Head Stuffing

Only Groucho Could Make Italian Cruise Ship Tragedy Seem Plausible

2012-01-19T14:01:00.002-05:00

A captain, I was always told, is supposed to go down with his ship.

Or at least be the last man off.

But not Schettino.

Captain Francesco Schettino, of the now capsized Italian cruise ship Costa Concordia, will likely go to prison for manslaughter for sharply deviating his course from the one chartered and running his ship aground. As you likely already know, the Captain was one of the first off the ship and into a lifeboat heading for shore.

So far eleven people are confirmed dead. A number at least double that are still missing.

This is no laughing matter. This is a tragedy.

But still, I can’t help but think, If only Groucho Marx were still alive to see this. There’d be a movie satire in the works for sure. But could it be as insane as what really happened?

We all heard the audio clip of a high ranking Italian Coast Guard officer and Captain Schettino.

But the audio recording sounds more like a scene from a Marx Brothers movie and Chico Marx – who always played the Italian peasant complete with an insulting accent - is playing now the Italian Captain. Groucho would be there in the background – unheard on the audio but he is giving the Captain his advice – his advice causing more harm than good.

It’s the only way any of Schettino’s story could possibly be plausible.

The scene opens as Captain Chico holding on to a walkie-talkie like handset – sitting in the row boat.

Harpo sits at the back of the boat rowing – but rowing them in circles – his arms rowing the oars in opposite directions.

Groucho clad in a rumpled tuxedo sits at the front of the boat, his feet up as he slouches back with a bottle of champagne in one hand, smoking his cigar in the other.

Just as Groucho would have written it …

Coast Guard Captain: (heard through the radio handset) “SCHETTINO! GET BACK ON THAT BOAT”,.

Groucho: (shakes his head and advises Captain Chico Schettino) – “Oh you don’t want to do that, the girls are waiting for us at the club”. He pauses thinking – eyes in the air - “Tell him it’s too dark”, takes another drag from the cigar and says “Tell him the boat already sank”.

I know, there are likely twenty eight people – perhaps more – who died in this tragedy. It is anything but funny.

But the gall of this Captain is incomprehensible.

He simply left.

When asked how he came to be in a lifeboat, he said he tripped and fell into it.

Groucho couldn’t make up a scene more insane than this.

It’s not funny. It is incredible. It is incredible in this day and age, with all the modern technologies to monitor the waters for depths and rocks and such, where the media is instantaneous – and cynical – that this imbecile thought every move he was making was the right one.

How would Groucho write the scene as the accident occurs? I think it would go something like this …

The scene opens as this flamboyant arrogant ass of a captain, Chico Schettino standing at the wheel, looking in a mirror to see that his curly hair properly flows out from under his captain’s hat, white gloves primping while depth monitor alarms ring and Harpo running around the deck honking the horn he keeps in the huge pockets of his first mate’s coat.

Groucho: (yelling) “Watch out!!”

Chico Schettino: “Relax-a, I do this all the time …”.

The whole crew on the bridge fall to the floor from the force of the impact.

Groucho: “Did you feel a bump”

Schettino: “It’s-a nothing, just a big wave-a”

Harpo: “Honk honk … Honk”

Schettino: “Let’s see what-a happened” and he leaves the bridge stepping out on the deck “Oops – I tripped-a and I fell into this life-a boat – quick help-a me out”

Groucho: “Okay – here take my hand – hey wait” and Groucho falls head over heels also into the boat “…. Ooof … oh great” and he gestures for Harpo to help them both out.

Harpo: “Honk Honk Honk” as he jumps right in the boat with them, and he pulls out a large pair of scissors that cuts the ropes holding up the life boat – the boat falls and splashed down into the waters below.

Schettino: “Oh-a great-a. “How am I gonna expain-a this?”

Groucho: “Just tell them the truth, oh wait, let’s not”.

Meanwhile, twenty people or more are fighting losing battles for their lives.

The inevitable trial to follow this fiasco will likely be just as incredible – as only Groucho could write it …

Groucho: “Your honor, my client is not responsible for his own actions, as he is suffering from the effects of imbecilicitis”.

Judge: “I beg your pardon?”

Groucho: (leaning into the judge) “Okay, you’re pardoned … now how about the same for my client ... you didn’t have to beg you know … but I like that you did … I like you too you know … those big blue just melt my heart …” as he shakes the ashes off his cigar raising his eyebrows – his eyes rolling far to the side – his painted on mustache hiding his glib smile.

Judge: (frustrated) “Excuse me?”

Groucho: (Yelling) “I said I like you too” (Normal voice as he turns to walk away from the bench) “Well if you’re gonna play hard to get … my heart already belongs to Lady Concordia – owner of this great ship and my heart” – pointing to the lady of high society.

Lady Concordia: (seated in the audience – blushing) “Oh my”

Two constables then drag Groucho out of the court room as he still puffs on the cigar and gestures his love to the Lady Concordia.

Captain Schettino: (On the Stand testifying in his own defense) “Schettino doesn’t deserve to go to a prison – it was an accident – oops”.

There is nothing funny about this tragedy. This guy needs to go to prison for a very long time.

Twenty or more people are dead. And twenty or more families now mourn the lives lost by one arrogant imbecile who somehow was deemed responsible enough to actually captain a cruise ship.

But the best punishment for this flamboyantly arrogant imbecile of an ass is to forever use his name to describe all the other flamboyantly arrogant imbecile asses.

They will forever now be known as Schettinos.

If only Groucho were still alive to see this.

I wonder how he’d write the prison scene?

The Technology Revolution Is Just Beginning

2012-01-08T13:22:00.001-05:00

I have been involved in Information Technology long before it was called IT.

It used to be called Computer Science. Then Data Processing. Then it was called MIS, and then simply IS, and now it’s IT.

In the day … all those years ago … a student first learned COBOL on main frame computers and then BASIC for personal computers. PCs then evolved year after year to become as powerful as mainframe computers – and slowly but steadily the personal computers stepped up to become servers – filling the roles that mainframes filled in the backend of most IT departments.

Then came handheld devices – and the Internet.

I remember very clearly sitting in a meeting with my development team in the early 1990s discussing what we could do with these little handheld PDAs that were showing up. They could connect to the new Wi-Fi technology of the day – and they had very simple web browsers that could display simplified web pages laid out using a scaled down version of HTML referred to as WEP.

At that time, we – like most any IT shop in the world did – had tons of useful information on our back end mainframe – and these new PDAs combined with Wi-Fi and the ability to retrieve data from the simple web services we would have to invent on the mainframes and send it to such devices to open up a whole new world of opportunities for us.

“What exactly do you want this PDA to do?” asked one young programmer on my staff.

“I want this thing to be as valuable as Mr. Spock’s Tricorder”, I replied to my team of geeks who immediately understood what I meant. “I want the business person using this PDA to simply retrieve data while they are standing anywhere on the company grounds – not just at their desk. I want them to search their customer databases and their inventory and their shipping logs while talking with a customer on a showroom floor – or at a service desk in a shop – or a shipping dock at the back of the property – without having to run to their desk and print a report”.

And so we set forth creating simple web applications for this tiny PDA browsers to retrieve customer purchasing history and inventory status lookups. And they worked great to prove the concept.

“Just wait until they hook a cell phone up to these things”, I prophesized. “It will change everything”.

Two decades later we have smart phones. And we have tablets.

But we haven’t quite gotten as far yet as I wanted us to twenty years ago.

After I finished my diatribe … I continued my rant to describe the rest of my wants from those primitive PDAs …

“I want a guy to be able to walk into a meeting with only one of these things – no pads of paper – and record what he needs to know in that meeting and store it on the back end of the company’s data systems so that he can reuse those notes without having to type them all back in when he returns to his desk. And I want that guy to look up answers to questions while sitting in that meeting so that the meeting could move forward acting on those answers instead of being stymied by replies like “I’ll find out and get back to you with that …”

I took a breath at the whiteboard where my boxes with arrows described in my own personal hieroglyphics scribed in the same black and red dry erase ink that stained my finger tips as I rethought where those arrows pointed.

“I want a sales person sitting at a bar, or a table in a restaurant to not have to write on a bar napkin – writing down the specs of a customer’s needs – or writing down prices on the back of a business card – I want this person to be able to close the deal while dessert is being served ... or the third pint is being poured at the bar”.

We aren’t there yet.

These tablet and PDAs are great for looking at data that already exists – but they are not that great yet at allowing a person to enter content. It can be done – but it’s still clumsy – little keys on a phone – or little virtual keyboards that are still clumsy for typing … the input still requires a keyboard.

The question is where the limitation lies … in the smart phone or tablet? Or is the deficiency in the applications that we use on those little devices?

I contend that both are to blame. We need better input methods – and applications that more smartly interpret your intentions and needs.

These are the avenues that we have to continue to explore looking to make these tasks I describe to be even simpler to use – as easy as writing on a bar napkin.

But time will bear out the solutions to these needs, and both the applications and the devices they run on will of course continue to evolve to get simpler – more efficient – and more natural.

It’s inevitable.

But one thing is clear … given the tremendous response and acceptance of the iPad and the clones that look and work like it … the tablet will replace the common person’s personal computer or laptop in the next five years ... Not simply compliment it like it does today.

Why would the common person buy a PC or a Laptop when a tablet is cheaper and does everything the common person needs?

And still we must recognize that we are still in the primitive infancy of the information age. We are still in the steam engine days.

Even simpler devices and interfaces will come – embedded in the glasses or clothing that we wear with a projected version of a LCD screen displayed on the surfaces we interact with every day – like the desk you sit at or the wall , or even the back or front of your hand.

And the application designers will get smarter – deriving better means to allow you to enter data rather than typing – maybe by simply taking pictures or translating speech – images and sound translated to data that can be stored and reused later – like how Google returns you a list of answers to the question you type into a box.

The customer will be as empowered as the employee who is trying to service them.

Imagine standing in a car dealership and wondering what other cars are comparable to the model you are looking at on the showroom floor – and being presented immediately with pictures or video of other models by other manufacturers with the options available for each … and the prices … so you can compare quietly without the salesperson’s knowledge you are doing so.

It’s all coming. You can see positive signs in the gaming s systems like the Wii motion controllers and the xBox U-Kinnect interfaces that use body movements as input.

It’s all very exciting to this old computer geek who wished for this to happen twenty years ago.

We are getting so much closer.

But we aren’t quite there yet.

Maybe in another twenty years.

Next On The List

2012-01-02T21:35:00.000-05:00

Two weeks of holidays have come to an end.

It’s been a while since I looked so forward to a vacation as I did this one. I commonly refer to this as “limping into the holidays”.

I feel like I just barely made it.

And of course, with all that time off – fourteen days to be precise – my honey-do list for the time off was quite extensive.

And of course, with all that time off – few if any of my honey-do list items were actually accomplished.

I was supposed to give my faithful black lab Suzie a bath. But the poor thing still stinks to high Heaven.

I was supposed to put locking door handles on my lovely wife Darlene’s sewing room – formerly the guest bedroom – as well as locks on our bedroom door.

But both doors still swing open freely.

I tried to explain to my lovely commandant that I tried – but the locking handles didn’t fit once attached to the locking rod that secures the door.

“So you just gave up?” asked Darlene?

“No, I efficiently moved this task to the bottom of the list so I could accommodate other items instead”, I replied as Darlene’s eyes rolled up into the sky.

I was also supposed to make a chalkboard to hang by the dart board downstairs – but alas I could not find the chalkboard paint. I know it’s here someplace.

So to the bottom of the list it went.

I had a flat tire on my old Jeep. About a month ago. We purchased a used tire to ride on until we needed a full set of tires. So I went out one chilly evening to take the old tire off and put the new one on. I wrestled off the first four lug nuts with little effort, but the fifth required a locking key lug nut key – with a supposedly unique pattern used only my Jeep. I dug the lug nut key out of the glove box and placed it snugly on the lug nut and put the tire wrench on to twist it off.

But as I applied the same torque as I did the other lug nuts – the key shattered with a snap – like a cheap plastic toy.

So after many phone calls, and posting pictures on facebook to draw on the wisdoms of our many motor-head friends – the lug nut – now chipped away to only the base so smooth no wrench can grab onto – still sits tight on the flat wheel – the Jeep still hoisted up on the jack in my laneway.

An eyesore.

I didn’t give up on this task so easily – at least not until it became clear I was only making matters worse and not better.

A mechanic I am not.

Of course the patio set on the back deck still sets waiting to be covered. Every time I approached that task it was either raining or snowing or it was two o’clock in the morning.

Now my deck looks like it is teasing me with summer intentions covered under several inches of snow.

Another item left unchecked on my list of honey-please-do.

I did accomplish much though. The laundry is all done, and our holiday decorating tasks achieved.

The girls and I played a lot of pool – and both girls now striking the ball very well and understand the angles needed to sink a shot.

And I did regain my status of Wii Mario Kart driver extraordinaire.

So it’s not like I was sitting around doing nothing.

The real purpose of this vacation was to get some rest and relaxation.

Mission accomplished.

But I did not check even one item off of that honey-do list. Not a single one.

Did I mention the laundry dryer vent needs to be cleaned out? I think that one was the next on the list.

If I could make a new year resolution for 2012, I think it would likely be to not be so proud of my amazing skills of procrastination.

