My Journey Through Unemployment

Waiting for Change?

2012-06-28T13:00:00.000-04:00

The following is a guest blog from Dr. Christina McCale, an author, a doctor and perhaps most of all... a person.

-- Sir Bacon

There are many moments that are etched in the memories of most adults.

Graduation.

Birth of a child.

Your wedding day.

Buying your first house.

But unfortunately for more than 12 million Americans, some of whom read this blog and share their stories here, another day that remains etched in our minds is the day our professional lives were upended. The day that part of our very identities were taken from us.

It was the day that our jobs were taken from us.

And unfortunately, for some 5.4 million of those, one of the largest “segments” of the unemployed population are those who have been living the nightmare of unemployment for more than 6 months.

My own personal descent into the living hell called unemployment started in the Spring of 2009 when I was passed over for not one but three different professorial jobs; jobs that I had spent nearly a decade networking to get, preparing for, and culminating volumes of good teaching evaluations, article publications, text book involvement, and conference presentations. I was recognized as one of the most published researchers in my field. I was recruited to launch a national journal.

But in the end, none of that mattered.

The “why” I didn’t get any of the positions I had so long networked for, and ended up unemployment is less important than the actual fact of the matter: I was now unemployed. And despite any number of attempts to “pull myself up by my bootstraps” I failed.

I wouldn’t fit the model any news organization would report as a “typical” unemployed American. For good and bad, I have an above average education: I have a bachelors and masters from a well-known, private Pacific Northwest university; I had done graduate studies at a top tier state school; and I held a doctorate in a highly desirable profession that I had specifically gone back to school to get a doctorate at the urging of several department chairs. These hiring managers had indicated that my talent for teaching, and my lengthy corporate marketing experience would make me a shoe-in to teach almost anywhere I chose.

All those facts added up to not an inordinate amount of student loan debt, but in return, seemingly having the credentials to join one of our most revered professions: that of professor, academic, teacher.

But then the economy cratered.

Then the housing crisis exploded.

And then the financial markets dissolved into chaos.

State and local governments’ budgets came under fire, laying off previously unimaginable positions that had always been considered sacrosanct: police officers, firemen, and teachers. Professorial openings went unfilled; retirement eligible employees hung on by their fingernails, delaying retirement in order to allow the markets, and ultimately their retirement funds, time to bounce back. When professors did retire, they were not replaced.

And then things got really bad.

In the Fall of 2011, l put my decade’s worth of training to work, and began documenting the plight of the unemployed, pulling together the data, media observations, and interviews to profile the one in two Americans who were now “the new poor:” those who had fallen quickly and harshly into the state of poverty despite previous training, education or work history.

But as I wrote, I found my own story creeping into the narrative because too many people I tried to interview could not bring themselves to bare their souls, their hurts or their “failings” for the book.

This approach isn’t new: Authors like Barbara Ehrenreich (Nickel and Dimed, Bait and Switch), Jonathan Kozol, author of Shame of the Nation, Eric Schlosser of Fast Food Nation, and even documentarian Morgan Spurlock of Supersize Me. have long documented situations, to include their own role and impressions of the situation, which indicate a larger, potentially systemic issue at hand.

I was reminded of the stories from our grandparents and the Great Recession that we all probably grew up on. As so in light of these memories, I put myself to work, writing the book “Waiting for Change: Impacts on life, family, work and the new 99% reality.” This book, then, centers on five key areas of the human experience – housing, sustenance, employment, children, and our social support systems -- exploring how these areas of one’s life can be so drastically impacted – irrevocably altered – by job loss and the continuing drag of the Great Recession we’ve all experienced in a myriad of different ways.

I’d love to hear how closely these stories ring true for all of you.

Over the course of a decade, Dr. Christina McCale has been a marketing professor at a variety of public and private universities, the author of research studies, proceedings, conference presentations and books, including Waiting For Change, which discusses the economic realities the 99% experience during the Great Recession also found at her blog http://www.waitingforchange.us/. Dr. McCale continues to write research and write while actively looking to return to her love of teaching the classroom or virtual environment with college students.

2012-03-07T15:56:00.004-05:00

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Thanks for reading.

Swift And Decisive

2012-01-26T12:13:00.000-05:00

The following is a guest blog from Lillian Swift, a writer from Northern Arizona University.

-- Sir Bacon

Unemployment Benefits continue to be major issue in 2012

So many different families and individuals across the United States have been stricken with the perils of unemployment over the past few years. Aside from just the bottom line of losing money that provides, families have also been stricken with the perils of losing their benefits. This is when many turn to unemployment benefits to help get them through the tough times. With people facing long stretches of unemployment, many individuals have been forced to take a fight to the courts to battle for their unemployment benefits.

Capitol Hill will soon be facing a decision regarding a proposed extension of unemployment benefits. An alteration would certainly be welcome to the many who struggle looking for a new position during these tough economic times. However, until the people in Washington can make moves on the item, there will continue to be more battles over unemployment benefits leaking into the court room.

Just recently, an Illinois woman who was once fired for working through her lunch break was forced to go into a court battle with her former company over unemployment benefits. Sharon Smiley had worked for a realty company and they had decided to challenge her benefits after letting her go from her position. She was awarded the win in a court battle over her former company who challenged those benefits. Although she won the battle and is now employed full time elsewhere, there are many others out there who haven’t experienced the same fortunes.

In Florida, this has become a major topic of conversation while politicians out of Tallahassee continue to propose cuts and more requirements to unemployment benefits, as well as the state’s Medicaid program. Recent rallies in Central Florida brought together citizens to help build awareness of the potential pitfalls that many unemployed Floridians could face. Their efforts were backed by representatives from Orlando Abogado practices, local fireman chairs and others from local employment agencies.

As a recent college graduate, the job market has been tough on me as well as my peers. Many have been forced to settle for part time positions in the meantime and some haven’t even been lucky enough find any work. For myself, I am currently taking on the unknown waters of looking for full-time employment. Although daunting, I try and keep a positive mood going into every application and search. Even with a positive mindset for many recent graduates, it can be hard to maintain when things don’t go your way. Unemployment benefits to me are often a necessity. I’ve seen family members who’ve worked their entire life get them out of necessity and not out of a lack of hard work at all.

Young adults who’ve lost their positions have also faced the tough decision of whether to apply for employment benefits. Of course, this is a tough choice for many of those who have been laid off or let go from their jobs. For people who’ve been working for years, this decision can be highly unwelcomed.

On one hand, many longtime workers need to provide, possibly not only for themselves, but for a family or others. This certainly can seem like an easy decision, but some just don’t have the mindset to use these benefits, as they’ve been raised to believe that every dollar must be earned. This decision is different for the younger adults who may have been let go, as some of their choices may be based on perception and reputation.

My father was faced with an interesting quandary in the past few years when let go for the second time within three years. On one hand, he had been in the military for 20 years, retired and worked for over 15 years following that, so he knew nothing different. He took the unemployment benefits, which helped him out for a few months in between jobs, something he is thankful for as he gets settled into a new sales job right now. The point is that, although taking on unemployment benefits remains a tough choice for some, for most it might be a necessity.

The win for the Chicago woman who was fired for working through her lunch is a major stepping stone for those involved with the importance of unemployment benefits. There have been few times in history when unemployment has been affected as it has in the past few years here in the United States. Unemployment benefits have been and will continue to be an important factor in helping to support the citizens of the country as they look to get back on their feet during tough times.

Impending action from Washington to extend unemployment benefits nationally could be viewed as both a gift and a curse, but it’s important to remember that help like that cannot be replicated elsewhere. In most cases, extending unemployment benefits would certainly do much more good than harm for the people of the United States.

Lillian Swift is an aspiring writer who specializes in writing about community issues.

If you would like to write a guest blog, please contact me at sirbacon123@yahoo.com.

For My Journey Through Unemployment:

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Turning The Page: A New Journey

2010-08-10T13:15:00.000-04:00

I was dreamin' when I wrote this
Forgive me if it goes astray

-- Prince, 1999

I’ve been writing A blog since the beginning of the year.

I’ve been waiting to write THIS blog for nearly 23 months.

I could wax poetic and build up the drama for the next 900 words, but instead let me cut to the chase:

MY JOURNEY THROUGH UNEMPLOYMENT IS OVER.

I have been offered a job and gladly accepted it.

I will begin working again on Monday.

And I can’t wait.

I’ve been waiting for something to happen

For a week or a month or a year

-- Jackson Browne, Lives in the Balance

For nearly two years, I have been part of a growing group that is just looking for a chance.

A group of people who have been dealt a bad hand through no fault of their own.

A group of people who just want to start life all over again.

A group of people who have been kind enough to embrace me as they connect with my story.

Connect with my story from across my street and across the globe.

I am so excited and so humbled to be one of the lucky ones.

One of the lucky ones being given an opportunity to move on.

Moving on to rebuild something that was destroyed.

And I am going to make the most of it.

It takes a leap of faith to get things going

It takes a leap of faith you gotta show some guts

It takes a leap of faith to get things going

In your heart you must trust

-- Bruce Springsteen, Leap of Faith

As part of this new job, I will be moving away from my family.

For now.

Several thousand miles away.

And that part of it hasn’t really hit me.

Yet.

But it will.

And when it does, that will be another chapter in my life’s journey.

Who knows, maybe even another blog.

We broke the news to the kids last week.

My oldest daughter cried first, then my son.

