as good a place as any to offer a little nugget that I’m rather embarrassed to admit, but to which I can’t help but self-deprecate, ‘cuz it is kinda funny.

My folks (well, let’s say, my Mom to be exact) wanted a little girl in the worst way, which is one reason there were five of us kids in my family — but all were boys. After my two eldest brothers’ came along, Mom & Dad just kept on tryin’ for the girl that would never come. Their next child was another boy (my brother Kenny); oh well. They decided to give it one more try, and out came AJ. Evidently, I was really supposed to be that girl (my younger brother Alex, four years later, was unplanned).

Undaunted, when I was a toddler my mother would dress me up like a girl and just gush about how cute I was. They took pictures that I remember seeing when I was a kid, which I’m currently trying to find and destroy.

Fortunately she never took me out in public dressed in drag, but I do remember well the teasing from my brothers. Oye.

And then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, I turned out to be about the height of the average woman anyway. And as somewhat of a byproduct, I don’t have the deepest of speaking voices either.

I often get telephone calls from solicitors and others who don’t know me, who routinely assume they’re speaking to ‘Missus’ rather than ‘Mister’ upon my answering the phone. It used to bug me — a lot — and I was always quick to curtly point out the error of their assumptions. However in recent years I’ve just learned to accept it (and to try and answer the phone in my best James Earl Jones whenever possible).

But all things considered, I‘d rather talk like Michael Jackson than trade away the life I’ve been privileged to live.

I have no complaints.

So there you have my seven things; let’s hear yours:

The Rules:

Link to your original tagger(s) and list these rules in your post.
Share seven facts about yourself in the post.
Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.
Let them know they’ve been tagged.

Okay...You’re IT!

finis