It would be nice to get some of this stuff done.

But when you have spent a lifetime honing such a skill, it becomes a natural part of you. You can’t simply turn it off.

But it sure turns everybody else off.

Especially my lovely wife Darlene.

Perpetually Perplexing

2011-12-28T12:12:00.000-05:00

Another year has come and gone.

With Christmas now in our rear view mirror, the sights are re-set to the road ahead – to the new year we will call 2012.

Time continues to march forward. The world continues to spin, the sun rising and setting continuing to march forward – never stopping – effortlessly plodding on.

The spin of the Earth – as with all the other planets in our local solar system – continue to their relentless path around the sun.

The ultimate perpetual motion machine.

Seemingly never slowing. Seemingly holding each component’s position perfectly.

Yet we believe that creating a perpetual motion machine here on our big blue marble to be impossible. The friction created by passing through the air, and the constant force of gravity created by the spinning of this planet we live on its axis and the pull from the planets around it – the very perpetual motion machine that makes life on Earth possible – is the reason we cannot reproduce perpetual motion of our own.

Or maybe we are just not smart enough yet?

We can remove the impact of air on such a machine by simply building the machine in a vacuum. But we don’t know how to turn gravity off in a given location.

We could build the machine in outer space?

“Why do you want to build a perpetual motion machine?”

Well, it’s the holy grail of engineering. Such a machine – one provided the right amount of energy to get started, would regenerate that same amount of energy with the completion of a cycle, an engine that would only need to be started that would run forever.

Learn how to make such a machine, and all our needs for energy would be answered.

“But we have solar panels now, and wind turbines powered by the slightest breeze, and water turbines that are powered by the energy of the oceans?”

Yes we do. But they are still very inefficient. They do not yet produce enough energy to account for the human races tremendous thirst for power.

But the good news is we are getting there. A perpetual motion machine would take us to that next level that could allow us to end our dependency on fossil fuels – and nuclear power.

“But wasn’t the universe created by nuclear power?”

The big bang? Yes I guess that’s likely true.

The universe appears to have harnessed that power tremendously efficiently, little if any wasted as our own Sun as an exhibit proves – continuing to burn for eons yet to come.

We as mankind are so arrogant to think how intelligent we are. But in comparison to the bang that God set off that one single bang those billions of years ago? We hook a couple of pistons and gears together and dig out the fossil fuels from the earth from life that lived here a millennium before us, and we make a big explosion to make the stuff move, only to have to make another explosion milliseconds later to keep it moving – to drive to the store to get milk.

What we have been able to accomplish however is to provide the means for all of humanity to connect their collective thoughts – ideas – dreams – concepts – stuff in our heads – headstuffing – so that we can collaborate on these next steps forward.

But in our most inefficient way – we squander this technology on menial sentiments – telling the world that we just had a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast – or that we are out walking the dog.

I am no better, do not get me wrong and think that I am spouting off here in some superior voice to say the rest of man is fat and lazy. I am a prime example of the epitome of inefficiency.

I take more than I give. I use more than I make. I am like a termite consistently eating away at the very resources – in my own gluttonous pace – until all are exhausted.

We need that perpetual motion machine.

We need that divine revelation – that inspiration that removes our dependency on fossil fuels. We need to be smarter.

I am not that smart.

Nor likely are you.

But if we put our collective minds together – and push full steam ahead to brainstorm on a singular common goal … we need to overcome ourselves.

We need to overcome what we have become.

And we had better hurry. Because the Earth continues to spin, and the sun continues to rise and set, the moon continues to circle us, as days to into months then into years.

Because time, as relative a concept as physicists insist it to be, time waits for no one. But while time is limitless – our quantity of time is not.

We expire.

And time will continue on without us.

Seemingly perpetually.

Which Wolf Are You Feeding?

2011-12-04T11:27:00.001-05:00

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life.

"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.

"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego." He continued, "The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

I love this story.

I read it the other day. It was taped up to a friend’s cubicle at work.

And I realized what I have been doing for the last four months. I have been feeding the wrong wolf.

But feeding the right wolf is hard. Especially when you face personal challenges. Feeding the wrong wolf is so easy, because the wrong wolf is always begging at your feet. And the wrong wolf rewards you with a lick on the face to say “it’s okay to feel that way”.

But it’s not okay.

The good wolf does not come to be fed so easily. He can be delusive. To the point that the bad wolf asks you why you bother to try.

You could carry this metaphor on forever. It fits so well.

We are measured by our ability to fend off the bad wolf – and banish him from our lives.

Or at least keep him at bay.

In our daily strife and toil, it is rare to find a person who takes bad wolf to task instead of rewarding him.

So how does one acquire such discipline? What drills can you do, or course can you take? Where does one learn discipline to the degree to fend off the bad wolfs.

Can it even be learned?

Or is it in you already, in some deeply hidden in small doses. Is it there for you to pull out and practice?

Do you simply have to spend time dwelling on why you let the bad wolf console you?

Or is it really better to dwell on the good dog and how to feed him? To go through the list of attributes the old Cherokee listed for the good wolf. One by one. And dwell instead on how each of those attributes could be better employed by you.

Dwell on the question that you have given so much attention as to how you want to be treated – how do you fare in treating others?

I’ll bet it’s like anything else you practice – as you exercise the muscles you need to make you better – exercise the muscle between your ears – it might resist the change in direction – but with time you will train it.

… if you can keep your wits about while you change them.

Wits are often the first to abandon you when you are faced with a conflict. When the bad wolf shows his teeth, your instinct is to calm the beast and reward them – in this case with your own self-pity.

The strongest defense one has from the consequences of consorting with the bad wolf is faith. Faith in the good wolf.

Faith in yourself.

Faith in your own self is the direct reward of self-confidence. And since self-pity or any of the other traits of the bad wolf destroy a person’s feeling of self-worth, self-confidence erodes like the sands of beach as tides of self-pity washes in and out.

Until the beach has no sand.

I have not mastered this myself.

Not yet.

But I do have faith that I will. Now that I know what the bad wolf looks like. And I will stop feeding him, saving my chow instead for the other one.

Now, let’s discuss cats …

The Legend of Two Wolves was borrowed from the website called “First Peoples - The Legends” - http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TwoWolves-Cherokee.html

The Simplest Act Of Kindness

2011-11-21T13:23:00.001-05:00

I find it amazing sometimes how the smallest act of kindness can mean so much more than the most grandiose.

Often in ways that are often overlooked because they are not expected.

I had one of those wondrous moments just a minute or two ago - while simply sitting at my desk, eating a sandwich – a bologna and cheese with mustard on it – right from the little sandwich bag it was packed in.

It was a great sandwich – with three pieces of bologna on fresh buttered whole wheat bread.

I devoured it while reading my constantly growing number of emails that do not stop simply because it is lunchtime.

I took the last bite from the sandwich bag and I sat the mustard covered baggie over on the side of the desk as I reached in my bag to grab a can of Coke.

I enjoyed the sandwich especially this day because my youngest daughter Ashley-Rae had made it for me.

She packed my whole lunch for me – which I especially appreciated today because my lovely wife Darlene had come down with a horrible cold that sounds more like pneumonia – like a whole Scottish regiment being piped across St. Andrews on a bitter cold November morning – sacs of air all wheezing in that uniformed but frightening pitches and octaves that only a masterful piper could extract from such a convoluted instrument – those same sounds were coming from my lovely wife as she attempted again to catch some sleep amongst her sickness that morning and the crippling back pain each cough shot through her degenerating spinal cord.

So Ashley-Rae pitched right in to help – standing in her pajamas at the counter with the bread and butter strewn across the countertop madly working to assemble the lunches for not only myself but her and her older sister Alannah as well.

“How many pieces of bologna do you want Daddy?”, she asked as I stood at the sink in the upstairs bathroom shaving.

"Three", I replied as the razor ran across my cheek.

“What kind of pudding do you want, Daddy?”, she asked as I finished attending to my own personal hygiene for the day and ready to help her and her sister accomplish the same.

"No puddings - just one of those snack bars please", I replied to my nine year old short order chef.

Ashley was still standing there working away – no breakfast yet – still dressed only in her pajama’s adorning Justin Bieber’s hideous face. And only fifteen minutes to go until they had to be at the school for the final bell.

Ashley was just finishing cleaning up the mess as I came into the kitchen to urge her to get ready.

And in a mad frenzy, both daughters dressed, and brushed their teeth, and yelled and screamed in pain as they do each morning as I attempt to brush their mangled tangled mops of hair.

We hurriedly all grabbed our briefcases and back packs and luck boxes and bags as we ran for the door shouting out a hurried “bye Mommy” to my poor wife who was only half conscious and understandably unmotivated to follow us out to the door in her state of illness.

As we pulled into the school parking lot – seconds before the final bell would ring, the girls climbed out of the car stating the usual “love ya Daddy” as the door shut behind them.

And then I drove to work.

And then work became my main focus of the morning. And the morning passed quickly from the business that it entails.

Until lunch time, when still working, I devoured the wonderful bologna and cheese sandwich that Ashley-Rae made me. And the little chocolate cookie bar she packed in my lunch as a special treat.

And with little thought I reached to grab the cookie wrapper and the sandwich bag laying sloppily on my desk to throw them away when I realized I stuck my finger in a big wad of mustard from the baggie.

I picked up the offending baggie and found it not to be so offensive after all.

It was one of those freezer storage bags – the kind with the white panel you can write on – stating what you're freezing and when you froze it.

But my baggie had neither written on it. Instead – in the unmistakable scrawl of my nine year old daughter were the words written in marking pen …

“I love you Dad”

And I realized that for the challenges in a day, be they professional or domestic battles being fought from the most tedious of exercises – that we really do need to pay more attention to detail.

Or else we might miss the really important stuff.

We might over look the most wonderful – the smallest - demonstrations of kindness.

Five Years and Counting

2011-10-31T14:01:00.002-04:00

Funny how time flies.

Five years ago last night I wrote my first real headstuffing blog.

The parallels to then and now are pretty interesting.

Five years ago – in 2006 – I had my first inspiration for a headstuffing post while watching The Wizard of Oz with my little girls then four and five. My beloved Detroit Tigers had just days before lost the World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals.

Five years later, for the first time since 2006 – I find myself again watching The Wizard of Oz – the night before Halloween. And at the point where the Wicked Witch of the West is melted by Dorothy who accidentally splashes her with water while trying to put out the burning Scarecrow – again I found myself thinking “just like the Tigers against the Texas Rangers in the American League Championship Series”.

Only last time the Tigers folded in the World Series – handing the royal crown of baseball to the St. Louis Cardinals.

This year the Cardinals earned it in dramatic fashion – with Game Six of that series in serious contention as the greatest World Series Game ever played.

And I realized headstuffing had reached a milestone.

Is five years a long time for a blog to exist? To persist?

Perhaps not.

I hate the term blog anyways. It sounds so demeaning. This is really just a place for me to put the stories I write. And I hope it will always be here.

Not that anyone would miss it.

Or so I thought.

I mentioned last night to my little family of two little girls and a wife who loves bingo that maybe it was time for me to close the book on headstuffing. Call it quits. I would keep the blog up and running but post no more stories here.

The family disagreed. Loudly. You see it’s not so much mine as it is there’s. The stories are not so much mine as they are ours. And both my daughters – Alannah and Ashley-Rae – as well as my lovely wife Darlene – objected strongly to the demise of headstuffing.

They are the stars of the stories.

Even my faithful black lab Suzy gave a gentle grumble at the suggestion.

And I didn’t even raise the question to the two Grandmas.

Or the Good Doctor or the Nice Nurse Lady.

They are all characters of my stories as well.

Nor did I ask any of the seven hundred and fifty thousand readers who have stopped by over the last five years to read what’s going on. Although I am certain all of you would be less concerned as to whether headstuffing continued or not.

Even Pat “The Book On Sports” Caputo – who I still contend to be the best sports writer in Detroit – who was the inspiration for using a blog to write towards because of how much I enjoy The Books “Open Book” blog every day – and who has been very supportive of headstuffing the past - even The Book would likely be indifferent to the ending of headstuffing.

But I certainly had had a lot of feedback. A lot of good comments thanking me for sharing the cute stories about debating Santa Clause with my eldest daughter or my youngest daughter’s breaking a mirror and subjecting our small household to seven years bad luck – three of which are behind us now – or the little boy Raymond who stormed through Ashley-Rae’s birthday party only to get a kiss on the cheek from her for being such a great friend.

One story that touched many was a tribute to an old friend Bill, who passed away a couple of years ago – who I hadn’t seen since high school, who made such a big difference in the person I grew up to become.

Others caused debate as I referred to the natural way that trees deploy seeds into the earth as God’s Contraptions, or questioned why more attention at Easter is given to colored eggs and chocolate bunnies than the resurrection of Christ. Or that Santa Clause could also be considered to be the Holy Ghost personified – if one were only to believe so.

And others critique my want-to-be sports writer attempts at writing about Tigers baseball – calling my attempts sophomoric at best.

Far be it from me to argue that point.

Like Roger Ebert once complained when he started getting pushback on his movie reviews – “everyone’s a critic”.

There are two hundred and thirty three stories – each about two and third pages long – posted here. That’s about forty six a year. That’s approximately five hundred pages total. Some are just rambling about things in my brain (like this post). Some are personal treasures to me that I wouldn’t have had it not been for feeling obligated to write a post that week.