Then my six-year old when she saw her two siblings cry.

But by the end of the conversation, and several since, they are now as excited as I am.

They are totally on board with where life is taking me.

Taking us.

In the last week, they have seen their father smile.

A lot.

They have seen optimism replace pessimism.

They have seen hope replace fear.

Take care of all your memories

For you can not relive them

-- Bob Dylan, Nothing Was Delivered

I will look back on this time I have spent at home as the greatest time of my life.

I love working and I will love returning to work.

But to be a stay-at-home dad for as long as I was, is the job that I will be most proud of.

Forever.

I don’t know if I was cut out to be a parent, but somehow I have figured out how to make it work.

From road trips to school functions to just watching my kids watch TV, there will never be a time where I will regret my time at home.

The times I shared with my family will forever be etched in my heart and in my head.

And in my blog.

This blog has given me the opportunity to relive the experiences and share them with you.

And with me.

The field trip to the zoo.

The little league baseball season.

The spelling bee.

My mother’s bipolar episode.

Good days. Bad days.

Good moments. Bad moments.

With every memory and every moment in time, I always had a place to be me.

I will cherish that forever.

When the day is long and the night,

the night is yours alone,

When you're sure you've had enough of this life,

well hang on

-- REM, Everybody Hurts

This blog has given me a way to connect with every possible emotion in the food chain.

Anger to depression.

Freedom to complete satisfaction.

I have spent countless hours sitting at the computer, late into the PM and many times early into the AM.

Sitting all alone in a dimly lit room, connecting with my emotions, while connecting with you.

No matter what I was feeling when I sat down in the chair, writing seemed to cure any aches and any pains.

Sadness is a waste of energy.

Bitterness is a waste of time.

But those are real feelings.

What happened to me didn’t need to happen.

What happened to me wasn’t fair.

What happened to me wasn’t right.

But what has happened to MILLIONS of people in this great country is far worse than anything I ever had to deal with.

I never lost sight of that.

And never will.

Since being told nearly two years ago that my “services were no longer needed”, I have seen sides of me that I didn’t know existed.

The side that learned how to love like I’ve never loved before.

The side that learned how to share like I’ve never shared before.

The side that learned how to hurt like I’ve never hurt before.

The side that used to trust, but couldn’t trust anymore.

The side that used to believe, but couldn’t believe anymore.

The side that accepted all of those sides and still found a way to get up in the morning.

And live that day.

And look forward to the next.

I found out who I am.

And I really like him.

Don't give up, 'cause you have friends

Don't give up, You're not the only one

Don't give up, No reason to be ashamed

Don't give up, You still have us

Don't give up now, We're proud of who you are

Don't give up, You know it's never been easy

Don't give up, 'cause I believe there's the a place

There's a place where we belong

-- Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush, Don’t Give Up

Giving up has never been an option for me.

It has never been a consideration.

But it has been a reality.

I didn’t give up right away.

And thankfully, I didn’t give up for very long.

We have always been told that hard work wins.

And I worked hard.

VERY hard.

For 25 years.

And all of a sudden because my company was sold and the new company wants to do less with less, I was being punished.

Math major, I am not, but that didn’t add up to me.

It also doesn’t make sense to the so many good, honest, hard-working people who are still being put through this miserable exercise.

The stories you have shared with me have broken my heart and rebuilt my faith at the same time.

So many of you have lost your job, lost your insurance, lost your family, lost your house.

Lost your life, as it was.

I wish I could say that keeping the faith will pay off.

And good things always happen to good people.

And any other cliche from page 94 of the cliche handbook.

But the bottom line is once you have given up, you have nothing.

You are allowed to give up.

For a moment. Even for a day. Even for a week.

I’ve done it.

I just hope if you do give up, you can find something to get you going again.

A goal, a parent, a spouse, a child, a dog, a dream.

Something.

It doesn’t matter what keeps you going as long as you are going.

I want to thank you

for giving me the best day of my life

Oh just to be with you

is having the best day of my life

-- Dido, Thank You

Thanks to this blog, I have connected with literally thousands of people from around the world.

People I have never met and never will.

But people who have pushed me everyday to tell my story.

Good people from Arkansas to Australia, California to China, Illinois to India, Jersey to Japan, Pittsburgh to Prague.

And of course, Quebec.

Merci Beaucoup.

In just the last week, I have seen new readers from Peru, Barbados, Portugal, Spain, Taiwan and New Zealand.

It is overwhelming and amazing and humbling and any other incredible word that ends in ing.

As Sinead O’Connor once said, Thank You For Healing Me.

Waking up each morning and reading that someone found some inspiration in my story was something I will never forget.

The truth is, you have inspired me.

You have inspired me to keep going.

You have inspired me to not give up.

You have inspired me to go on with each day.

However I’m feeling.

My computer is telling me that this is the 506th page of my blog.

And I have written more than 102,000 words.

Words that have changed my life forever.

I am planning on still writing this blog, a blog, some blog, for as long as I can.

I realize my journey is taking a turn, hopefully a turn for the better, but writing is now a part of who I am.

And who I will be.

But no matter where we go from here, I thank you for every day you have given me.

Who's to say where the wind will take you

Who's to say what it is will break you

I don't know where the wind will blow

Who's to know when the time has come around

I don't wanna see you cry

I know that this is not goodbye

-- U2, Kite

Boulevard of a Broken Hand

2010-08-08T00:59:00.001-04:00

There are certain moments that only a parent can appreciate.

The first step.

The first day of school.

The first time your child talks back to you.

There are other moments that only a parent can enjoy.

Like being on a packed airplane and watching the panic that mom and dad go through trying to quiet a screaming child.

As someone who has been there, done that, I hate to say it, but I love watching other parents scramble to diffuse that situation.

And they try everything.

Apple juice.

Cheerios.

Grey Goose.

Whatever it takes.

But the entire time, the show you get watching the crumbling parents is better than any $8 movie on the plane.

There are about 37 million moments I would like to have back in my 13+ years of being a parent.

I wish I was more attentive.

I wish I was more loving.

But most of all I wish I was most patient.

I still do.

A few days ago I was at my 11-year old son’s football practice.

It was being held at a GIANT complex, where at least ten other teams were practicing at the same time.

During the practice, I took a stroll around the track to burn off some steam (and calories).

At one point, I noticed a man talking to a boy who was in full football gear and had been pulled aside from his team.

The boy couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

The man was right in his grill, holding the boy by his face mask, which should’ve been a penalty.

As I got closer, I couldn’t help but hear the conversation.

Actually, it wasn’t much of a conversation, it was a one-way street.

It went something like:

MAN-F*&^ F&*# F*#& F(#*

BOY-

If grabbing the face mask was a penalty, this should’ve been an ejection.

I have no idea if this was his son, not that it really mattered, but the first thing that came to my mind was...

...OMG, is that what I look like when I lose my temper?

Is that what I sound like when I lose my temper?

Whether it was shock or a short attention span, I kept walking around the track.

By the time I came back around, they were gone.

You may find this hard to believe, but I have never won the Father of the Year Award.

I’ve had plenty of moments where I could’ve been nominated and plenty of moments where I should’ve been disqualified.

I’m proud to say in the last year I have done the best job I’ve ever done as a dad.

But perfect, I am not.

And probably never will be.

My son is back to playing tackle football this year after taking a year off.

And let me tell you, if you think this Bernie Madoff was a ripoff, you should check out all the gear you need to buy for an 11-year old tackle football team.

Chin straps, practice pants, heat gear, shoulder pads...

With all the money we spent, we could’ve rented a hotel room at DisneyWorld for half a night.

I’ve been to all four of his practices this year, including the most recent one on Saturday morning.

The kids who have played for several years definitely have a clear advantage.

They are the ones yelling and screaming and believing that somehow the two hours between 8 and 10 AM are going to lead to the Super Bowl.

Nothing wrong with believing.

My son is still trying to find his way, but after each practice we have done a breakdown of what’s good and what he needs to work on.

The good news is he has showed signs of getting better each time.

The bad news is he needs a forest fire lit under his $40 practice pants for it to happen.

I have tried all of the cliches to keep him motivated.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

And when it doesn’t work, there are two very frustrated people.

He and me.

When we got home after practice on Saturday, we tried a different approach.

This time my wife spoke to him about finding that extra gear.

Figuring out a way to be your best.

Even if you are last in the sprints, run all the way.

Don’t let anything get in the way of giving 100%.

The conversation went on for about 20 minutes.

It was painful. For all of us.

But little did we know, it was most painful for him.

When the conversation ended, he showed us the palm of his left hand.

Between the black and blue color and the extreme swelling, there was no doubt that x-rays were needed.

Two hours later, he came home with hard splint.

The cast goes on Monday.

He’s out for the season.

At some point during the morning practice, he had fractured the first metacarpal and never said a word about it.

Not one word.

Not one word on the field.

Not one word in the car going home.

Not one word while being told for 20 minutes that he needs to try harder.

Now who feels bad?

Songs in the Key of Life

2010-08-06T19:47:00.001-04:00

The movie High Anxiety was a Mel Brooks classic.

Not as classic as History of the World or Young Frankenstein or certainly not as epic as Blazing Saddles, but it was great.

The feeling of High Anxiety sucks.

It really sucks.

It’s that pit in your stomach caused by stress.

These days there are about a million legitimate reasons to be anxious.

But usually for me, its the small stuff, you know the stuff that Richard Carlson told me not to sweat.