But I can’t see ever shutting headstuffing down.

Sorry.

And I still haven’t earned even a simple penny from my Google Ads – or Amazon.com. Maybe I’m doing something wrong.

We’ll see where we sit five years ahead in time – in 2016 – the next time the Tiger’s challenge the St. Louis Cardinals and all teams in between for World Series supremacy – and the next time I plan to watch The Wizard Of Oz again.

We’ll see where we sit with headstuffing.

Maybe by then I’ll have published my book.

A Good Day To Be Thankful

2011-10-10T12:08:00.000-04:00

It’s a beautiful morning outside.

There are a couple of scattered clouds in the sky. The maples that lie just beyond the fenced borders of my yard are turning bright reds yellows and browns. The dew sits heavy on the grass.

And it hasn’t rained for several days now.

The black tarpon that covers my pool is about six inches full now of its own water, and a few fallen fall leaves.

And my faithful black lab Suzy stretched out on the deck beside my feet.

It’s Thanksgiving Day here in Canada.

It’s Columbus Day to the Americans just across the Detroit River. Apparently this is now a reason for great shopping sales.

The Detroit Tigers are still playing baseball. They won their ALDS playoff series against the Bronx Bombing team that only money can buy New York Yankers. They played all five games of the series through rain and more rain – winning in the final game in a cardiac arresting fifth game pitcher’s duel score of three to two which had me clutching my chest like Red Foxx in a bad episode of Sanford and Son.

After the Tiger’s won, and I put the portable defibrillator away, I realized that I had made about twenty five promises to God of things I would do should he get the Tigers out of this mess and win this last game, only to realize I could only remember seventeen of them.

And hence the Tiger’s lost their ALCS series opener against Texas when God took away the vision from the right eye of home plate umpire Tim Welke who couldn’t call a strike on the right corner of the plate and then poured rain on the game twice forcing Tiger’s Cy Young award pitcher for 2011 Justin Verlander to come out of the game.

Sorry Justin, my bad. Next time I’ll write them all down.

And now I am emotionally spent; at least until four o’clock this afternoon when the game that got rained out last night will be played.

Life is pretty busy right now.

I’m running a men’s pool league that plays every Monday night, every Monday night except for tonight because today is Thanksgiving which ticked-off the players in my league because they either needed a place to go on Monday nights or because they needed reprieve from their own families after the viciousness that erupts at family holiday time.

I can identify a bit with the latter.

I also play in Wednesday night darts league, which I enjoy very much as the pace is quick and the darters throw triple twenties frequently.

It’s all very good stuff. As a married father of two little girls ages nine and ten, I am finding it refreshing to rejoin society after a decade of family and office isolation to hang out with the guys and say bad words and say “nice shot” as I take a sip out of my second pint of beer of the night.

But then Tuesday or Thursday mornings roll around, and I find myself groggily trying to help the girls get some breakfast in them, brushing their hair and enforcing statutory teeth brushing laws before we hop in the jeep for me to drop them both off at their school.

One year, four years from now, in October of 2015, my eldest Alannah will start high school while Ashley Ray remains behind one grade younger at the primary school. That year will be much more frustrating than this as both will need rides, and our morning battles will be much different.

At least until Alannah starts dating the high school senior twelfth grader who drives a fifteen year old Camero and simply refers to me as “old dude” as he picks Alannah up at the curbside of our house with me screaming from the driveway in front of all the neighbors “I forbid you to ride with that long haired hippy looking ear-ring wearing punk”. And as they drive away with some modern day rap remix of Lynard Skynard’s “Three Steps Mister” blasting through the open windows (open only because one of the windows doesn’t roll up all the way), I will stand there half furious with my daughter, half envious of the young man who kidnapped her from me – remembering my own senior year and thinking “those were great days”.

But those days are still four years away. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, although I started saving for the shotgun last spring when Alannah came home telling me all about the new boy in school she likes swearing up and down that she hates the guy.

It’s all very strange now as life continues to unfold.

It’s also very sobering.

I myself still feel like I am twenty six years old – at least in my mind.

The truth comes rushing back to me quickly as I try to teach Alannah and Ashley-Rae how to turn and chase down a long fly ball hit over one’s head – only to find my legs no longer simply glide me effortlessly under the ball – but now instead each stride is a challenge as I bounce up and down trying to keep the ball in jiggling sight only to reach up and barely snag it - instead of stopping and turning to make the catch easily, then panting out of breath as I try to spit out the affirmation “See … … it’s easy … … now you do it”.

But as I said, in Canada, today is Thanksgiving Day.

Here is a list of things I am very thankful for as I sit here this morning:

I am most thankful that my lovely wife Darlene and I still have this wonderful little family of ours, although some days that thankfulness is tested to its limits.

As well, I am thankful that I can still carve the seven ball into a tight side pocket leaving the cue ball to bounce off two rails and leave me a clean tap in on the eight ball in the corner.

And that I can double out from ninety seven by hitting triple nineteen and then double twenty.

I am very thankful that my daughters both love baseball enough to stay up as late as they can watching the Tigers playoff games, falling asleep on the couches in the living room in the third inning so that I have to carry them to bed; and when they wake up in the next morning the first question they ask is “did we win last night Daddy?”

And I am thankful that so far this playoff series I have gotten to answer that question by saying “yes we did, darling” more times than “no we didn’t sweetheart”.

Still Writing My Book

2011-10-02T12:08:00.000-04:00

I haven’t written much on headstuffing lately. Sorry about that.

I have been spending all of my writing time trying to get this book written.

I think it’s going well. To me it reads very well. It isn’t a struggle to read it. It’s actually pretty easy reading, a page turner.

But I’m pretty biased.

I think my characters are very well fleshed out. Complete people you know all about with just enough mystery to continue to make them interesting, and funny.

But what I really wanted to tell you about is how incredibly amazing this whole process has been as an experience. It’s incredible. I know when I’ve hit something good when the story tells itself to me, and I simply write it down.

After writing one of those parts, I sit back and have a sip of whatever I’m drinking, light a smoke, and I read it over again. And I wonder to myself “where the hell did that come from?”

The story literally tells itself to me as my fingers hit the keys on my laptop.

It’s like I’m channeling someone else – I don’t know who – who simply puts the words and ideas in my head.

There is nothing more rewarding in the world … to me … than getting snippet of the story written out and realizing as I read it over again that this is really good.

But as I said before, I am pretty biased.

I find myself reading my book over and over again, and when I get to where I left off, I wonder what’s going to happen next.

I guess I had better explain. I do have a known structure to the story, most specifically a start, and an end, and in between I have an idea – loosely formed in my feeble brain – about how I am going to get from one point to the next in the story.

The part that blows me away, that makes this story so much fun, is all the places this story goes in between all those points. And what makes it so rewarding is how much sense it all makes – how feasible such an unfeasible story seems to be- as I read it over and over again.

I’ve had a lot of friends ask me what the story is about. And I get disappointed when I try to explain the premise in summary form – only to find out how silly it sounds when I say it that way. But then I go back and read what I wrote to tell the story, and I am reassured because the story does make sense – very great sense – in a fantasy fiction sort of way.

I think people will really take to this story, if I can get it in front of them to read it.

A couple of people who have read the snippet I have shared here on headstuffing are intrigued and want to read more. And I feel bad that I can’t simply say “oh yeah? Here you go”.

The other part of this process that I have found so … incredible … is how many people have knowingly or unknowingly inspired my creation of these characters in this book. And since this story unfolds all around the world, I have had so much fun simply interviewing people to learn more about them, to help me flesh these characters out in a meaningful way.

It’s got a little bit of everything – a fantasy that we all have in common; mystery behind the scenes that keeps you wanting to know more; and great characters that everyone will enjoy.

As I have said before here on headstuffing, I simply love to write. And the greatest reward to me is to have other people tell me how much they enjoy reading what I write. That’s why it’s so hard not to simply give everyone who asks me a copy of the story so far.

There is something to be said for taking the approach of simply giving this book away, let people read it for free and hope that they like it so much it might generate revenues for my family in other ways. But what I really need is a writers agent, someone of influence who can present this story to a publisher so that they can see this story – and publish it.

That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. Maybe you can help me?

I don’t ask for help very easily. It’s a character flaw I have. But I’m asking now.

My lovely wife Darlene has read most of the story so far. She thinks it should be a movie.

But she is pretty biased.

And my little girls ask me every night to read the story to them as they go to bed. So far they love it, all though I do have to skip some parts that they are not old enough for yet. But they love it to.

They are also pretty biased too.

There are components of this story that people will really enjoy.

A little black jet called the Façade.

The Universal Communication Terminals.

And the Angel. Everyone will love the Angel.

But then – like I said earlier – I am pretty biased.

If you haven’t checked out the snippet of the book that I have shared, and you do find what I have described even remotely interesting, then I encourage you to click on the icon on the top of the sidebar to the right of my headstuffing site here, and read it online. It’s pretty short. And I bet you will want to read more.

If you do read it, please leave me a comment and tell me what you think. Even if you think it stinks. I post all your comments here – within reason of course – as long as it meets the standard clean language rule I apply to all headstuffing comments – and as long as your not spamming my comments trying to sell Viagra or something.

Give it a read. I bet you will like it … and you will want to read more.

But I should mention that I am a little biased.

Cheers or Jeers?

2011-07-02T13:15:00.001-04:00

My girls are playing a lot of softball this year.

Fast pitch – with base runners that steal second and third – and line drives and double plays – and some really good pitching.

It’s good stuff.

It’s finally their first year of real ball.

And my girls seem to be catching on nicely.

But they still have that age old problem of keeping their head in the game?

Young minds wander, I guess.

But how do you snap them out of it?

It’s so easy to stand in left center field with your hands on your hip and your glove by your side wondering what Justin Bieber is up to, or what you should wear to the sleep over the next night.

I’m talking about my daughters now, not myself.

Just to be clear.

But both girls have stepped up their play considerably this year. Ashley cracked one all the way to the fence that drove in two runs in a close game – and Alannah continues to surprise everyone as she continues to be in the right place at the right time to make a big play.

And Alannah has also shown herself to be a pretty good pitcher.

But they both still slip into that la la land mindspace when in the field during a game.

And then there are the dugout cheers.

Girl’s softball is full of cheers – coming from the dugout. Very long cheers that are almost complete songs – and our team seems to sing them the loudest …

“She stole on you, she stole on you
While you were picking your nose, she was hot on her toes, and she stole on you
What a disgrace …. Right in your face .,.. yeah she stole on you ….”

I don’t care for that one much. But the other teams sing it to.

They must put out a CD or a song-sheet of girl’s fast-pitch dugout cheers because no matter where we go play – both sides are singing the same things. And there are enough of these chants to last an entire six inning game.

It doesn’t seem very sportsman-like, does it?

I’m all for rooting on your players – but these chants cross a lot lines to many in the sportsmanship category.

But then girl’s fast-pitch does seem to bring out the wannabe future pop-stars in these girls.

Sometimes I hear my girls singing these chants around the house, and I interrupt them and say “that doesn’t sound very nice”.

“It’s softball Dad! You’re not s’posed to be nice”, replies which ever daughter I interrupt.

“Nice, no … but calling the other team a disgrace doesn’t sound good. In fact it would just tick them off, donchathink?”

“So?”

“So they will try harder”

“So?”

“So if you tick them off and they try harder and they beat you, you look stupid”

“Every team does it, Dad”

“The Tigers don’t do it”

“They’re boys, Dad. This is girls’ softball”, they reply.

Thank goodness they don’t sing these in the big leagues. Could you imagine if the pros sang chants in the dugout during a pennant race?

“Hey there hey there number four, you say you don’t use roids no more
But I just saw your trainer stick – a needle in your butt real quick …”

True, boys don’t do it. Boys go out and show you. They don’t chide you in a sing-song format – they just whisper it in your ear when standing on first – or at the plate. Perhaps this is a difference between boys and girls?

This year Alannah made the All-Star B-Team for Turtle Club. There are three tournaments coming up in July, one out of town I believe – that she gets to play in. I’m very happy for her because she wanted this so bad, and I know that making such a team will take her to the next level of play – just from the experience of playing against real quality teams.

I hope she pays attention.

I know she will be leading the cheer chants from the dugout.

I’m certain they’ll be chanting from the same chant-book. All the old familiar ones.

But what do these chants say about sportsmanship to little girls? I think it says it doesn’t matter. And I don’t like that very much.

After all, they will all be wearing the big Turtle Club TC on their hats – and their green and yellow uniforms will say Turtle Club across the fronts. And their names will be on their backs.

And they will be singing about disgraced nose picking catchers when they steal a base.

Look, I am all for teaching kids to have a competitive spirit in sports and play to win and not get a trophy or ribbon just for showing up, I really truly am.

“Hey number seven, I like your sox. I’d like to get some, do you still have the box?”

No, that’s not what I’m talking about at all.

Girls, cheer your team on. Root for them with all the air in your lungs – but there is nothing to be gained by belittling the other team while you do so. Plain and simple – it’s just wrong – and it teaches everything I try to teach my own girls not to do. It undoes what I do.

You might as well just chant:

“Hey number six, we think you suck. When I hit it at you, you better duck”.