Big life-changing events, piece of cake.

Small stuff, PANIC ATTACK.

The good news is once that small stuff moves from future tense to present tense, the pit somehow disappears.

Pretty much immediately.

Unfortunately I have gotten used to feeling that pit in my stomach, but I definitely sweat it.

The source of the current pit is the upcoming back-to-school picnic.

This is not just any back-to-school picnic.

This is the picnic at the school where my wife is a teacher and my three kids attend.

And the featured attraction of Monday’s picnic is...

...My mid-life crisis, better known as The Clearance Rack.

That’s our three-month old band made up of four 40-somethings looking to re-live their childhood.

So far we’ve played three different shows -- a block party and two high school graduation parties.

And each one has been better than the previous one.

Dare I say, we are not bad. Even good at times.

But this upcoming gig is the real deal.

Probably close to 500 non-paying customers who are looking to get their money’s worth.

This will be in front of a bunch of parents and teachers who will be seeing my wife EVERY DAY for the next nine months.

What if we stink?

What if I stink?

Lets be honest, we are a band and all four of us need to do our part to sound good.

But as the lead singer, if I sound like Alfalfa, that is all people will remember.

Last week, we played one of the high school graduation parties in front of about 100 people.

It went so well, they asked for an encore.

Really.

Unfortunately we had played all nine songs we know by that point, so we had to play the first song all over again to satisfy the crowd.

I changed a couple of the words to give a different feel.

That’s what stars do.

This whole singing thing has been an eye-opener for me.

I definitely have a newfound respect for some of my heroes, like Bruce Springsteen and Paul Hewson.

Every time they hit the stage, they play for like three hours and they never choke.

Ok, they rarely choke.

True, last year Bruce accidentally said, “Hello Ohio”, while he was playing a show in...

...Michigan.

He called it a “nightmare” and knowing how much Bruce cares about his fans, he probably played for six hours after he was told of the mistake.

A few years ago I went to go see U2 in concert and the only seats we could get were behind the stage.

That’s when I discovered that Bono uses a...

a...

...a

I can’t even say it.

Ok, Bono uses a...

...teleprompter.

OMG.

Say it isn’t so.

The man who wrote “MLK”, the song I sing to my kids every night before they go to bed uses a teleprompter?

The man who wrote “She’s A Mystery To Me”, the greatest song of all-time, reads the words off a monitor?

The man who wrote “With or Without You”, the song that makes me cry more than Marley and Me, can’t remember those words?

You have got to be kiddi....

What’s that? They all use a teleprompter?

OMG x 50.

And let me guess, there is no Hanukkah Harry either?

Call me naive, crazy, whatever you want -- but watching Bono watching a monitor broke my heart.

Now here I am, as the lead-singer in a band, a backyard garage band with a bunch of guys who make noise sound pretty good.

Not a whole lot of risk there.

And I’m pulling a Linus, using every security blanket possible.

I have a music stand in front of me, with a three-ring binder that has the words to all NINE of the songs we know.

Plus the three we don’t.

Meanwhile, on any given night Bruce has like 300 of his own songs to choose from.

And dozens of others he likes to cover.

And I actually thought he remembered ALL of the words on his own.

Now who should be the anxious one?

Monday’s Set List

Should I Stay or Should I Go, The Clash

Blitzkrieg Bop, The Ramones

Island in the Sun, Weezer

Pork and Beans, Weezer

Stray Cat Strut, Stray Cats

Someday Someway, Marshall Crenshaw

I Fought The Law, Bobby Fuller

Somethin’ Else, Eddie Cochran

Rave On, Buddy Holly

Such A Deal

2010-08-05T00:56:00.001-04:00

For those of you who have never been to Las Vegas, I’ve got two little words for you...

DON’T DO IT!

Oh, three little words.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE LAS VEGAS.

For about eight hours at a time.

Any more than that and you are guaranteed to have a nervous breakdown.

Going to college in Los Angeles, we used to make many a spur-of-the-moment trip to Sin City.

We would do the four-hour drive, in closer to three, always stopping in Barstow for a burger.

We’d spend all night gambling.

Grab a half-pound kosher dog at Slots O’Fun for 99 cents.

Nutrition is important.

And drive home with nothing in our pockets.

Almost every time.

It was the one in ten where you actually won something that motivated you to come back.

Kinda like that great eight-iron shot on 13 during your round of 107.

We were clearly ignoring the odds and the fact that the hotels were getting bigger each time we went back.

I love gambling.

I love the slots. I love the tables. I love the sports book.

But the good news for me is I hate losing my money just a wee-bit more than I love betting it.

So as many times as I’ve been to Vegas, I’m probably right about even.

Ok, probably not even, but not too bad off.

I’ve gone with friends, with my wife, even with my kids, but each time is exactly the same.

The first two hours are AWESOME!

The final two hours are AWFUL!

The rest is just a blur.

There was that one time in college when my fraternity brother and I made the late night drive on a whim.

He was going to show me how to play craps.

So I left with a hundy in my pocket, ready to win big time.

And when we got there, that’s what we did.

At one point, we were up BIG.

Ok, big for our college lifestyle.

I was hitting hard eights and field bets, pass lines and prop bets.

I had no idea what half of it meant, but we were rolling in it BAY-BEE.

I had so many chips on the table, you would’ve thought we were filming a Ruffles commercial.

What I didn’t realize is that with just one roll of those pretty little dice...

..SEVEN-OUT.

Poof, it was gone.

ALL GONE.

I didn’t even know we had tickets to a Vegas Magic Show, but that game made my money disappear like it was Doug Henning.

$100 to the negative later, I was ready to jump off the top of the Mirage Hotel.

Fortunately for me, I am so old, the Mirage hadn’t been built yet.

But the ride home was THE most miserable four, make it five, hours of my life.

I’ve been back quite a few times since and now I stick to the blackjack tables.

Simple game. Follow the book. You’ll win in every time.

Ok, almost every time.

And not only is it fun, but its great for kids too.

You get to gamble, while they get to work on their math.

I’m all about the learning.

Last night instead of Apples to Apples or Candy Land or Monopoly, I taught the three kids all about the game of 21.

So I got out the pinto beans, divvied them up and started dealing.

Like any good dealer, I explained the game as we went.

My oldest daughter and I had played before, but I really had a great chance to take advantage of the two younger kids.

On the first hand, my two innocent little girls each bet one bean, while my wild and crazy boy bet three.

Fortunately for them, I busted, giving them a winning hand and a false sense of security.

Or as we call it in the gambling world, the daily double.

We went back and forth for awhile, but with just two hands left before bedtime, each of them was ahead for the night.

My 11-year old son convinced his six-year old sister that she should bet her entire pile of beans on the upcoming hand.

She easily had more than the other two kids put together, so she must’ve thought, it’s good to be the queen.

What could possibly go wrong.

And he must’ve thought, if she loses this hand, I WIN!

The two older kids stopped in the 17-18 range, leading up to their younger sister.

I think I had an eight or nine showing.

She flipped her cards, which were a 9 and a 3.

She successfully calculated that her hand was a 12.

By this point, she had mastered the motion of asking for a hit.

What she hadn’t mastered was the e-motion of losing all your beans.

When I flipped her a face card, she flipped on the water works.

Immediately.

The good news is it took her a milli-second to figure out that 12+10=22.

The bad news is it took her a milli-second to figure out that she had busted and lost all of her riches.

Poof. Just like that.

As Kenny said, you gotta know when to walk away AND know when to run.

What made it worse was the cackling of her older brother coming from the other side of the table.

This game had ended like pretty much every other vegas game I had ever participated in.

A face full of tears and an empty pocket.

Well at least my daughter learned early.

The house ALWAYS wins.

Decision 2053: Girl Power

2010-08-03T03:02:00.000-04:00

This just in.

My six-year old daughter is running for President of the United States of America.

In 2053.

She made the stunning announcement last night while we were watching the Padres face the Dodgers.

“Are they the New York Dodgers?,” she asked.

My 11-year old son, shocked if not offended that a member of his family would ask such a question, said “no, they are the Los Angeles Dodgers.”

“I thought they were from New York,” she replied.

Instantly I realized that my six-year old was not only adorable, but she was paying attention.

So I jumped in and said that they used to play in Brooklyn, which is in New York.

“That’s the team that Jackie Robinson played for,” she added.

Yes it is.

So I asked if she knew what Jackie Robinson was famous for.

“He wore the number that my brother wears.”

True.

Actually, HE wears the number that Jackie wore.

My son did a report on Jackie in second grade and was so impressed by the story that he started wearing #42.

A number he wears with pride to this day, four years later.

I then informed my daughter that Jackie broke the color barrier, becoming the first black player in Major League history.

“That’s not nice,” she said. “They didn’t let people play because of their skin color?”

“White people should’ve imagined what it would’ve been like if they couldn’t play or if they were slaves.”

This is probably a good time to remind you that SHE IS SIX-YEARS OLD.

As the conversation continued, I realized that not only do I have an amazing daughter, actually two plus an amazing son, but if I can keep the dialogue going, I also have the makings of an amazing blog as well.

So I started writing down quotes like I was having lunch with Bob Dylan.

“The white people thought they were better than the blacks,” she said. “They made the blacks do all the chores. Wash the clothes in the river, because they didn’t have washing machines.”

“All the white people only thought about themselves and they should’ve thought about how the blacks were being treated.”

“Why would you make someone a slave? Treat someone how you would like to be treated.”

“It doesn’t matter what their skin color is, it matters what is in your heart.”

“If you want to be a bad person, you can be a bad person, but nobody wants to be your friend.”

She then notified me that she wanted to be the President of the United States, sometime between the age of 43 and 60.

She said that if she were the Prez, she too would’ve freed the slaves like Lincoln.

“I’d like to be the President. To do stuff, yes.”

“To make people do stuff for you and be your slave? No.”

With her actual campaign still a few years away, there is time to make adjustments, but for now, her platform is very clear:

No smoking, because that’s not good for you
No texting while driving
No putting on lip gloss while you are driving

This girl has clearly been watching too much Oprah.

But the fact that she has campaign promises, 43 years before the actual campaign, is quite impressive.

As we completed our interview, I mean our conversation, I asked if she knew why there has never been a female President.

“Because a girl hasn’t been elected,” she said.

Of course.

“And some people don’t want a girl to be President.”

That too.

I think I’ve finally found a candidate that I can really trust.

Raising The Salad Bar

2010-08-02T05:33:00.002-04:00

I don’t know about you, but I love the all-you-can-eat restaurants.

Maybe its the food or maybe its the value, but there is something special about going to a place where you can eat as much as you want and the only thing that can stop you is your belt buckle.

In college, I had a fraternity brother who worked at a bbq joint where they had all-you-can eat beef ribs on Monday nights for like $15.

Yes, $15 was A LOT of money in college, but considering we didn’t eat the rest of the day, I suppose it all balanced out.

So every Monday night we piled into the 1982 Olds Omega and headed over for a good time and a great meal.

Before the night was over, we had destroyed more ribs than Muhammed Ali.

But little did we know the damage that we were doing to ourselves.

According to livestrong.com, there are 370 calories and 24 grams of fat in 1/4 rack of sauced up beef ribs.

Plus 26% of your sodium for the day and 17% of your cholesterol.

So let’s do the math... if we each devoured two full racks of ribs.

That’s a quarter rack, times eight, carry the one...

OH MY GOD!

Good thing I was drinking Diet Coke.

With those days long in the past, now we frequent the all-you-can-eat salad bar.

Usually once a week.

For like $8 for the adults and $5 for the kids, you can fool yourself into believing that you are eating healthy.

You start with the three or four options of mixed salads, always dripping in dressing.

Followed by a mile-long runway of every vegetable from Arugula to Zucchini.

Zucchini! That is so good for you.

Then on the other side of restaurant there are a half-dozen soup options.

Soup is good food. That’s what the commercial says, right?

So what if they are loaded with cream and salt.

If there is a vegetable in the title, how bad could it be?

Cream of Mushroom soup! Yum.

Plus do you know how much riboflavin there is in every mushroom.

Then you’ve got the pasta possibilities.

Plus the fresh breads and the baked potatoes.

No fries here.

And little Johnny, since you were so good eating those vegetables, you can wash them down with a hot brownie and some NON-FAT frozen yogurt.

Hey honey, let’s take the kids to the salad place.

It’s healthy!

Honestly, when it comes to all-you-can-eat, the type of food really doesn’t matter.

We’ve tried Pizza bars, Indian Food, Japanese, Chinese.

You name it, we’ve done it.

Hey, they even have all-you-can-eat pavilions at some baseball stadiums now where you can pay one price, watch a game and eat as many hot dogs as you want.

One Dodger Dog -- 410 Calories, 22 grams of fat.

Nine innings.

Wow, Kobiyashi might have a new place to work out.

For us, or me, the all-you-can-eat is more about value than it is flavor.

It’s the fact that if you stuff yourself beyond comprehension, just think of how much money you are saving.

When is enough enough?

When is enough enough for anything these days?

Nancy Reagan told us to just say no.

How about oh no!

Mel Gibson certainly didn’t know when to stop.

Or Lindsay Lohan.

Or fill in the blank.

And when it comes to making money, I guess there is no such a thing as making too much.

But there is such a thing as spending too much.

I looked into buying two tickets for the Paul McCartney show when he came to town.

After the service charges, the total was like $420.

And that was so I could sit in the same arena and watch him on the big screen.

I decided to make a car payment instead.

Madonna’s last concert tour made $408 million dollars.

This after previous tours had brought in $75m, $125m and $194m.

That’ll buy a lot of toys.

Speaking of Madonna, Alex Rodriguez just made $39.97 in the ten seconds it took me to write this sentence.

I know that because salary-money.com has a page computing how much A-Rod makes every second, every minute, every hour...

In case you were wondering, he makes $114,583.33 every day.

But overindulging is not limited to the celebrity.

I just read an article that the highest paid CEO in the country made nearly $90 million dollars last year.

That’s a lot of salad bars.

I’m sure he’s great at his job.

And so were the thousands of people his company laid off.

All of a sudden, I’ve lost my appetite.

On Target

2010-07-30T14:40:00.004-04:00

We have all been asked a million times that age old question -- if we could bring one thing with us to a desert island, what would it be.

For me, I’d bring a Super Target.

They have everything I would ever need.

For those of you living in area with just “Target” and not “Super Target”, you must be wondering what in the world I am talking about.

Well, I would’ve thought the same thing until we moved to this area about five years ago.

If you enter into our Super Target through the doors to the far right, you probably won’t notice anything different.

In front of you are the clothes, the music section, the discontinued electronics, the clearance area.

But if you enter through the doors on the far left, as Green Day once said, “Welcome to Paradise.”

Now when I speak of the far right and the far left, I am not making any type of political statement.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy politics.

I think it can be very entertaining and election years can make for some great TV, but I’ve got a wooden nickle for the next person who can tell me what channel C-Span is on.

So getting back to paradise -- the far left at Super Target.

That’s where you will see a fully loaded tricked out supermarket, with a full-service bakery, deli, produce area...

All that plus a Starbucks and Pharmacy, two completely different ways to get your drugs.

A few days ago, I took my two older kids with me to Super Target to pick up some meat for a family bbq.

By the time we got there it was the late afternoon and there were some t-bones calling our name.

Not only were they big and beautiful, but they were on sale AND they had been marked down again due to the upcoming expiration date.

As I reached for the prize, my daughter got a little nervous.

She’s the worrier in the family.

She’s the one who becomes physically ill when the light indicator comes on that you are running low on gas.

She’s the one who makes sure that you are aware when your car is somehow traveling more than 10 mph above the speed limit.

And she is definitely the one who hates the concept of buying meat that has a nearby expiration date.

My son on the other hand is all me.

Put it on the plate, let’s eat.

Well to help put her mind at ease, I brought the meat over to the high school student working in the meat department and asked if this meat would be ok for us to barbeque today.

“Sure,” he said.

I think he said “sure.”

Actually I’m not sure what he said, but I think it was his nod of conviction that made my daughter feel comfortable.

So with her blessing and the blessing of the guy who still doesn't shave, we bought the meat and headed home.

On the way, I thought this would be a great opportunity for another fatherly life lesson.

Ozzie Nelson, I am not.

Nor Mike Brady or Cliff Huxtable or even Frank Costanza.

I’d say I’m more of a Peter Griffin, Al Bundy type.

But I’ll surprise you from time-to-time.

And this time, I was ready to teach the kids a little bit about trust.

So in the car, I turned down Lady Gaga and asked...

...“who do you think cares more about you, me or the guy working at the Super Target meat market?”

Right away the kids smelled something funny.

My daughter probably thought it was the old meat, but my son jumped right in.

“You,” he silently mumbled, not sure where this was headed.

“Do you think I would ever hurt you, on purpose?”, I asked.

Now they were getting scared and I wasn’t even running low on gas.

To complete the natural hat trick of perplexing queries, I said “who would you trust more, me or him?”

Fortunately, I won that one too.

So I went on to explain...

...there was nothing I would ever do to hurt them... and there was no way I’d ever buy any food that would make them sick... and just because the teenager with the white robe said the meat was good didn’t mean that the meat was good.

I explained that with every decision in life, trust yourself and trust the people who care the most about you.

In this case, me.

If I ever thought the meat was bad or that it would harm them, I would never buy it, I don’t care what Butcher Bobby says.

I’m glad I'm still here to report that the steaks were fantastic and no one got sick.

I’m also glad to report that I think the kids got my message, even if I did take the long way home to get there.

My wife and I have told them MANY times that we will always be there for them.

Always.

But at some point they will be making decisions for themselves and that’s the time to trust yourself and your gut and use your best judgment.

I just hope they always remember that trip to Super Target.

A Lesson Learned

2010-07-29T03:48:00.001-04:00

As the father of three amazing kids, you might think that I could teach a Parenting 101 class.

Well, think again.

Let there be no doubt, I am still the student.

Rarely does a day go by that I don’t discover a new way of making a mistake.

Like I’ve said many times, there is no handbook to being a parent or at least I have never seen one.

I entered this parenting thing as cold as the Winter Carnaval in Quebec City.

And let me tell you, that’s cold.

The Carnaval is so cold.

How cold is it Gene Rayburn?

The Carnaval is so cold, they keep their ice sculptures outside to make sure they don’t melt.

That’s cold.

True story. I’ve been there.

Ok, enough with the weather, back to the news.

For those of you longtime parents, stop laughing at me and just nod when I say -- kids become different when they reach the teens.