Good grief.

Spread Too Thin

2011-06-26T13:07:00.001-04:00

Thinly Spread

That seems to be my modus operandi these days.

It’s true right now at work.

It’s true right now at home.

It’s just that there are so many exciting things happening now that I find myself a part of.

Spare time is such a commodity. One day it will be sold – I am certain – on a global trade exchange. Sell your free time to someone else so they can relax while you do their work.

I think the smartest investment of the future will be to purchase robots – highly skilled machines that do your work for you – where you send them out to earn your living for you while you sit back and collect their pay cheques.

I really need a robot.

My lovely wife Darlene would like a robot – that much I am sure of. Our little girls aren’t very good at being housework robots – no matter how we try to re-program them. Likely we are using the wrong programming language – with words like responsibility and teamwork and duty. They prefer languages that result more in monetary and consumer rewards.

I’m afraid I don’t know those “Object-Oriented” languages – I prefer “Objective Oriented languages myself.

You know – that’s not really a bad idea.

I know the Japanese companies like Sony and Mitsubishi have some models that do housework.

“So how was your day today X15-R Model 39?”

“Blip blip Beep.”

“Well, rest over there by the recharging bar and I will reset your rotors and run some diagnostics … you like it when I reset your rotors …”

“Blip Bleep”.

My problem is not a problem really. And I certainly don’t say this braggingly – but almost despairingly.

I’m an idea guy.

If I come up with an idea, I can’t rest until I test the waters of the idea. And if the waters reply back with successful response – I then either saddle myself or get saddled with the work of engineering and driving the idea to a successful completion. A realization.

The same is true when others express an idea to me – one that I see real value in – one that the idea spawner can’t carry through with on their own. After I describe how the realization of their idea would come about – I find myself again saddled with either parts of realizing the solution – or taking the whole concept over – ensuring the idea spawner is still recognized as the genius behind the idea.

And in these exciting times both in my professional and personal life – ideas are coming to fast from all over the place – and I am finding myself spread too thin to devote the attention that each deserve or required to succeed.

Sometimes the idea is solely to automate a manual process – and therefore requires the inclusion of multiple skilled people – all to participate – and move in the same direction that I am trying to point them to.

Those are the easy projects.

Mostly these days – in my personal life anyway – my projects all seem to be more a creative collaboration of sorts.

And I struggle with those “what’s in it for me” responses.

Because more often than not – there is little to nothing in it for me … let alone the other person.

Those idea projects don’t usually fly to well, and I am left saddling the whole task myself – or with the assistance of my lovely wife Darlene – who is as quick to jump on board as I am … most of the time.

The problem is that I just can’t move forward after hearing or coming up with a great idea until I test those waters. It gets stuffed in my head until I perform some sort of action towards it to either realize of discard it.

It’s kind of like why I write headstuffing.

“Well, if that’s the case Fred, then why do you let yourself get caught up in all these …. Ideas?”

Because the satisfaction of seeing an idea realized is so personally satisfying. That alone is the reason to do it. And to know you did it very well. And to know that somebody out there benefited from your efforts – somebody who really needed the help – that is where the thrill in the end comes from.

That’s why it is so difficult to be spread so thin right now.

There’s no reward in seeing a great idea realized and come to completion poorly. It’s like a failure.

But there are only so many hours in a day. And now that it’s summer time in the northern hemisphere and daylight lasting to nearly 9:30 at night as we just passed the summer solstice – the days have gotten longer. And sleep time has gotten shorter.

Perhaps one day one of these ideas will really click – really catch on. Perhaps if I ever finish my book – or see one of my other personal objectives reach their desired result – I might be in a position to hire a staff.

You know – start a think tank – a group that could attack all of these ideas – and perhaps ideas of much grander scales – to drive them through to real completion.

To make a real difference. All the time. Making big strides instead of being content with “baby steps”.

That’s what we’re all here for really … don’t you think? To enhance the common good?

To make a difference.

My Baseball Dad

2011-06-20T08:24:00.000-04:00

Baseball is a big deal at our house.

It has been since I was a little boy.

No matter where we were going, the ball equipment always sat in the trunk of our car – at the ready – should we pass an empty ball diamond along the way. And if we did, the car pulled over to the side, the equipment bag came out of the trunk, and we would hold a quick infield practice.

That’s just how my Dad was.

He was an excellent coach – and his forte was teaching technique. Acquire the basic skill, and then master the technique.

The one break-through day I clearly remember was when Dad taught me how to charge a hard hit ground ball so that you catch it just as it hit the ground – taking the ball just as it came up – eliminating for the most part the possibility of the ball taking a bad bounce and going by you.

That advice really worked.

That was when I was eleven years old.

Up until then, I would simply sit back on the ground ball and snag it as it came by – most often with success – but that waiting time both allowed the runner to move further up first baseline meaning he would beat my throw more often.

After I learned that technique of Dad’s and mastered it as an eleven year old, I made the all star team at short stop or second base every year after. It made such a huge difference.

I see a lot of coaches teaching the principle of charging the ball these days, but they seem to forget the point of taking the ball on the short hop.

He also spent a lot of time teaching us the individual techniques of hitting, all those little things like the proper stance – spending hours positioning us at the plate – and how the timing of shifting your weight from your back foot to your front foot so that your bat strikes the ball at the exact moment your weight shifts – allowing you to hit the ball hard with your weight rather than with your arms – and how to snap your wrists right at the point of contact to optimize your leverage and transferring twice the power of your weight into the ball. All these individual points of technique that when put together with keeping your eye on the ball and being able to tell a strike from a ball as it leaves the pitchers hand – add up into one beautiful swing that hits line drives over the infield and perhaps over the outfield every time.

That was my Dad. He knew baseball. He coached baseball. And he coached coaches how to teach these advanced fundamentals.

But nothing really clicked for me until I turned eleven – when my muscle and hand-eye coordination started to really allow me to apply these techniques. Until then, I never really felt like I had control – control of the ball as I threw it like my Dad taught me – control of the heavy bat as I tried to move it through the plane of the swing – control of my feet and my body as I went back for a long fly ball looking over my shoulder and watching it all the way into the webbing of my glove.

At age eleven – I gained the coordination of the muscles in my body to do what I was thinking – and what I was thinking came all that training.

Now I am a Dad. Not nearly as good a Dad as my Dad when it comes to baseball – or softball – as Alannah and Ashley-Rae are nine and ten years old. But I am trying.

But next year, Alannah turns eleven. And I am hoping her muscle coordination “kicks in”.

Friday Night – the Turtle Club team they play for was facing Windsor West – at Mic Mac Park – under the lights for the first time ever. And the girls were excited – and the Windsor West team was a good team with decent pitching.

Alannah hit a line drive right to the girl playing short stop – who caught it. Later – with girls on second and third hit another line drive up the middle and scored two runs. As well, Ashley-Rae ran out a close play at first to be called safe.

Later, Alannah in right field (all players rotate positions each inning to be fair to all) – a hard line drive was hit up the first base line – just inside the bag – a fair ball – and Alannah took off to chase it down. As she reached the ball the runner was turning first and heading full speed for second – and Alannah picked that ball up with her bare hand and threw it on a rope to the second baseman Danielle – hitting her glove perfect as the base runner ran into her glove for an out.

It was great.

Our Turtle Club team lost that match 9-10. But it didn’t matter.

There are signs that both are on the verge of their coordination “kicking in”.

Dad would be so excited.

And now, just starting right now, we can start to carry that equipment bag in the car, and stop and hit ground balls and take batting practice and work on all of these techniques my Dad taught me.

At least that’s what I hope will happen. Like I said earlier, I’m not as good a Dad as my Dad was. And it’s harder with our schedules now to find the time to just have fun anymore.

I can’t find any time to play golf – but maybe baseball will be different.

That all being said – my Dad could be a tough coach – insisting that you try – and repeating the same things over and over again each time he slammed a ground ball …

“Get up on balls of your feet and off your heels”

“Keep your head down on the ball … it won’t hurt you”

“Charge that ball harder and keep that glove down”

And sometimes my brother Paul and I would get plain frustrated – and we would say mean things to him. And sometimes we quit.

But Dad always inspired us to get back out there and try even harder.

I don’t know how all that repetition and frustration will play out with Alannah and Ashley-Rae – but we will see. They’re good girls and they really do love softball and want to learn more … but they both get frustrated very easily. And they cry … girls cry. I don’t remember me and Paul crying playing ball. Maybe we did.

But Dad was patient. More patient than I think I am.

I’m not as good a Dad as my Dad was, you see.

First Tee Jitters

2011-06-20T08:23:00.000-04:00

Well, it finally happened.

It’s near the middle of June. It had to happen sometime.

But yesterday it finally happened.

I played my first round of golf.

No practice. No driving range. No putting on the living room carpet.

I just showed up to play golf.

In a tournament.

No, not a fun best ball drive around in a cart drinking beer with your buddies tournament.

This was a tournament for our local zone. Playing with a partner, our combined scores would have to be good enough to qualify and advance to the district tournament in July. And from there, the regional, and from there the provincial. Qualify there, and you go on to the national tournament.

I’ve known about playing in this tournament now since March.

But there is little time for golf now, with being so busy at work, and my new responsibilities to our local Legion branch. And of course there’s the girls softball schedules and all star try outs. That leaves me very little time for golf.

Or much else, really.

When I arrived at the local course in Windsor to register, I met my partner for the first time. Larry looked the part of an avid golfer, black pants and red shirt, weather beaten golf hat and worn glove. Looking at Larry I knew I had the advantage of a good player for a partner.

The combined scoring format meant Larry was counting on me to pull my share of the load. I felt ashamed as I introduced myself to Larry. But as we shook hands, Larry confided to me that this was his first round of the year too. He stopped on his way to the course to hit a bucket at the range to try to get his swing back.

I didn’t even do that. And I told him so.

I explained how unprepared I was to Larry. Larry simply smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it”.

We paired up with another pair to make our foursome, a couple of seniors from another branch in our zone. These guys –further advanced in their years – were both retired – and both played every other day.

Oh dear.

We were the first foursome off the tee – the starting foursome. This of course means the whole tournament would be standing there watching us – judging us – as we teed off. A group of forty or so ambitious golfers would be standing there watching me take my first swing of a golf club since last September.

What was I thinking?

Our foursome was called to the tee, and as I was I was putting on last year’s old golf glove, Ian of the other pair said to the crowd “Show us the way there Fred”.

Now I’m scared.

I pulled a brand new ball out of my pocket with a tee, and as I bent down to put the tee in the ground with the ball on top of it, I felt my knees shake. I moved the writing on the ball so that the words “Titleist” pointed down the line I was aiming to the left side of the fairway.

I was sure to slice the first drive of the year. That is if I even hit the ball. I might just dribble it off the tee box to the white tees just ahead of me. And this crowd would all laugh at me.

I stood up and took one practice swing as I stood behind my ball looking down the fairway to my target. I could hear the mumblings in the crowd – small talk amongst themselves – as I approached the ball – taking one final swing with my left arm only to get a feel for the weight of my driver.

The mumblings in the crowd stopped as I addressed my ball, slightly behind my left foot and gave the club a final waggle.

The silence was deafening. But the thoughts in my head were so loud I thought everyone in the crowd would hear them.

“you can do this … nice and easy swing … don’t lift your head … bring that right hand over … “

There was no wind. The air was still. The crowd was silent.

I drew back the club and it felt good. My club head was in the right place. I came down through the ball pulling hard with the left arm and bringing the right hand over exactly as I struck the ball, I watched the tee do a couple of flips in the air as I followed through.

Then I looked up as I followed through – in that pose one takes after hitting a drive. It felt great. But the sky was grey – and my ball was white – and I couldn’t find it in the sky.

But it felt great. Where was it?

Then I heard the crowd behind me. I heard “Nice shot”, and “it’s drawing nice” and “he got all of that one” … but I still didn’t know where it was.

As I picked up my tee, and turned to join the crowd so that a player from the other pairing could hit his tee shot, I saw smiles in the crowd and nods of approval from the other golfers. “Nice shot” said Larry as I stood beside him.

I leaned over and in a whisper I said “I lost it in the sky. I have no idea where it went”.

You’re about 280 down there – just past the one fifty marker – in the first cut off the fairway”, and he offered his fist for me to punch with mine.

When Larry hit his, he blasted it down the middle – and the ball took a bad bounce and ended up in the first cut on the right side. We were side by side on opposite sides of the fairway. Ian and Dave – the other pairing in our foursome - were side by side in the middle of the fairway – Ian playing a big slice – and Dave hitting straight as an arrow. But both were some fifty yards behind us.

As we got into our cart to drive away, both Larry and I breathed a sigh of relief in unison, and we both laughed.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it”, said Larry.

“I was trembling the whole damned time”, I confessed.

“Yeah, I know – I saw your knees shaking”, replied Larry. “Mine were too, but I’m wearing pants”.

We qualified to go on to the District tournament in July. But we didn’t shoot great. I had a nine on one hole, but I put together a string of pars and a birdie to offset it later in the round. Larry played bogey golf with the odd double. We only beat the other pair by one stroke. They qualified as well.

Later, drinking beers after the round, I confessed my terror on that first tee box to all at the table.

“You didn’t look scared to me” said Ian.

I saw your knees shaking”, said Dave.

But I’ll be playing and practicing before we go play District in July.

And I might just wear black pants like Larry instead of shorts – no matter how hot it is.

I don’t want them seeing my knees shaking at District.

Pat Caputo Still Reminds Me Of Lewis Grizzard

2011-05-29T12:24:00.000-04:00

Pat Caputo

Lewis Grizzard

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

It’s posted all over this blog and my other sites for people to see – so I have no problem reaffirming this publicly yet again.

Pat Caputo is the best sports writer – best sports radio talk show host – best commentator on sports news in the greater Detroit Metropolitan area.

Including Windsor, which Caputo himself proclaimed to be “South Detroit” by way of expressing his displeasure for a specific Journey rock song played at the Joe Louis arena during Red Wing games.

Pat’s a personality to be sure.

He’s “The Book On Sports” – or simply “The Book” for short.

A character indeed.

He is a character of high character, in my personal and as always humble opinion.

I started following Caputo after hearing him on the radio, now broadcast on FM 97.1 The Ticket – Pat has been a mainstay on the radio waves keeping listeners involved in Detroit sports teams.

I’m a baseball fan myself.

Nobody in this town talks baseball like Pat Caputo.

Or hockey.

Or football.

Pat reminds me a lot – an awful lot – of my favorite sports columnist from The Atlanta Constitution and Journal – Lewis Grizzard. Grizzard was a masterful story teller who told you the story of the game as though you were sitting and talking to him. And he was deeply proud of growing up and being a Southerner – telling wonderful stories of growing up in his hometown Moreland, Georgia.

He loved and defended the area he grew up in – defending southerners against the often belittling Northerners who stereotyped all Southerners as … well … dumb.

That just plain ain’t true.

And Grizzard was also cited on several cases for being a racist – once being sued by a reporter who worked for Grizzard when he was the editor of a Chicago newspaper – a case Lewis won – although it didn’t matter much because once a stigma like being a racists is put in the minds of the masses – it sticks.

But Grizzard wrote exactly as he spoke. Charming, witty, and poignant.

And that is where most of all I draw the comparison between Pat Caputo and Lewis Grizzard. Both writers have been nationally celebrated and honored. Both writing with the same ease and manner in which they speak. Both personalities transcending the newspapers they wrote for to become easily recognized celebrities in their regions.

One a northerner who will stand up for the aching sorrows that Detroit has been through the last four decades; as the city tries so desperately to pull itself back up by its bootstraps to recover to the truly beautiful place it once was and in many ways still is at the corner of Lake St. Clair and Lake Erie – sitting in the middle of the mighty Detroit River.

The other a southern gentleman who stands up against the wrongfully projected stereotypes of what Georgia was by telling stories of his parents who divorced, and the local neighborhood population of Moreland.

Both do so with humor, with honesty, with some humility and with a little extra … panache.

But the days that Caputo writes and talks about are much different today than those of Lewis Grizzard some twenty years ago.

There’s more media today. And that media is interactive. There’s this whole Internet thing, you know.

The Book writes a blog online for the Oakland Press called “Open Book: A Sports Blog”. Caputo’s blog is the first I ever really followed – and is honestly the very reason I started headstuffing. Pat even helped me out here and there along the way.

Similarly it was Lewis Grizzard who inspired me to pick Journalism as a freshman in Georgia.

You couldn't really comment on a newspaper column in the old days - except by writing a letter to the editor. And lot's of such letters were written regarding one column or another of Lewis Grizzards. Sometimes Grizzard even wrote columns about the letters to the editor of readers despising him for one reason or the others.

I comment on Caputo's Open Book blog quite frequently. The collection of usual suspects that loyally comment are an eclectic bunch who really know their stuff and often expand the commentary from a single line of thought to a conversation that is held over weeks.

I’m the dumbest one in that eclectic crowd.

Conversations about who should hit second in the Tiger’s line up, and what’s really wrong with the bull pen and who could the Tiger’s get to play second base and who could the Tiger’s give up, and … well, you know … the usual sports blog / call in radio show kind of stuff.

But on the Open Book, we all kind of know each other – and we all kind of know the Book. And he kind of knows us too.

I liken it best to stopping into my favorite pub on my way home from work to sit and talk about the topics of the day with all the other guys like me who stop in the same pub – for a quick pop, but more so for the great conversation that is omnipresent.

But – as on any other blog – even including my own – are the anonymous commentators who insult and belittle the author – in stealth mode most often – not leaving a name behind their insults and put-downs.

Caputo publishes all these comments – wanting sincerely I believe to be transparent and allow his naysayers to have their say.

A lot of them are very rude. And Pat answers them with dignity – and usually with the response that everyone is entitled to an opinion. And the Book On Sports allows all opinions to be expressed.

I admire Pat for that.

I wonder – would Lewis Grizzard – should he still be alive today – would he have had a blog? I bet he would have – albeit he hated newfangled gadgetry like word processors – preferring the clicks of a typewriter and the ring of the carriage at the end of sentence flying back to begin the first word of the next paragraph.

And I wonder how Lewis Grizzard would have responded to such insulting comments posted about him on his own blog. I’m certain that he would have published them. But unlike Caputo – Grizzard would have cherished the opportunity to rip into each one just to hone his ability to craft the best retort.

Grizzard’s retorts would have been simple, sharp, and plainly stated in the tone of a true Southern gentleman:

“... And you sir are libelous scoundrel”.

Not Today

2011-05-21T11:49:00.004-04:00

It’s such a beautiful day today.

The most beautiful day of the year here in Windsor. A day such as this makes you appreciate everything living and breathing.

Breathtaking. I don’t say this lightly.

It’s certainly not a day for the world to end on.

But if you gotta go …

Look, I think of myself as a spiritual person.

However I am known to my friends as a common sense rational and objective thinker. Some may even say cynical, but I dispute that.

I think I am both spiritual and rational in my beliefs. This causes great conflict within me. Because to so many it seems so black and white – it’s either heads or tails – you either believe or you don’t.

And that just doesn’t square with me at all.

The rational me is convinced scientific facts are not wrong – the earth is billions of years old, and what we have resulted to so far in this one big global ant farm experiment is what we see about us today. Of the kajillion possible theories out there about when the universe started – the big bang theory – from all we scientifically know now – does make the best argument – but I cannot tell you it is truth – but I bet parts of it are correct – and there have likely been billions and billions of big bangs since the last on a kajillion years ago.

But then theories of black holes and parallel universes pop up. And statements that in the end man is only worm food emerge. This makes me step back and reconsider for a second.

Science fiction is a new theology you know.

Stop me if I get too technical.

However that other rational side of me acknowledges that we are human beings – and that a hundred years ago we just figured out how to put four wheels and an engine on a box and pour cement all over the place to get places further – and the new global economic game is whoever has the most fuel to propel these mechanized boxes across the cement is the most powerful.

Stop me if I get to political.

In short, we are not perfect creatures – although we believe we are the masters of all we survey – and that we really just don’t know – but we think we make pretty good educated guesses.

In fact we are convinced these educated guesses are correct.

We can’t have any uncertainty, can we?

The spiritual side of me therefore acknowledges the wonders around us that seemingly appeared with no intervention or design by mankind – like those tiny helicopter seeds that fall out of trees to repopulate the earth – so perfect are their design to meet their purpose – like a hidden clue from somewhere smacking us down to say “you’re not so smart – check this out”. Back this up by watching a large Canadian goose take off and fly so effortlessly – forming a perfect V pattern with others – with no need for radios or radar or ground control – to get exactly where they want to go.

Look at butterflies that simply head to Capistrano.

How arrogant are we to think that there is not some kind of overseer to all this amazing design that fits together seamlessly – perfectly – spinning on a big blue orb in space keeping all life support systems in perfect alignment – even though mankind seems so intent on playing with the thermostat and messing with the air intake valves.

“We need answer’s damnit!”, proclaims the global masses. “We don’t like this level of uncertainty!”

“That sounds pretty good…”, proclaims each spiritual or scientific pundant as they answer the cries of the masses. The sincerity and certainty behind each proclamation is astoundingly genuine.

Stop me if I am getting too theological.

How incredible.

But then spoiled by a radio preacher’s proclamation that they have read an ancient text from thousands of years before – translated and interpreted and even amended by some to shift its meaning – that such a preacher can read the words of God and use poorly defined mathematical skills to calculate that the world is ending today.

He was wrong years before … but this time is different … he carried the two this time.

Today of all days.

There is arrogance in spirituality too – as much if not more so - than science – as each party who believes in a more powerful being – the same being in my eyes – to say they are right and you are wrong and since we don’t agree you must die. And we will be the chosen ones – riding off at the end of the game of life like a school bus full of high school football players riding home from after winning the big away game singing “We are the champions my friend” as they slap hands and proclaim how superior they are to the others.

“They should have thought like us”, they say as they congratulate themselves.

On a day like today of all days – when the sun is so perfect in the sky so blue and the breeze so feint and fresh with birds chirping beautiful songs and plants reaching out to show their brilliance from the ground.

On a day like today? I sure hope not. I like it here.

As I sit on the back deck this beautiful May morning – for the first time of summer – watching my faithful black lab Suzy chase squirrels too smart for her brilliant canine brain. Do the squirrels know today is the end of time? I think they do not. Today is for playing.

All from the arrogance of man, be him scientist or theologian – each has an agenda that suits his desires – and his desires plan his intentions and his intentions are realized by actions that influence others to follow their lead – and proclaim that they are right and everybody else is stupid and doomed.

Be it global warming or Armageddon that cause the annihilation

Pardon me if I get too emotional.

It just drives me nuts.

You – Scientist Guy – you are right! – a little anyways.

And you Preacher man – you too are right – a little bit anyways.

But to proclaim you have it all figured out and that you know the truth – truths that man will likely never know? Give you head a big shake.

Hear that rattle?

Wars have been fought and many good souls have died because two groups thought they were both right.

That applies to atheists, agnostics, and the self proclaimed apostles.

It’s some place in the middle. And the middle of this spectrum of truth is more vast than the universe. But it’s some where there. Not all the way to the left or to the right. Not at the top or the bottom – but hidden out there somewhere in the middle.

And the great designer of all that is is laughing at the arrogance of man as he quickly proclaims “here it is” and holds up as the final clue to all that is unknown to be know.

That’s how I feel anyway.

Someday I hope the that the truth is revealed to us. That somehow we understand what is really real – in either our final breaths as people on earth – or some how in an afterlife that I hope exists.

That someday somehow that we will know this great secret.

I mean this in no offense to you at all – I encourage you to believe what you do – either way – or even if you are like me and are somewhere in the middle. Think what your heart tells you, and what your rational mind derives for you. And follow it to the best of your ability.

But please don’t belittle those who come to different conclusions than you.

Because if the world does end for man one day – it will likely be from the evolution of spiritual and scientific arrogance's beating each other to a pulp.

Not today. Not today of all days.

Closing School Libraries Spells Illiteracy

2011-05-18T22:25:00.001-04:00

They are closing the library in my daughters’ elementary school.

They are closing all the libraries in all the schools under the Windsor Essex Catholic District School Board. All Elementary and Secondary schools will no longer have a library.

Schools without libraries?

I can’t fathom that.

I can’t tolerate that!

I can’t tolerate the thought of my daughter’s in grade 3 and 4 not being able to go into the school library this year and checking out books like Charlotte’s Web, or The Mouse and The Motorcycle. Books like Where the Red Fern Grows, and Old Yeller.

These are just a couple of titles that come to my memory from when I was their age – reading amazing and exciting stories that made me want to read more and more and more.

But that will be gone.

I remember at a very young age walking through the bookshelves of my schools library looking for great books – and the excitement I felt when I found a really good one.

One that really stands out in my mind is a book I don’t even remember the title of. It was about a boy who would have been my age who tried out for the neighborhood baseball team – and how hard he practiced fielding ground balls with his Dad and hitting with his best friend – and how excited he was when he got his uniform after he made the team.

That book inspired me to love baseball even more.

Because that’s what books do, they inspire young minds – opening their brains up to ideas and opportunities – and experiences.

But that won’t be readily available to little kids in our local Catholic schools.

They plan to put some books in class rooms – pretty much deciding what the kids will read.

Who wants to read what you’re told to read?

I remember in high school, getting my hands on a copy of Catcher In The Rye. I read that book in the back seat of our family car as we travelled on a family vacation.

They will also be pulling out all those great books that teenagers use for research for various projects. In place of the libraries will be a common area for digital media devices – like computers.

Okay, we are in the 21st century now. And computers are definitely a powerful source for research. But we are nowhere near the point yet where computers and DVD players can even remotely adequately replace a card catalog to help kids find information based on the Dewy Decimal System.

Wikipedia is not yet a source of truly undeniably reliable record. And for as much as I love what Google has added to the Internet – I am not so blind as to know that Google searches also return information you probably don’t want your child to see.

How is this possible?

Why are they cutting out the libraries from these schools? Why do you think? This is not an exercise in advancing learning facilities to a new academic level of excellence – all though those that are pushing this change through will describe it as so.

It’s money. Or the lack of it.

Enrollment in Catholic schools in our county is down.

So instead of cutting other things – like sports teams – or better yet – take a very hard look at your administrative costs - instead, they chose what appears to be a big expense – on paper – a quick and easy choice looking at the list of options sorted by cost – libraries sit at the top of the heap.