In the Jewish religion, we call it a Mitzvah, Bar or Bat.

The Catholics call it Confirmation.

Bruce Springsteen just called it Growin’ Up.

As a parent, this is a new world that honestly I was not prepared to enter.

Then again, I wasn’t prepared for any of this.

And neither were my parents.

My mom never met her father.

My father’s father died when my dad was nine, putting my dad at the head of the table, while he was still sitting on a phone book.

My mom and dad had no siblings.

Family in our house was centered around Kristy McNichol.

So when my wife and I learned thirteen plus years ago that I was going to be a dad, she might as well have told me we were going to adopt a Komodo Dragon.

I knew the same about both subjects.

Nothing.

I have made my mistakes over the years, PLENTY of them, but when you are dealing with young-ins, the simple mistakes fortunately don’t do a whole lot of damage.

So I put the diaper on backwards, I let them eat a little dirt, I left the breast milk out.

Ok, that was a bad one.

But now that the kids are actual thinking-speaking-reacting type people, the damage can be a lot more.... damaging.

For example, I have not been able to get it through my thick skull that my 13-year old daughter has exited the Kid Highway and is now traveling down Young Lady Lane.

She knows I love her more than anything, but now she’s entering an age where I have to be more creative than just saying it.

In fact, sometimes I get the feeling she doesn’t want me to say anything at all.

She’s got it covered.

A couple of days ago I noticed she was miffed about something.

What, I had no idea.

But instead of sitting on the sideline and watching her work through it on her own, I got involved.

Bad move.

I said... What’s wrong? What’s bothering you? What happened?

I probably asked more questions than the SAT exam.

And with each question, whatever was really bothering her became a distant memory.

I was now Public Enemy #1.

Unfortunately the conversation ended with fireworks worthy of the 4th of July.

I got mad, she got mad.

I got more mad, she went to her room.

The door closed. Maybe even slammed.

Not the first time that has happened.

Not even the first time this week that had happened.

But it was so bad that my wife had to step in and give ME a time out.

And I’m glad she did.

I don’t remember every word in the lecture, but I remember the message.

Stay out of her airspace. For now.

Let her fly on her own. She will come back.

Not in those words, but that’s what Google Translate told me.

Stay close, but not too close.

She wants your ears more than she wants your words.

And be there when she needs you.

And she will need you.

Talk to her about music, a restaurant that you like, something you saw on iCarly.

Talk to her about ... about anything other than her.

Considering my wife was once a 13-year old girl, I figured I needed to take notes and listen.

And listen I did, loud and clear.

Fortunately for me, I was able to apply my newfound knowledge almost immediately.

Yesterday we spent the day at the community pool with my wife’s family -- 14 in all, including nine kids, all 13 and under.

(That’s another blog -- one I won’t be able to publish.)

At the pool, I played with my six-year old daughter and three-year old niece for quite a while.

All the while keeping an eye on my 13-year old.

From the moment I got to the pool, I could tell she wasn’t really interested in hanging with me.

I think the fireworks show was still fresh in her mind.

But the more fun the three of us were having, the closer the 13-year old got.

Within about 20 minutes, our gang of three became a quartet.

The day became about swimming and nothing else.

Things went so well that when we left the pool, my teenager wanted to ride home with me.

We listened to music. I listened to her.

No more fireworks, just a spark.

When we got home, SHE walked over to ME, gave me a big hug and said, “I love you dad.”

No cue cards or anything.

I think I passed that test.

When is the next one?

A Happy Meal... Every Time

2010-07-27T02:46:00.000-04:00

McDonalds made Ray Kroc a billionaire.

It also made Morgan Spurlock fat.

It also makes my six-year old daughter VERY happy.

And isn’t that all that matters.

Pick a day, pick a time -- ask my daughter where she wants to go eat and the answer is always McDonalds.

(P.S. I’m not applying for a commercial here, really I’m not, but if you like the concept, contact her agent.)

A couple of days ago my six-year old had some visitors over for a play date.

Her three-year old cousin from my wife’s brother’s family.

And her three-year old cousin from my wife’s sister’s family.

We decided to have a girls day out (+1) at the mall with my wife, the three girls and me.

On our way there, we were getting a little hungry, so we stopped at... well, you know where we stopped.

And when we got there, the order was as predictable as a Hugh Grant movie.

“I’ll have the Happy Meal. Me too. Me too.”

Wow, I didn’t see that coming.

The truth is they all ordered the little plastic toy with whatever food it came with.

Meanwhile, my wife got the Grilled Chicken Ranch BLT Sandwich with no Ranch.

And since we had a 2-for-1 coupon, I too had the Grilled Chicken Ranch BLT Sandwich with no Ranch.

Of course, no meal at Mickey D’s is complete without a large order of fries, so we got one of those too.

On the back of the paper that our food came on was a complete listing of the nutrition facts for all of the foods at McDonalds.

I know, we should’ve covered it in ketchup before we could look.

But like a five-car pileup on the freeway, we HAD to look.

So after each girl took one big bite of their Happy Meal and became instantly stuffed, we sent them off to that cesspool of disgust known as PlayLand.

That’s where little kids from around the neighborhood cough and sneeze their way through a series of plastic tubes and sealed in walkways.

But of course, “Please make sure you take off your shoes little Johnny, Ronald would hate for you to get PlayLand dirty.”

I couldn’t find a suggestion box, but if I did....

I would suggest you put a water hose at the bottom of one of those slides, so you can spray the scum off the kids when they are done playing.

Just a thought.

Well, while the girls were sliding around in some other kids’ runny nose (and LOVING it), that gave my wife and I time to check out the nutritional facts for the foods we were trying to digest.

Believe it or not, not everything was totally bad for you.

For example, the brand new “Real Fruit" Smoothies.

I got a couple of coupons in the Sunday paper for a free one, so I got one for the girls and one for me.

They actually made them in a real blender. I heard it.

I just hope they used real bananas and real strawberries in the real blender for my "Real Strawberry Banana Smoothie".

The good news is each smoothie had only 210 calories.

The bad news is pretty much everything else on the menu was a diet crusher.

The Angus Deluxe Burger, 750 calories.

The Big Mac, 29 grams of fat.

The Breakfast Burrito with Sausage, 1390 mg of sodium.

The Caesar Salad with Grilled Chicken had TEN TIMES more salt than an entire breast of Chicken Saltimbocca at Maggiano’s.

And that dish has “salt” in its name.

As for those fries, we just HAD to have.

Well those fries have more calories (500) than a 6-inch Roast Beef Sub at Subway (460), with DOUBLE MEAT AND DOUBLE CHEESE.

But unlike Mark Antony (or Jennifer Lopez), I’m not here to bury McDonalds, I come to praise them.

Have you tried the Sausage McMuffin with Egg?

Is there any better way to start the day?

Who cares that there are 450 calories and 285 mg of cholesterol and 920 mg of sodium and 27 grams of fat.

Obviously I don’t.

And neither does my daughter.

As long as she gets that pink plastic horse.

Risky Business

2010-07-25T12:31:00.002-04:00

I have this friend who went to a movie last night.

This friend’s wife and three kids were out of town for the weekend, so this friend had some free time for himself.

This friend decided to see the new Leonardo DiCaprio movie, “Inception.”

He liked it a lot although I, I mean he didn’t really understand like 95% of it.

When that movie ended, he decided to pull an Ernie Banks and play two, moving from theatre 22 to theatre 21 to see the new Angelina Jolie movie, “Salt.”

He liked that one too although I, I mean he thought it was as believable as Inception was simple.

Two movies for $7.50 (plus $8.00 for the small popcorn/drink combo).

Now that’s a deal.

For my friend.

I don’t know if sneaking into a second movie is considered a crime, but since it was a friend doing it (and not me), I figured it would make a perfect intro to this blog.

I’m not much of a rule-breaker and I never really have been.

Maybe it’s the Jewish guilt from my dad or the Italian guilt from my mom, but I always figured the humiliation of getting caught wasn’t worth the price of breaking the rule.

I didn’t even use Napster.

But I’m guessing living on the straight and narrow probably puts me in the minority, especially these days.

Some people may be breaking the rules for fun, but with so many out of work now, a lot more people are doing it out of necessity.

It’s even happening in places and ways you would never expect.

For example...

... A couple of days ago at the end of my therapy session, I had one more CRITICAL question that needed to be answered:

Should I go to Popeye’s Fried Chicken or the Italian Deli to grab a bite for the ride home?

We decided that while Popeye’s would destroy the inside of me, the Italian Deli would only destroy the outside of my white t-shirt.

Ciao it was.

When I walked into the tiny deli, I was greeted by a man in his 40’s, who introduced himself as the son of the 80+ year old lady who usually works there.

He told me that for the second time in the last week, somebody had just stolen their tip jar.

He was guessing there was about $60 in there.

We talked for a few minutes about how sad it is that people have to resort to such an act to keep them going.

I’m not here to go all Judge Wapner on you, but this is just another sad sign of the times.

The Italian Deli is not in the greatest neighborhood and the man said that his mom regularly gives out free food and even money to anyone who asks for it.

I’m sure the loss of the tip money bothered him, but he seemed even more upset that somebody would do such a thing.

To them.

Twice.

In case you were wondering, for my ride home I got a little plastic tub of marinara sauce stuffed with a couple of meatballs and a piece of sausage.

He also sliced some spicy italian salami for me and threw in a half loaf of fresh bread.