I love sports, but I would never suggest them be more important than school libraries. And I am not proposing firing people of value.

Certainly not people as valuable as school librarians.

This is stupid.

It doesn’t take a genius to know the Catholic Church has been hurt in recent decades. Some of their decisions have just been … well … either arrogantly or blindly derived. As a result the number of parishioners continues to fall. But this time is not the time to go into all that. That’s also been in the headlines enough.

It just makes logical sense that a decline in members of the Catholic Church also results in a decline in the Catholic school student enrolments. And to me it does not make sense to reduce the quality of education that children will get in your schools by taking the libraries out.

If you were new to a community – and you had the option of two schools – which of those two would you likely choose for your kids best interest? A school with a library?

“Duh” – as my little girls so commonly say to me.

It would certainly be a pretty strong factor. It might even deter you from moving to the community.

If you happen to live in Windsor or in Essex County – and this issue is important to you – I strongly encourage you to visit the Save our Libraries Holy Cross Catholic Elementary LaSalle Ontario Canada on facebook to learn more about what you can do.

As well, I encourage you to sign the online petition.

I encourage you strongly to do something.

If you live in Windsor Essex and your kids don’t attend a Catholic school – I urge you still to do something, because these kids are the next generation of your community too. And I can’t imagine that a decision to remove libraries from schools is going to help make your community stronger.

Windsor and Essex County has had enough economic struggles that we are just now starting to recover from.

This kind of academic stupidity isn’t going to help.

We have some new decisions to make in our house.

Procrastinating With Mother Nature

2011-05-15T12:07:00.001-04:00

It’s raining outside again.

It’s probably raining where you are too. Or it was. Or it will.

This has been a very wet spring in North America.

So I spend this Saturday morning out in the garage with my lovely wife Darlene, a cup of coffee and a pack of smokes, and our faithful black lab Suzy curled up on her pillow in the corner.

Pat Caputo is on the radio – talking about the Detroit Tigers now as their season is at the 40 game mark. I listen closely, because I just posted my thoughts last night on the Tigers Baseball Outsider – and I checked the stats and Pat hasn’t read it.

Sometimes he does. He’s a good guy.

Suzy just lays on the pillow and lets out the occasional groan to mean “I’m so bored”.

The girls are at a friend’s house after a sleep over last night. The parents called this morning to ask if they could stay longer – which we didn’t hesitate to say “Sure!”. Better they have fun over there than come to me every two minutes stating “I’m bored”.

Normally by now we would be sitting out on the back patio deck. It’s just sitting there in the rain though. The deck is set up, but we might have spent a total of fifteen minutes so far this year sitting out there.

The deck needs a little work this year. A board on the hand rail rotted – I don’t know why. And Suzy dug under the stairs of the deck so the right foundation pole has no foundation to sit in. I have prop it up and fill that with cement.

Why she dug down there, I don’t know. I doubt Jimmy Hoffa would have been buried down there.

There is so much work to be done outside. We have only scratched the surface.

The gardens have had a light once over to show off the blooming tulips which haven’t been eaten by rabbits this season.

The water on top of the pool cover has been drained once – but is almost full again. There is still a huge pile of leaves in the middle to be removed

The grass has been cut twice – and all the dandelions have been pulled twice. I’m waiting now for the next wave, as I don’t have any of the good stuff – the weed killer now outlawed in Ontario – that keeps my lawn green and full and weedless.

But now it’s raining again. The Tigers game this afternoon has already been cancelled.

My golf clubs are still resting up in the rafters. There’s just no time to play – between the rain, the girls softball season, and the committees Darlene and I sit on.

There’s just no time to have fun.

I guess truly fun is what you make it. But I don’t see anything fun at all about the mounds of laundry waiting to be washed in the piles in the laundry room and waiting to be folded from the piles on my pool table.

Little girls wear a lot of clothes.

I love spring – almost as much as I love summer. But this year we just seem to be in waiting mode. As a master procrastinator, I should appreciate this rainy season procrastination of Mother Nature to get the season going. But frankly I am growing impatient.

Let’s go!

Next week is the May Two-Four long weekend – made longer by a couple of vacation days Darlene suggested I pad on the front and back of it. Her hope is that the weather will clear and I will be able to make up for lost time on the yard and the pool.

So I will patiently wait for next weekend to get here I guess.

I hope it doesn’t rain.

Darlene suggests we go do the shopping together this morning and pick up the girls on the way home. I’m so bored that even grocery shopping sounds like an exciting activity – pushing the cart for Darlene as she asks me “… do we need this?” or “… is this a good deal do you think?”

“Sure”, I will reply – with no real idea if we do or if it is.

Suzy just groaned again. She put her head on my lap to say “I’m so friggin’ bored …”

Me too Suzy. Me too.

Wasted Or Not

2011-04-30T18:00:00.000-04:00

I took my eldest daughter to the emergency room the other night.

Suddenly in the middle of dinner, Alannah started grabbing her foot and howling that it was broken. It came out of nowhere, although she had complained of cramping earlier in the day. When I tried to massage it at the table (a manners faux pas for certain), she screamed even louder.

I told her to wash her hands and face, brush her teeth and go to bed. But before she even started changing her clothes, she started howling even louder.

I grabbed my coat and put on my shoes and said, “Well, Darling, I guess we have to go to the emergency room”. I was certain this would scare the howling out of her. But instead she got up on her good foot, and hopped down the stairs to get her coat.

“Okay”, she said between sobs.

Now you might think me heartless for not believing Alannah, but she’s not above faking an illness to get out of the next day’s school, especially when that next day is the first day back after a four day Easter weekend holiday.

So we hopped in the car and we drove to the hospital. Not a howl or even a whimper from Alannah sitting in the backseat. Instead she was talkative as Tiger’s baseball talk with Pat Caputo was on the radio.

Hmmm.

I parked on the street – because it’s free and I am cheap. Alannah climbed out the car and started to hop to the Emergency Room down the street. I couldn’t see her hopping the whole way – although I was tempted to let her try – So I picked up her seventy pound frame and put her up on my shoulders.

I put her down as we entered the building. The attendant at the door – the guy predisposed to telling everyone to wash their hands before entering – pointed to a wheel chair in the corner that my again hopping daughter could use.

Then he told us to wash our hands.

Inside, the place was packed. The waiting room at this hospital is perpetually packed. So we took our seat and waited the twenty minutes or so to be seen by the triage nurse, then to get admitted at the registration table.

“What’s wrong sweetie?”, asked the Triage Nurse.

“My foot hurts”, said Alannah – simply stating what in her mind was a fact.

“Does this hurt?” asked the Triage Nurse as she squeezed and poked different parts of the foot.

“Ouch”, exclaimed Alannah, as calmly as an “ouch” can be exclaimed.

The Triage Nurse looked at me, and I simply raised an eyebrow in reply.

We found the only two seats left in the waiting room, very close to the cubical the Triage Nurse occupied. And we waited.

And we waited.

Alannah formed my coat into a pillow, and we waited. It was now midnight and Jimmy Kimmel was on the waiting room TV, although the sound too low to hear back in the corner we camped in.

And we waited.

After Jimmy Kimmel was over – and most of the same faces still waiting in the room, the traffic into the room picked up. Alannah woke up and started taking notice.

“Daddy, why is that man wearing a dress?”, she asked of a Shiite Muslim man wearing a turban and robes, and clearly not feeling well.

“Daddy, why is that baby crying so much?”, she asked of a newborn who appeared to me to simply have a bad case of colic.

Then, in came a mother with her seventeen year old daughter. The daughter was distant and clearly stoned and out of sorts as the mother was guiding her like one would guide a child who fell asleep on the couch to their bed. The girl was despondent and nearly incoherent.

From our location we could not help but hear the conversation. “

She took my pills!", exclaimed the Irritated Mother to the Triage Nurse.

The Despondent Daughter simply stared into space. She listed off what seemed like a list of narcotics and blood pressure medicine and sleeping pills.

The Triage Nurse became panicked and started yelling instructions to the already Irritated Mother, and time was wasted as they argued about who to call to bring the pill bottles from home, and why hadn’t the Irritated Mother thought to do so.

After the arguing – the Triage Nurse asked the Despondent Daughter why she had taken all these pills.

“Who cares”, replied the Despondent Daughter. “Because, I guess”.

In a few seconds more – two attendants rushed over with a gurney to rush the girl to an area called Poison Control to have her stomach pumped.

Alannah heard all this. And twice I subtly nudged her to look straight ahead instead of staring at the girl, who looked like the kind of girl that under different circumstances Alannah would have looked up to.

And then we waited some more.

Finally, Alannah’s name was called, and we were ushered into a second waiting room. Alone, I asked her what she thought about the Despondent Daughter’s predicament.

“She was dumb Dad”, she said. “I don’t get it”. Alannah was kind of shaken up by what she witnessed.

So we sat and had a conversation about how sometimes people try to hurt themselves thinking it will make others around them take notice. And that people do take notice, for all the wrong reasons, and that person is then looked upon differently. And that sometimes the person’s plan … backfires. They go to sleep and don’t wake up.

Alannah looked at me with big eyes. And she hugged me and I hugged her back.

A doctor came to see Alannah, looked at her foot and sent her away for x-rays. As we waited, Alannah was still and quiet. After another long wait the doctor returned.

The hands of the clock on the wall read 4:05 AM.

“Honey, there is nothing wrong with your foot”, said the doctor. “You can go home now”.

“Oh, that’s good”, said Alannah and she got up out of the wheel chair and started hopping down the isle.

I thanked the doctor – who reconfirmed to me that she really is fine. It could be growing pains but there is no sign of anything at all on the x-ray. I picked Alannah up and put her back on my shoulders. As were leaving we passed the stall where the Despondent Daughter was recovering having had her stomach pumped. Her Irritated Mother sitting beside her, looking more put out than concerned.

Then we passed Alannah’s x-rays on the light table, so we stopped and I pointed out to her that all her bones looked strong and no lines showing breaks – and nothing was swollen.

“That’s good, right Daddy?”

“That’s very good.”

“Are you mad at me Daddy?”

“No, I am relieved. But I hope you weren’t pretending for attention and to get out of school?”

Alannah didn’t answer, but she hugged my head as she rode on my shoulders.

We got home at 4:30 AM. Alannah went to bed as did I. But when the alarm clock rang at 6:30, I didn’t wake Alannah. Instead only Ashley-Rae got up with me, and we got ready for work and school.

But if you ask me if that was a wasted all-nighter at the hospital that night, I would say no. I think maybe … just maybe … Alannah was supposed to be there with me – to witness the Despondent Daughter and her Irritated Mother, and learn a lesson.

A lesson about how dangerous looking for attention can really be.

Call Me Magoo

2011-04-19T22:25:00.002-04:00

For the last several months, my eyes have been getting worse.

Likely the result of looking at a computer monitor all day.

I did it to myself really. No matter how large a monitor, I have this disposition to set it to the highest resolution so that I can see more information on my screen.

But now I can barely see any of it.

Up until a few years ago, I was always so proud of how perfect my eyesight was. I could read traffic signs on the highway a mile ahead of me.

It came in quite handy.

But then my eyes started getting blurrier and blurrier when things were close up. The prescription glasses I got four years ago don’t even make a dent in the blurriness. I have to get new ones.

I bought a pair of those off-the-shelf reading glasses you can buy at the pharmacy. They work great – when I’m wearing them. But they are not the most stylish things in the world. And when I take them off I get a headache and things are twice as blurry.

I realized they were getting bad a couple of months ago when out for lunch with some of the boys from work. I couldn’t read the menu.

“The light in here is really bad”, I said as I moved the menu closer and farther away from my face, shifting around in my seat.

“You know the menu by heart, just get the usual!”, said one of my work buddies. So I did.

I realized this again the other night driving home through our neighborhood in the dark.

There used to be a stop sign at a three-way stop. I pulled up to the three-way and stopped. As I drove off, the guy in the big pick-up truck behind me (which could have been nearly every occupant in our little neighborhood) honked, and passed me screaming

“There’s no stop sign there anymore, you idiot!”. He was right. I went back the next day in the daylight and the guy who called me an idiot was right.

It wasn’t there anymore.

There have been countless other examples, of reading personal emails, and other bloggers blogs, and assuming the blurry text said this when in fact it said that. And I responded to this and not that.

I think even my favorite sports writer, Pat Caputo has grown tired of my misinterpretations.

I just hate to wear those stupid pharmacy reading glasses.

But today was the kicker.

I was instructed by my lovely wife Darlene to go to the grocery store.

“Make sure you get the lean ground beef, okay? Don’t get medium, don’t get regular … it has to be LEAN!!!” , making her point quite clear.

So as I was making my way through the usual list of items, I found myself at the meats section of our local super-mega grocery star.

I looked up and down the hamburger section and found the lean section at the very end. I looked all of the packages over and they all seemed … pale. Not bright red, but more of a pinkish tinge.

“Hmmm ... they forgot to put the red food color in these”, I said as I picked up the best looking package.

I thought nothing more about it.

When I arrived home I unpacked the bag, took the lean meat out of the package, threw it in a frying pan, and started browning it as per the directions on the can of Manwich I was following. I love sloppy Joes, Darlene hates them, but she was not eating with us.

My lovely wife Darlene, on her way out the door for a meeting, noticed the browning beef.

“This beef is awfully pale?”

“I know, all the packages were like that. I think they left the food coloring out”.

“Are you sure this is beef and not ground turkey?”

“Wha?”

“This doesn’t look like beef to me”, she continued. “Let me see the package”.

“I threw it away already”.

“Where’s the receipt?”

“In the bag over there”, I said as I continued stirring the browning meat.

Darlene read the receipt and started laughing.

“Enjoy your Manwich , Daddy!”.

“Wha?”

“You bought a pound of lean ground PORK!”

“Crap, really?”

She giggled all the way out the door. I dug the package out of the garbage. The only word I could read was “LEAN”. I pulled my reading glasses out of my briefcase and read the smaller print. It said “pork”.

I made it anyways. And some French fries and green beans, and I laid it out before the waiting girls at the dinner table.

They loved it. They loved the lean pork sloppy Joes, and they had seconds. My girls never have seconds. When those were gone they were upset there weren’t any more. I ate mine, and you know what, that Manwich even works great with ground pork.

But still, my failing eyeballs did it to me again.

Or is it my eyes? Maybe it’s my brain? Maybe it’s just me getting old? Maybe all my synopses aren’t firing on all cylinders.

Because this morning I arrived at the office wearing my sneakers.

Growing older really stinks.

Tale of the Left Handed Boxer Shorts

2011-04-07T22:47:00.001-04:00

The other day I received a phone call as I was packing up to come home from the office.

It was my lovely wife Darlene, and she had a list of things for me to pick up for her at the grocery store.

One of the items was a bottle of non-acetone nail polish remover.

Now, after ten years of holy matrimony, I am immune to embarrassment when picking up wifely products at the store.

But sometimes I do have go back a second time correct the mistakes I made the first time.

In the store, I found the non-acetone nail polish remover all by myself. I was proud of that. But I had no idea which one my lovely wife required – the kind that comes in a bottle and you pour out – or the kind that comes in a little jar with some type of sponge inside so you dip your nails in.

Since I had seen – and smelled – her dipping her finger in just such a jar – I figured that must be the one. So I picked up the jar and added it to my collection of other wifely products – and continued on my appointed rounds.

At the house, I put the bag down on the table, and proceeded to make a drink. My lovely wife poured through the bag, mentally grading my accuracy in obeying her shopping directions.

“Oh, you got the jar of nail polish remover, not the bottle? I asked you for the bottle, I already have a jar.”

I pointed at the jar “its non-acetone, just like you asked for”, and I showed her my list. “If you already have the jar, then why did I have to buy more?” I asked,

That stuff costs four bucks you know.

“My jar is empty, I wanted a bottle to pour in the jar”, Darlene replied.

“Well, I saved you a step”.

“You never listen when I tell you things?” replied my lovely wife. As true as it was, I didn’t need to hear it again.

“Well, listen my dear”, I said, thinking quick on my feet and stirring my vodka and lemonade. "For ten years now you have been buying me the wrong boxer shorts. But do I complain? Not a word. I say thank you because I appreciate you doing that for me”.

“The wrong boxers, what the hell are you talking about?” her eyes opened wide and her head slightly tilted – looking at me.

“Well, I am right handed, right?”

“Yes, of course you are .,. but what’s that …”

“Well you keep buying me left handed boxer shorts!” I said – in my best straight faced look of being hard done by.

“Left handed boxer shorts … what are you talking about?”

“You always get the ones on sale … don’t you … or in some special bin of some sort, right?”

“Well, yes” replied my puzzled wife, “But how can boxer shorts be left handed?”

“Darlene, please … think about how they are constructed …”

“Huh? What the …”

“The flap … the flap on the front … you know … how the materials lays over top of each other”

“Okay …?”

"Well, it overlaps one way for right handed people and the other way for left people. You know … as you … well ,,, gain access …”, I continued.

“C’mon … really?”

“Imagine if you … really have to go …. and every second counts …. you know what I mean?”, I pointed out as I pantomimed my imaginary predicament.

“Get out … oh my God … I never knew that!” she gasped.

“Darlene, you’re an Emergency Room Nurse”, I continued even further – still straight faced – taking a sip at the points where my face might give my farce away. “Didn’t you ever have to assist a patient … like with a bedpan?”.

“No, I was an emergency room nurse, I just cut the damned things off!”, she answered. “How do you tell?”

“There’s an L or an R on the package for God’s sake!”.

My lovely wife spun in her chair to her laptop – “I have to ask everybody on Facebook about this!” – and she reached for the keyboard.

Now, there is nothing that would have made my prank more rewarding that to actually have seen her post go out on Facebook. Something like “Did you all know that boxer shorts are made for left handers and right handers?”

I would have pressed the “Like” link on that status update. But instead – I intervened and asked …

“Are you sure you want everyone to know you didn’t know that?”

I felt my face slipping into a laugh – so I put my drink up to my mouth for a big swig – but I couldn’t hold it – and I did a spit-take like the comedians on TV – all over the kitchen sink.

“Oh, you’re so full of …”, and my lovely wife said a bad word.

I was almost on the floor laughing at this point, my lovely wife looking at me in disbelief that she fell for such nonsense.

“We will never speak of this again”, I promised as I wiped the lemonade out of my mustache and beard.

“Oh, I am sure this will turn into a headstuffing story”, replied my lovely wife Darlene.

“I would never do such a thing”, I replied.

I was wrong. I would.

But in the end, my prank really got me nowhere.

I’ll likely be back in the store buying mini-pads before the week end. And during that endeavor, I am certain to ask the following:

“Does she want the ones with wings or without wings?”

My Open Letter To Tiger Woods

2011-04-04T23:22:00.001-04:00

It’s Masters Week again – and all eyes are on the happenings at Augusta National Golf Course.

I love this weekend – if I could, I would hang little yellow flags and green jackets on the trees and bushes in my front yard.

But this year, I feel I just have to write an open letter to my favorite golfer – Mr. Tiger Woods.

Dear Mr. Woods,

I say this with all the sincerity I can muster.

It’s very hard to watch you play this way. The way you’re playing at this time.

It’s like watching somebody that looks like you. Red shirt and black pants and Nike cap. But it’s not the Tiger Woods that changed the way golf is played or the way golf is watched.

I’m sure you’ve had your fill of advice from know it all fans, and perhaps you may simply write me off as another. I hope not.

But if I may, please don’t approach this weekend thinking that you have something to live up to. Instead, approach this weekend again as the next opportunity to show everyone how great you still are. Expect every drive to be longer than anybody else. Expect every time you find yourself in the trees that there will be another occasion to show off how incredible you are at turning trouble into opportunity.

Every amazing shot I ever watched you hit – you hit because you knew that you were going to hit it.

You need to know that again. You need to believe in yourself again.

Masters Win 2005

Perhaps you could gain some inspiration from watching the highlight reels of your own play. Highlight reels of your first Masters win, your first British Open win at St. Andrews, your US Open win at Pebble Beach. And while you watch yourself – pretend you are not that guy on the screen. Imagine you’re a fan – a guy like me – watching a guy like you – who after watching you – has to grab his golf clubs and head to the range to try to hit like you.

Then pretend to be you.

Because I know you’re still in there Tiger.

Put everybody else out of your mind. Everyone but your Caddy.

Perhaps you could start scoring your rounds differently. Instead of counting over / unders – count high fives, hand slaps, knuckle punches and fist pumps.

Play for fun again. Play to show off again. Play for the love of playing again.

You do not owe golf anything. You have paid your dues to golf like few others ever have. And golf owes nothing to you – as you have reaped rewards from golf the greatest from years gone by cannot imagine.

Your slate with golf is clean. Your debt to fans is paid and up to date.

You don’t owe anybody a damned thing. And nobody owes you.

But you owe yourself the chance to fulfill your mission – perhaps it is to hold the most Majors in a career. But I think your personal mission is to beat everybody you play against – every time you play against them. Simple and plain.

And unyielding.

Just do it.

Do it for the passion you had as a kid. Be that kid again. Find that kid again inside you.

I know I can’t imagine what you have been through this past 18 months. I can’t fathom it one iota – whatever an iota is.

You’re too damn good to simply be content to be a middle of the pack player. The guy who makes the cut to play the weekend only to finish tied for 19th. But unless you somehow change your mindset – the Sunday announcers will reduce every great shot you hit in the future to be “glimpses of the Tiger Woods of old”.

If that passion is lacking, if golf isn’t fun anymore, if that kid inside you really did grow up and is now lost to you well, that’s a different story.

If you find that you cannot put all that has happened behind you soon and move on – and get your head back to the level of focus you had before – get your intensity back to the level that only you could find – well, I would like to offer the suggestion that … well …

Then Tiger, it pains me deeply to say – it’s time to hang it up.

With all due sincerity, I’ll be rooting for you Tiger. Me and a gazillion other golf fans just like me.

We’re still out here too.

Kicking Your Heels Up Gets You Cut

2011-04-02T13:07:00.000-04:00

When I was a younger man, I played a lot of softball.

Fast pitch, slow pitch, it didn’t matter really. I just loved to play ball. I played up until I got married and had kids ten years ago.

One team I played for was a fast pitch team that played in London Ontario’s old PUC premier “Blue” League. A couple of friends of mine put the team together, and asked me to come try out.

Another friend of mine got wind of the tryouts – and asked if he could tryout too. A phone call later, and my friend was also invited to be on the list of recruits.

I wasn’t too worried about the tryouts. I had a lot of confidence in my fielding – infield, outfield, hitting, base running - I wasn’t too worried.

At the tryouts, we lined up for some simple drills after an opening talk about how the team would be run and what kind of schedule and commitments we would be asked to be available for.

I lined up at short stop – and my invited friend lined up at second. Some ground balls were hit to us. Some pop flies over the infield, and I handled all hit to me pretty cleanly.

The coach hitting the ball miss-hit a pop fly to my invited friend at second – resulting in a soft line drive slightly above his head. The kind you merely reach up and catch as if playing catch in warm-ups.

But my friend didn’t simply reach up and catch the ball.

No.

Instead, the friend I had asked to be invited did this silly kind of jump in the air and caught the ball in front of his chest. While in the air, he kicked up both his heels so they hit the back of his bum.

And he landed with the ball.

Everyone stopped – and stared at my invited friend.

“What the &$%@# was that?”, shouted the coach holding the bat at home plate.

Ball coaches swear … a lot.

“What?”, said my invited friend.

“That little girlie jump”, said the coach.

“What?”, repeated my invited friend.

“Are you playing ball or trying out for the $@*&# lead in Swan Lake?”, yelled the coach.

“What?”, my invited friend repeated yet again.

The matter seemingly exhausted – the coach flipped the ball in the air and hit a shot to first base.

After that drill, we came off the field and grabbed a bat to take some swings.

The coach was standing over to the side with a couple of veteran guys from the team, one of them my buddy who actually invited me to try out. My buddy looked over at me, and waved me over into the conversation.

I walked over and joined the group.

“What the %$&@# was that little ballerina move your buddy made over there at second?”, the coach asked me.

“Uh … yeah … I saw that. I forgot he used to do that a lot.”, I said. I had no idea how to defend my invited friend.

“Maybe if we told him not to do that anymore?”, offered my buddy.

“You tell him”, the coach said to me.

“Okay”, I said. I looked over to my invited friend who was taking practice swings with the bat. His back was arched way back and the bat was swung from his ankles to over his shoulder – as though he was practicing home run swings.

“Oh #%#@, he’s practicing home runs over there”, mumbled the coach as I tried to get my invited friends attention to join our conversation. He was intentionally ignoring us, hoping his grand slam swing would change the coach’s minds.

“Send him home”, said the coach. And he walked away.

I walked over to my invited friend, with my buddy behind me.

“I gotta talk to you”, I said to my invited friend.

“Wassup?”, he saw my buddy there with me.

“Coach wanted me to ask you if you wouldn’t do that jumping kick thing anymore …”, I started.

“What’s the big deal, I always played that way?”.

“Then he saw you over here swinging a bat …”, I continued.

“Oh yeah? What’d he think?”

“He wants us to tell you to go home”, said my buddy.

“Huh?”, said my invited friend.

“You’re cut”, I said simply.

“I am? I’m an all star? I played on the travelling team at home?”, said my friend, loud enough to be sure the Coach heard him.

“It’s that jump thing, man. It did you in. I forgot you did that”, I said. He and I had talked about this a few seasons before, on a different team, where he informed me that was his ... style. He didn't change then. He wasn't about to change now.

My invited friend argued with us for a couple more minutes. The coach finally came over and said “You’re cut!”, turned around and went back pitching to other guys still trying out.

My invited friend picked up his bag, a hockey back, and stuck his glove and his bat inside, and turned to walk away. He looked back at me …

“Aren’t ya coming?”, asked my invited friend.

“I’m not cut yet”, I replied. “And I didn’t do that silly kick thing in the air”.

He turned to walk to his car … mumbling things under his breath as he left.

“I thought you said he was pretty good?”, said my buddy.

“He’s not bad. I guess I forgot that jumping kick thing”, I replied.

I made that team. And we had a great year. On the first of July we played under the fireworks at Labatt’s park, where the then Double A London Tigers played home games. It was really a great experience.