But I digress.

The grand total was $3, a figure that he definitely pulled out of the air, well below what he should’ve asked for.

So I gave him the $3 and then started a new tip jar with a nice deposit.

It was good to see him smile.

This wasn’t the first time this week that someone’s desperation had run across my path.

But the other example was A LOT more personal.

Just a few days earlier I received my new credit card statement for the month.

I thought the balance was much higher than usual, so I took a closer look at the itemized charges.

Sure enough, there were seven charges on the list from a city I have not visited in at least three years.

I immediately called the credit card company to see what this was all about.

I asked if any new charges had come in since I got the new statement and sure enough, there were 12 more charges from that same city.

In all 19 charges for more than $1500.

And these were at major stores like Home Depot, Lowe’s, Marshalls and J.C. Penney, among others.

I cancelled the card immediately and filed a report.

Supposedly/hopefully, these charges will come off my bill pretty quickly.

When I noticed the problem, I was puzzled at first.

Then I became a little upset, but only briefly.

The strongest emotion I had was sadness.

I definitely understand that this is now a part of the world that we live in and that people are going by any means possible just to survive.

Thankfully I have no idea what a person must be dealing with to do something so desperate.

The threat of being caught means very little compared to the reward of being able to pay your rent.

Or buying your kids food.

Or going to see a double-feature.

This is less about stealing money from someone else and more about just getting by.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Who knows how many other people they are stealing from and who knows if they will ever be caught.

But the fact that stealing has become their career is the saddest part of this story for me.

And my friend.

Psyched Up

2010-07-24T12:58:00.001-04:00

I have never seen the show “In Treatment” on HBO, but I bet I would love it.

HBO does an amazing job with everything they touch.

Except for the show Hung.

Dud.

But from what I know about In Treatment, it sounds like a very cool concept.

Basically you are a fly on the wall during a series of intense therapy sessions.

When my parents were growing up, the only people who went to therapy were the weirdos.

At least that’s what most people thought.

When I was growing up, the only people who went to therapy were the weirdos and the hyperactive kids.

The only thing I knew about that biz was what Dr. Sidney Freedman from M*A*S*H had taught me.

(I wonder if the writers knew that he has the same initials as Sigmund Freud. Wow, what a coincidence.)

These days if you want to be part of the in-crowd, you’d better make an appointment with a therapist.

But you better make sure you know what the doctor is ordering.

Do a quick search and you'll see about a million options -- Psychologists, Psychiatrists, Social Workers, Counselors, Group Therapy, Behavioral Therapy, Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, Psychoanalytic Therapy.

It’s like going to one of those all you can eat salad bars.

Wow those places stress me out. Too many decisions.

I started going to therapy in the fall of 2008 after 30+ of my colleagues were told thanks for all of your hard work.

GET OUT!

I had been before, but never under such circumstances.

Life was quite overwhelming at that moment, but I was fortunate to find a fantastic person who helped guide me through that terrible time.

20 months later, I’m as grounded as I will ever be.

Unemployed, but grounded.

Yesterday I returned to see my therapist after taking two months off. That damn freelance job got in the way of all of my fun.

Despite the time away, I jumped right back onto the cozy couch, kicked off my shoes and started up a conversation.

60 minutes later we were done.

I have learned quite a bit by talking to the experts, but perhaps the number one thing I’ve learned is that the experts don’t like to give you the answers.

They prefer to sit there, do a whole lot of listening, sometimes write things down, ask you some questions and then lead you to the water.

Its up to you to do the drinking.

Fortunately for me, I’m always thirsty and I caught on quickly, taking a whole lot away with me.

When I started two years ago, the first goal that I.. we.. me.. we.. (I don’t know) set was for me to try being more present at home.

Working 60+ hours a week can make for a tired human, but deep down, the wife and kids really don’t care how tired I am.

They just want me to be there when I am there, since I really wasn’t there most of the time.

Once I became a stay-at-home dad, that being present thing became a lot easier.

I actually started listening to conversations and if I was feeling really crazy, I might even say something.

Now that’s progress.

Through therapy I have now obtained all the tools to be present when/if I start working full-time again.

I usually walk away from a session with a handful of homework and a bag full of goals.

The reality is that in life, you are not going to succeed most of the time, but if you can keep trying, that’s the victory.

Today we talked about the great unknown or as Billy Joel liked to refer to it -- My Life.

More specifically dealing with what you know instead of what you don’t.

If you try guessing about the future, you might as well start guessing about lottery numbers too.

And we know how that will turn out.

Deal in reality. Live in the now and take it from there.

When this phase of life is over, then and ONLY THEN, can you go to the next phase.

Don’t pass go until it is time. There is no $200.

Even though she won’t take any of the credit, I owe SO much to my therapist.

We watched my career crumble in front of my eyes (and hers) and somehow I’m still standing.

(And you thought I was going to make a corny Elton John reference, didn't you?)

I would imagine that therapy is not for everyone, but for me, it has made life more clear than a pair of bifocals.

I have no doubt that it would not have happened without some Cognit-Psychiolog-Social-Counselor person.

I’m just glad I found a friend.

The Parent Trap

2010-07-23T22:39:00.005-04:00

My morning ritual hasn’t changed in six months.

Get up, stumble downstairs, make a b-line for my iPhone and immediately check to see who emailed Sir Bacon.

More times than not, it is a some “stranger” from somewhere in the world passing along warm pleasantries about my most recent blog.

And thank you for that. Keep 'em coming. It never gets old.

However recently I have noticed a growing trend of phony emails.

I guess you could say -- my Sir Bacon inbox has seen more Spam lately than a Hawaiian Grocery Store.

Rim shot anyone?

I’ve won the Irish lottery more times than I can count.

There is an African Prince who is dying to give me his money.

And yesterday, I got an email from “Bill Gates” offering me like $12 Million.

How bout if you just fix my printer and we call it even.

I get a fair amount of email forwarded to me from my real friends too, but they are usually either sports related or just plain quirky.

But a few days ago, I got an email from my cousin that I thought would make a great topic for a blog.

I sat at my computer and pondered how I could rework something that wasn’t broken.

So instead of adding my own dash of salt, just enjoy:

PARENT
Job Description

This is hysterical. If it had been presented this way, I don't believe any of us would have done it!!!!

POSITION:
Mom, Mommy, Mama, Ma
Dad, Daddy, Dada, Pa, Pop

JOB DESCRIPTION:

Long term, team players needed, for challenging, permanent work in an often chaotic environment.
Candidates must possess excellent communication and organizational skills and be willing to work
variable hours, which will include evenings and weekends and frequent 24 hour shifts on call.
Some overnight travel required, including trips to primitive camping sites on rainy weekends
and endless sports tournaments in far away cities!
Travel expenses not reimbursed.
Extensive courier duties also required.

RESPONSIBILITIES:

The rest of your life.
Must be willing to be hated, at least temporarily, until someone needs $5.
Must be willing to bite tongue repeatedly.
Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go
from zero to 60 mph in three seconds flat in case, this time, the screams from
the backyard are not someone just crying wolf.
Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget repair,
mysteriously sluggish toilets and stuck zippers.
Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars and coordinate production of multiple homework projects.
Must have ability to plan and organize social gatherings for clients of all ages and mental outlooks.
Must be a willing to be indispensable one minute, and a total embarrassment the next.
Must handle assembly and product safety testing of a half million cheap, plastic toys,
and battery operated devices.
Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst.
Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product.
Responsibilities also include floor maintenance and janitorial work throughout the facility.

POSSIBILITY FOR ADVANCEMENT & PROMOTION:

None.
Your job is to remain in the same position for years, without complaining,
constantly retraining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can
ultimately surpass you.

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE:

None required unfortunately.
On-the-job training offered on a continually exhausting basis..

WAGES AND COMPENSATION:

Get this! You pay them!
Offering frequent raises and bonuses.
A balloon payment is due when they turn 18 because of the assumption that college
will help them become financially independent.
When you die, you give them whatever is left.
The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is that you actually enjoy it
and wish you could only do more.

BENEFITS:

While no health or dental insurance, no pension, no tuition reimbursement,
no paid holidays and no stock options are offered;
this job supplies limitless opportunities for personal growth, unconditional love,
and free hugs and kisses for life if you play your cards right.

Forward this on to all the PARENTS you know,
in appreciation for everything they do on a daily basis,
letting them know they are appreciated for the fabulous job they do...
or forward with love to anyone thinking of applying for the job.

** FOOTNOTE **
"THERE IS NO RETIREMENT -- EVER!!

If you missed my tribute to my father, who I miss dearly, check out this blog from Father's Day:
Papa Can You Hear Me?

Striving For #2

2010-07-22T14:09:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I completed my seven-week freelance job.

The first real job I’ve had in over a year.

What’s nice is it brought in a couple of bucks.

It gave me a chance to make TV again.

But most of all, it reminded me that I STILL GOT IT.

The shows I produced are the best I’ve produced in the last 20 months.

Ok, they are the only shows I’ve produced in the last 20 months.

But all jokes aside, I’m really proud of what I just did.

While the subject matter didn’t really interest me, I rolled up my boots (if that is possible) and put together some very entertaining TV.

Self-confidence has never been an issue with me.

And neither has over-confidence.

I know what I can do, I know what I do well, but you won’t ever see me struttin around like Vinnie Barbarino.

Confidence is such a weird thing.

If you don’t have enough, that’s a problem.