Except for that first day of tryouts.

I remembered this the other day, at the office, when one of our new developers was trying too hard to show me how good he was – or thought he was. And all I could think of was that guy – the friend I invited to try out for the London Blues division fast pitch team. The guy I had to tell that he was cut.

I guess the moral to the story is that – if you’re good – and you know you’re good – don’t try so hard.

If you’re good, people will see it. You don’t have to show boat it.

But I do still feel bad about that day. My invited friend never did talk to me again.

Our Weekend in Heaven

2011-03-26T12:36:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine posted a video on facebook yesterday.

I saw it and watched it this morning with my cup of coffee.

It was a country music song called “If heaven weren’t so far away”. In it – the singer talks about how he would pack up his family for a day and go visit all the people he cared about that passed away.

What a powerful thought, eh…?

If you could just pile up the family in a car and go visit heaven?

Needless to say, we all have our list of people we would go see.

Imagine … contrary to John Lennon’s song … that heaven was within driving distance.

Who would you go visit?

I would introduce my lovely wife Darlene and my two little girls to my Dad. We would pick up my Mom in Pensacola along the way.

We would find Dad sitting in the cockpit of his sail boat – likely a 30 foot Coronado or a C&C. Dad would be reading a book by Neville Shute as we approached, and he would sit the book down and come out onto the dock to greet us with hugs. And I would introduce him to my family. We would tell him about all that has happened to us since he passed – my Mom sitting by his side and hugging him with all she has to hug with.

He would tell us that it was too bad we just missed my Brother Paul and his family – who just left for the drive back to Baton Rouge.

We would probably go to a ball diamond. And have a little infield practice. Dad would teach the girls to charge a ground ball to take it on the short hop, to step through a throw. And he would spend hours with them working on their batting stances while Mom (who is now eighty) would lob pitches to them from the mound. This activity would end when Dad finally had both girls consistently hitting line drives over the short stop and second basemen.

We would return back to the boat, where Dad and I and Darlene would get out the sails and set the riggings. We would cast off the dock and set sail across the waters of heaven to the spot on a remote beach where my Uncle Fred and Aunt Sheila had set up a campsite – my grandfather Papa would be sitting on a lawn chair whittling and enjoying a small plug of chewing tobacco.

And I would re-introduce my family to Papa and ask Uncle Fred and Aunt Sheila if they remembered Alannah and Ashley-Rae.

And Papa would regale us all with his stories of being a young man and his adventures in the 1920s working in Detroit.

And suddenly, my Grandmother would appear out of a tent from a nap – and I would run to her and hug and ask her if she knew who I was?

“Why yes” , she would say with a faint Irish lilt in her voice, “you’re little Freddy! I haven’t seen you since you were nine years old”.

And we would sit there around the camp fire that Uncle Fred kept just at the perfect size – late into the night until the morning came. And we would never feel sleepy.

What a wonderful weekend it would be, sitting and talking and remembering. Laughing and joking. And Papa would be sitting over to the side with Alannah and Ashley-Rae explaining to them how important honesty and integrity are and to be the best person you can be.

I would ask so many questions that I have held to myself that I would have asked my Dad. Questions about how to better myself professionally, about what we should really be doing with our finances, about all of those things.

And everytime I would light a cigarette – my Dad would join me – and explain to me how stupid smoking is while I am still alive. He might even go so far as to say that being able to smoke again is the best part about heaven. I don’t know.

“Keep smoking over there, it’ll kill yer yet”, would holler my Grandmother.

“I’m already dead Ma”, would say my Dad.

“But Freddy isn’t”, she would reply.

Dad would look at me as if to say, “she’s right ya know, this stuff will kill you. Look at me”

And being the smart ass I am – I would reply “you like fine to me Dad!”. And I would light another.

“Stupid asses”, my Uncle Fred would say.

The next morning we would all climb on Dad’s boat to sail back to his dock where we had parked the car. Along the way, my Mom would tell my Dad about the lovely July night in 1991 when we took Dad’s ashes to a beautiful point on Lake Huron and spread his ashes around the light tower by the water’s edge and the amazing outside steak and lobster benefit barbecue we came across in a small town church yard as we were leaving.

How perfect that was.

“I know”, would say Dad. “I was with you”.

Imagine how much easier our lives would be to carry on after the loss of someone so dear to us left us behind for the wondrous life in heaven that would follow.

To know they are in fact okay. To let them know that we are okay.

To know what is in store for us after this life is truly worth the effort of living this life to the best of our abilities; to re-instill that dedication to try harder.

To know that they are not gone.

But in the end, as the song describes, the hardest part would be watching those you love in the rear view mirror waving so hard as you drive away.

But you would know that you would be back … someday … somehow.

And next weekend we would make plans to go and visit Darlene’s Grandparents.

Tsunami of Inevitable Change

2011-03-11T23:45:00.000-05:00

I don’t think it’s any secret that I am a fan of how the Internet connects us all around the world.

The power of what we once called the World Wide Web has been made even more evident to me over the last few weeks.

Tonight I have spent a great deal of time watching the horrible tragedy afflicted on Japan from the Richter scaled 8.9 earthquake and the ensuing tsunami that engulfed their northeast coastline. I watched it on the Internet.

Then it spread across the Pacific Ocean and hit the western coast of the United States and Canada, albeit much weaker.

And it dawned on me …

Over the recent months we have watched as the peoples of North Africa, Egypt, and then Libya found their countries entrenched in the “I’m madder than hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore” level of protests that has or will toppled those governments.

It spread like a tsunami across the Middle East – with little sign of slowing. Protests today were held in Saudi Arabia.

A tsunami ensuing after an earthquake whose epicenter is global and webbed together by Facebook and Twitter and other social networking sites.

I am not commenting at all on what they were protesting for. Nor what they hope to accomplish. That is not where my wonderment lies.

Basically, they want change.

Instead I am in awe of how merely being connected evolves to a collective force that can topple those governments that refused to change.

Governments simply washed away in a violent flood of demand.

It’s incredible.

All of the people on Earth are going through this internet induced earthquake together. Those that enjoy freedoms that others do not in different locations around the globe create a pressure on the less fortunate to stand up for their newly realized empowerment to fight for their collective rights.

Pressure, like the tectonic plates of the world causing each other to shift – at their fault lines - and shake the entire world as they move. And impact the other places with the repercussions.

And new faults are often created in the process.

Repercussions like drastically rising oil prices. Aftershocks from those repercussions like skyrocketing food and produce prices. The potential of crumbling economies should the tremors shake be too fierce or last too long.

This global political earthquake could shake for decades, resulting in explosive wars and shifts in alliances and trading partners, and changes in political power and gross national products – until finally a new balance is found – one that global collective can all be content with – if we survive the turmoil.

The shift in the political plates that hold our world together are now shifting – as the forces that pull the world wide web pressure our world to change shape.

But change is scary.

Lands where people have lived content with their freedoms and their higher standards of economy – well – they may not want change. That regional collective mindset that change is bad is also powerful – although often more apathetic than revolutionary.

Because we all know things change.

But no one knows what the result will be.

If the laws of physics are an accurate model – things in the end will equal out. Massive shifts will finally result – someday – in things being more equal – global equality.

Global freedom.

Global democracy.

It sounds incredibly idealistic, don’t you think? Almost sickeningly so.

But the ideal won’t be reached for generations. It takes generations for mindsets to change. It will take generations for old bigotries to fade away, for old hatreds to cease, for old loyalties to reshape and re-establish.

And the ride will be hell on earth.

It will be one long continuous earthquake, with a never ending tsunami of demanded change reaching all corners of the planet as each fights for new equalities while or to hold on tight to the liberties and freedoms they currently cherish.

I am not looking forward to it.

But it just seems to be inevitable.

Some of you will shout for joy. Others of you will scream in terror.

I’m really not looking forward to this.

As regional alliances fracture under the repercussions of change – like a loving married couple fighting over money problems – the people of those populations will suffer. Other regions will benefit as their standard of living rises – the wave of the tsunami is born.

But every year computers get faster and faster – and the ties that rope together our world wide web grows stronger and stronger as new ways to be connected evolve – global collaboration evolves with it – only not everyone will be collaborating together.

But will this make change come even faster?
Scary indeed, this brave new world – predicted decades before to happen in 1984 - by the famous science fiction futurist George Orwell. But Orwell wasn’t quite right. 1984 was when the desktop computers first made inroads to the global population – but the Internet did not become globally accessible until a decade later.

And the decade after that – as we figured out ways to use these personal devices connected by our World Wide Web – here we sit. Inching closer to Orwell’s result of one collective mind.

You can almost feel the ground shaking.

I’m definitely not looking forward to this.

It will not end before I pass away, nor before my children or their children, or even their children.

But I don’t think the world will ever be the same. For better or for worse.

And I don’t think we can escape to higher ground.

Movie Night

2011-03-08T23:28:00.002-05:00

Last Friday was movie night at my little girl’s elementary school.

My lovely wife Darlene was busy with prior commitments, so I decided to take my daughters myself.

I had taken a half days vacation so that Darlene and I could attend a memorial service for a friend. Afterwards we sped around town trying to take care of some errands before the girls got home from school.

We arrived at the house when the school bus did. And we were greeted by two little girls excited for Movie Night.

“Daddy, Mommy can’t go!” whined my youngest.

“I know”

“Will you take us Daddy?”

“What time does it start?”

“Mom said 5:45”, said my eldest. “That’s a quarter to six”.

“Really? That early?”, and I questioned it no more.

At 5:43 we piled into the jeep. We had blankets and chairs and a pillow or two.

At 5:45 we pulled into the school parking lot. The lot was sparsely filled with the odd minivan and pickup truck.

“Movie Night’s not very popular, is it?” I asked the now hyper girls in the back seats.

“Everybody’s going to be there Dad, c’mon”, said my youngest.

“What movie is it?” Why I hadn’t asked this before now ran around in the back of my mind. “What if this is a Hannah Montana or Justin Bieber movie? Oh dear God what if it’s Hannah Montana or Justin Bieber! Two hours of a gym full of kids screaming for the Bieb!”

“Karate Kid”, answered my eldest.

“Oh, I’ve seen that. It’s got the guy who owned Arnold’s on Happy Days”.

“Happy Days? No Daddy this one is new”.

“Who’s in it?”

“Jackie Chan”, said my youngest.

“Cool, let’s go”.

I like Jackie Chan.

We hauled all of our stuff in the side entrance to the school; a door marked “Movie Theatre Entrance”. A teacher was waiting to open it for us as we approached.

She looked puzzled at our arrival.

The hallway to the gym was full of screaming seventh graders – each manning a stand selling cookies and cakes from the bake sale – bottles of water – candies and popcorn. A fundraiser to raise money for their graduation next year.

The first stand was the admissions booth. The admission was two dollars each and we had to get our hand stamped.

“You’re our first customers" said the spectacled twelve years old, and I proceeded to herd my two little girls and our haul of chairs and blankets and pillows down the hallway lined with goodies.

Both girls had dipped into their piggy banks – and they quickly abandoned me to spend their not-so-hard-earned cash on junk.

When I reached the gym at the end of the hallway – it was empty. A laptop computer sat poised in the front center of the gym floor by the stage – hooked up to the PA system and a projector – and blaring loud obnoxious music that made Led Zeppelin sound like elevator music.

Come to think of it, I have heard Led Zeppelin on elevators. How times have changed.

I stood looking at that empty gymnasium, wondering if I should go in and set up my chair, alone like an iceberg that floated into warm waters.

I walked to where the front row would be, and set up my chair. And I sat down. My eldest came over to ask if she could help her friend run the bake sale table. My youngest came over to ask if she could play with her friends.

So I sat there alone in that gym full of bad dance club noise – and I waited.

You see, the movie didn’t start until 7:00 pm.

I sat there and I remembered how I loved the school gym when I was in school. And I wished I had a basketball or a soccer ball to goof around with. But I was too shy to ask. After about fifteen minutes – a tall gym teacher came over to see why I was sitting in an empty gym full of bad dance club noise all alone.

“We’re early”, I smiled and said.

But my ears were burning red. I was a bit embarrassed. And this forty eight year old systems engineer did not know what to do.

So I sat there and waited some more.

Finally, an hour later, other parents started to arrive. They were each hauling chairs and blankets and pillows and such. I smiled as they came in. But they did not pull up a chair beside me. They sat behind me?

I didn’t recognize any of them. But I smiled and nodded. And I watched them all set up their gym floor camps behind me. At the same time, the littler kids started running up and jumping onto the stage in front of me, practicing their jumps into the safety cushions you normally find in a gymnasium.

They were having a ball.

Unfortunately I was not. I could feel the red burn on the tops of my ears.

When it was announced that the movie was about to start – in ran both of my little girls – separately – with their own friends – and each with plates full of cookies and cakes and brownies and god-knows-what-else. But they didn’t come over to me with their plates. They sat their plates down where their friends were sitting. Sitting with their plates full of cookies and cakes and brownies and what nots.

I looked around at the other parents. They all seemed to be okay with this sweets indulgence. So I sat there and smiled at my daughters. They each approached me, only to grab their blankets and pillows and return to their friends.

So I sat there alone, and watched the Karate Kid, with Jackie Chan.

It wasn’t really all that good after all.