If you have too much, that’s a real problem.

The challenge is finding that perfect bowl of porridge.

When I was working, at the peak of my day, there was nothing that was going to get in my way of putting out the best product possible.

I knew it.

I believed it.

And I had no doubt that anything with my name attached to it was going to be great.

I wouldn’t ever settle for anything less.

There was no other option.

I’m not allergic to working long hours.

I love the opportunity to be creative.

And there is nothing more satisfying than taking something from here to here.

(For those of you without the video version of this blog, I just raised my right hand from chin level to just above the top of my hairline.)

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe I am God’s gift to the entertainment business.

That would be Lindsay Lohan.

But I do believe I am damn good at what I do and I just can’t wait to do it again.

And soon, I hope.

This whole unemployment thing has sliced my confidence to shreds.

Not my confidence in me, but my confidence in pretty much everything else.

My confidence in the world.

My confidence in the business.

My confidence in good things happening to good people.

Even my confidence in my friends.

(Don’t worry Phil & David, we are still boyz.)

Striving to be the best has always been my goal.

Becoming the best is another story.

As the great philosopher Miley Cyrus once said, “It’s the Climb.”

The climb to greatness is where most of the fun happens, but I was told a long time ago that getting to the top just isn’t possible.

(Flashback animation, insert harp music.)

About 34 years ago, give or take, one of my pseudo-uncles was asked if his wife’s apple pie was the best in the world.

He said it was the second best.

“How rude!,” we all thought, as we licked the crumbs off the tin.

He explained that no matter how good something is, somewhere in the world there is always something better.

As a nine-year old it sounded very profound (and negative), but 34 years later, I think I understand what he meant.

Striving to be the best is the best you can ever do.

And that’s ok.

That’s the challenge or The Climb, if you will.

Enjoy the ride.

If you feel like you’ve reached the top, enjoy the view, for a moment, and then keep climbing.

Michael Jordan wasn't satisfied with one championship. Neither was Kobe.

This unemployment thing has taught me more than any college class I ever enrolled in.

Even more than the ones I attended.

Now more than ever I realize that my life is up to... me.

If it was only that easy.

Happy Daze

2010-07-20T23:01:00.001-04:00

Growing up in the late 70’s, there was nobody cooler than Arthur Fonzarelli.

The leather jacket. The comb. The juke box.

The comb.

Every young boy wanted to be The Fonz.

Every young girl wanted to do something with The Fonz.

They just didn’t know what.

A couple of years ago I got a chance to meet Arthur.

The real Arthur, Henry Winkler.

It was a a brief meeting, make that a VERY brief meeting.

But I shook the right hand of THE FONZ.

Aaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy!

My two older kids, then probably 10 and 8, were with me, but as hard as I tried to explain, they couldn’t help but think…

…why is my dad so excited about seeing that gray haired old Jewish guy?

What can I say, he’s the Fonz.

Unfortunately my Happy Days trivia knowledge has disappeared like Richie’s older brother, but I can still remember some episodes like they were thirty years ago.

Richie and Potsie going to the stag party.

Richie and the Fonz double dating with Laverne and Shirley.

Fonzie jumping garbage cans and then the shark.

One of my favorite episodes was when the Malachi Brothers came in for the Demolition Derby.

(Yes, unfortunately I had to look up the name of the brothers. I am officially old.)

When they arrived in Milwaukee, they unveiled the Malachi Crunch and a catch phrase that I still use to this day:

Let the Pigeons Loose

About ten years ago, Seinfeld replaced Caddyshack in my brain as my most quoted show, but there are certain hall-of-fame phrases that seem to re-appear on a weekly basis.

If I ever wonder if I did something correctly, you can rest assure that George Costanza’s, “was that wrong?” will work its way into the conversation.

If something is too expensive, I immediately head back to Bushwood Country Club, because “I ain’t payin no 50 cents for no Coke.”

And if someone lets the cat out of the bag and you are within seven feet of me, you are guaranteed to hear, “Let the Pigeons Loose.”

I’m not really sure if I’m using it in the correct context, but to me once the pigeons have been let loose, it’s time to put on your seat belt.

So where am I going with all this?

I’m taking the scenic route to my lunch today, which I enjoyed with two former colleagues.

Well, more importantly, two current friends.

I was fortunate to manage them when I was managing.

Both of them were relieved of their duties (and their benefits) with no notice in the great fall of 2008.

One of them was on maternity leave at the time, the other was seven months pregnant.

You stay classy San Diego.

Fortunately we still get together for lunch from time-to-time. Unfortunately there’s usually too much time between us getting together for lunch.

Today we met up at a local Mexican restaurant.

I had the Chicken Mole Enchiladas. They each enjoyed what appeared to be a big plate of melted cheese.

About 94% of the way through our two-hour reunion, one of my former colleagues looked me in the eye and said….

…well, actually before she said anything, I knew exactly where she was headed.

Rewind.

For those of you who have read the blog for awhile, you have probably learned a lot about me.

A lot about my kids.

A lot about my mom.

A lot about my good days and bad days.

But I really try not to talk too much about my former employer.

I believe it was Marian Cunningham who said if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

Despite the crash and burn landing, the experience I had and the people I met was something I would never trade in.

But that was my old life and this is my new life.

Right or wrong, good or bad, I have made a point to not mention the blog to any of my former co-workers.

I would hate for them to think I am a narcissistic sports maniac, stuck in a 70’s sitcom listening to 80’s music.

Well my friend looked me in the eye, she kinda paused, then stuttered through, “I heard... Are you... Did you... Were you... on CNN?”

Yep.

“Are you writing a ..”

Yep.

I guess I was little naive to think that my blog could make it to India and Korea, England and Saddle River, New Jersey without eventually making a stop around the corner.

For the next 20+ minutes I gave them a recap of my life as a blogger.

Somehow I didn’t bore them, because they both said they were actually looking forward to checking it out.

Let the pigeons loose.

Cell Hell

2010-07-18T22:39:00.003-04:00

Today was a very sad day for me.

My little girl is no longer little.

She now has her first cell phone.

Ok, she is 13. And she is taller than her mom.

But her own personal cell phone?

WHY?

What did I do to deserve this!

Do you know how much texting she is going to do?

Do you know how many friends she is going to talk to?

What's next, Boys?

You can tell by the grays on my head that I am no longer young, but now...

I am officially old!

My daughter has her own phone number.

Just because EVERY other child, ten and over, has their cell phone doesn't mean we have to do it.

Right?

If every other child were to jump off the high dive, would you?

Does this mean she doesn't have to eat her vegetables any more, "because we said so"?

Or put away that pile of dirty clothes in her room...

Or pickup the dog poop...

This decision was a long time in coming, but somehow we held her off.

Until today.

Today we went to get my daughter her first phone AND trade in my wife’s dinosaur of a flip phone.

By the time we got there, my daughter had already done the research and reached her decision.

In fact, it took her about 3.6 seconds from the moment we arrived to find the one she wanted.

The phone was listed at $79.99, but if you sign up for a two-year contract, the price dropped to $29.99, with a mail-in rebate.

Or that’s what they wanted you think.

While doing more research than I did for any of my research papers, my crafty 13-year old found that if we ordered the phone through the service provider’s website, the phones were free.

The salesperson balked at first, but when she saw the puppy dog eyes, I think she caved.

Not my daughter’s puppy dog eyes, but my wife’s.

Considering she’s had the same phone since Bush was President, the first Bush, there was no way she was going to spend $29.99 on a new one.

Kinda like the other day when my friend’s 80+ year old dad nearly passed out when his son paid $2.05 for a large cup of coffee.

Imagine if he would’ve bought the $4 latte.

Within seconds the cell phone salesperson spoke to her manager and yada yada yada...

Free phones for everyone!

My wife, my daughter AND my 11-year old son.

Yep, we melted like butter.

How could we not. It was free.

Well, free for now.

We added the kids (and their phones) to the family plan with combined minutes and UNLIMITED TEXTING.

Good move on the unlimited texting.

And the extra line for my son is only $9.99 a month.

You can barely get three Macchiatos for that.

When my son found out that he was getting a phone, too, you would’ve thought it was Christmas.

In fact, the kids were so excited that my wife told me she was glad that Santa didn’t get the kids the phone because she wanted us to get full credit.

We went out to eat after the phone store to set some serious guidelines.

IF you don’t keep your room clean...

and IF you don’t put your dishes away...

and IF you don’t, I don’t remember the third one....

...something bad is going to happen to your phone.

Yeah, something bad.

But at that point, we could’ve asked the kids to snake the toilets and they would’ve said yes.

This was clearly one of the greatest days of their life.

I could tell by the “dad, I got a phone” big hug.

Even the six-year old was happy.

She got my wife’s old flip phone.

(Shhh... Don’t tell her the line has been disconnected.)

If you enjoyed this story about my daughter’s cell phone, you will love the prequel from February:

Daddy’s Little Texter

This is Beyond Baseball

2010-07-16T20:28:00.001-04:00

It’s not every day that you get a phone call from the bleachers at Wrigley Field.

But that’s what happened to me today.

The call came from my son’s baseball coach who was in the middle of an 11-day baseball tour with his 11-year old.

About a month ago the coach told me about his plans and with each detail I became more and more envious.

The nine games they were going to see.

The trip to the real Field of Dreams.

Eleven consecutive days with just father and son.

Every detail was more perfect than the previous one.

Their trip began nearly a week ago when they hopped in the car and headed east.

One of the first stops was a minor league game in Cedar Rapids, at Perfect Game Field.

Unfortunately Mother Nature didn’t cooperate, but everything else was… perfect.

Well nearly perfect.

Cedar Rapids pitcher Stephen Locke, the 681^st player selected in the 2009 draft, walked one hitter, but didn’t allow any hits to treat the coach and his son to history.

There’s an old baseball saying that every time you come to the field you see something new.

But to see a no-hitter, live and in person, is something not many people experience, at any level.

Rain shortened the game to just five innings, but that didn’t take away any of the excitement.

In fact, during the long delay, the coach and his son were interviewed for more than 30 minutes by the local radio broadcast team, talking about the cross-country trip.

A no-hitter is a moment that movies are made of and when it comes to baseball and movies is there anything better than Field of Dreams?

When mapping out the trip, the coach and his son made sure the famed field in Iowa was part of their journey.

They spent nearly three hours there living out a real-life fantasy.

They played catch on the infield.

They both hit a ball into the cornfield.

Aside from a guest appearance by Joe Jackson or even Ray Liotta, it was another perfect day.

And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.

This is a man who treats each boy on our team like they are his.

He spends countless hours passing along the 411 that helped him play at the major college level and coach several years of high school baseball.

Our coach believes that winning a game at age 11 is not nearly as important as learning how to play the game, the right way.

He believes that his greatest victory will be watching the boys play at the next level, and beyond.

Amen.

His faith in the boys in only matched by his overall faith.

Those are not his words, just mine, but if you are around him for five minutes you will see a man who respects every moment of his life.

And he certainly understands how quickly it can be taken away.

During our first year with the team, our coach lost his wife to cancer.

His daughter and son lost a mom.

During that time, a time that must’ve been the most painful of his young life, I never saw anything but a smile come from his face.

I never heard and have NEVER heard a negative word come out of his mouth.

He finished that year, when nobody would’ve blamed him for doing anything but.

If Charles Barkley doesn’t want to be a role model, that’s fine with me.

My son has his.

(After me, I hope.)

Our coach has moved on in his life and has married a wonderful lady who suffered through similar misfortune.

But together they have continued to provide the love to their family (and ours) that one can only dream of.

I thought of the coach and his son last night while monitoring the game from Wrigley Field.

I knew they were there to see his favorite team.

The Cubs.

What I didn’t know is that they would see a power-packed game with 18 runs and 26 hits.

And I didn’t know they would see a game with five homers.

And I didn’t know they would see a game with a player stealing home.

You never know what’s going to happen at the ballpark.

Take A Chance On Me

2010-07-15T01:29:00.004-04:00

It’s not everyday that you can see a musical legend in concert.

In fact it’s not ANY day that you can see the Swedish hit machine ABBA perform live.

They haven’t played together in nearly 25 years.

But don’t tell that to the advertisement in my local newspaper.

The other day I saw an ad that said in big bold letters:

ABBA, The Concert

Followed by the words, “Arrival from Sweden, Live in Concert.”

Tickets are $27 (plus service charges).

At NO place on the ad does it mention that it’s not ABBA you would be spending $27 (plus service charges) on, it would be Arrival, the ABBA tribute band.

That’s where my journalistic blood-sniffing technique kicked in.

I hunted down the official website for Arrival, where it said, “this is the closest to ABBA you’ll ever get”

AND

it’s a “stunning look-alike show they put on.”

Put on is right.

The tribute band, formed in 1996, has done close to 1000 shows in more than 25 countries.

And I thought those little zhu-zhu pets were stealing money.

False advertisement is a fantastic thing, especially if you can get away with it.

Like the hundreds of times I have won the Irish Lottery.

Or the FREE CRUISE, if I call that number.

Or the car dealers with the once-in-a-lifetime deal.

Make sure you look really close at the small print. The truth is, they only have one car at that “special” price and amazingly, it’s been sold by the time you get there.

And then there’s the big fat liar who said that finding a penny and picking it up would give you luck all day long.

Let me tell you, that’s a bunch of bovine stool.

On my way into Starbucks this morning for by my overpriced venti sugar free vanilla half-caff Americano with half water and half steamed soy, I noticed Abraham Lincoln staring at me.

So I picked up my little copper friend, instantly believing that today would be the day.

Call off the military Millie, good luck is on the way.

And not a minute too soon.

Guess again.

Unless you call NOT spilling my Americano on my shirt good luck, nuthin out of the ordinary happened today.

Nuthin.

And let me tell you, I’m getting really tired of nuthin happening.

Nuthin has been the daily special on my menu for the last 20 months.

Sure, some good things have happened.

Like getting to know my wife and kids again.

And a couple of freelance jobs to help pay for getting to know my wife and kids again.

But as for something good happening in my career, that’s just not happening.

And picking up a penny is not going to change that.

For the most part, I’ve been able to deal the heartbreak of a broken career as well as possible, but I’m running out of optimism.

And so are the people around me.

My mom came over for dinner last night and even she was low on positive reinforcement.

And when your mom is running out of nice things to say, it’s time to call in the National Guard.

My mother’s faith in my career is so beaten up that when I dropped her off at her assisted living facility last night, she said, “I’ll be praying for you.”

Then she crossed her fingers.

Wow. This is getting serious.

But wait there’s more.

This morning I had my daily call from one of my closest friends. He’s become a loyal reader of the blog and I thank him for that.

I think he calls to make sure I’m still standing every morning, but he hides it by talking about sports and the blog.

He could tell pretty quickly today that my gas tank of spirit was running on empty.

So, like any good friend, he made the quick transition into a pep talk.

He offered his usual sincere support, but today at 9:42am, he threw in a “everything happens for a reason”, free of charge.

Twenty months ago, the “everything happens for a reason” was a beautiful place for me to rest my hope and my shoes.

Twenty months later, it makes me want to throw up.

What are these “things” that are supposed to be happening?

And for what reason?

But wait there’s more.

This afternoon I was cruising through Sir Bacon’s Facebook page, searching for something good to happen, when a new reader of the blog, someone I have never met, opened up a chat line.

We exchanged nice words for a few lines, then as we were bidding adieu, at 4:04pm, he said, “it’s happening for a reason.”

Are you kidding me?

Two different people, worlds apart and separated by six hours and 22 minutes, both dropped the “happening for a reason” on me.

Ok.

What is the reason that people don’t return my emails?

What is the reason I have applied for dozens of jobs with no response?

What is the reason I worked my rear-end off for 25 years so that a business transaction could make my services no longer needed?

I’m waiting.

This all makes about as much sense to me as spending $27 (plus service charges) on a karaoke band.

Bye George

2010-07-14T02:19:00.001-04:00

George Steinbrenner was known as “The Boss.”

To my dad, George Steinbrenner really was the boss.

For a couple of years.

In the early 1980’s, the heyday of the Steinbrenner World Domination Tour, my father worked in the front office for the New York Yankees.

My dad grew up as a fan of the pinstripes, across the river in Jersey City, New Jersey, so working for the Yankees was a dream come true.

Working for George Steinbrenner, well that’s another story.

Mr. Steinbrenner, as I called him the one time I answered the phone at our apartment and he was on the other line, passed away Tuesday at the age of 80.

George and I didn’t have too many one-to-one’s when my dad was with the team. He was too busy firing managers.

So unfortunately I don’t have any of those juicy first hand George Steinbrenner stories that best selling books are made of.

But I do have some stories about me.

(I guess that’s like, Michael Crawford won’t be here tonight. So playing the role of The Phantom is Shecky Greene. Sorry.)

As a 14-year old who just loved the game of baseball, I was able to go places nobody my age was allowed to go.

Like the time during the 1982 Yankees Spring Training when my dad had the team's batting coach Mickey Vernon check out my swing.

Mickey put me in the cage with a couple of other wannabees -- Tucker Ashford, the #2 overall pick from the '74 draft and some rookie named Mattingly.

Who?

There was also the time when I was in the Yankees locker room after a game when Hall-of-Famer Goose Gossage started yelling at a reporter.

His closing statement was something along the lines of, “and you can take that upstairs to the fat man.”

That fat man would be George.

I mean, Mr. Steinbrenner.

But by far the highlight of my tenure with the Yankees, ummm, my dad’s time with the Yankees, was the 1981 World Series.

With the Yankees spot in the Fall Classic already locked in, we were in New York waiting to see who we would face.

The Los Angeles Dodgers or Montreal Expos.

Those teams were playing in a winner take all game 5 in Canada.

If the Expos won, my mom and I were going to fly commercial back to our home in Southern California.

But if the Dodgers won, my mom and I were going to stay in New York to go to games 1 and 2 of the World Series, then fly on the Yankees charter to the West Coast to go to games 3, 4 and 5 at Dodger Stadium.

Hmmm, let’s see.

You can have a plate of liver and onions OR..

...you can have a five scoop ice cream sundae with hot fudge, whipped cream, a cherry on top AND some of those awesome little toffee chips.

Thankfully, Rick Monday changed his life, and mine, with a ninth-inning home run to boost the Dodgers into the World Series.

As a lifelong Dodgers fan, this created quite a dilemma in my mind.

Root for the team I have loved for 14 years or root for the enemy my father called “our bread and butter.”

I went with my heart.

My father never let me forget it.

The Yankees won the first two games of the series, which made for a fantastic cross-country flight out to LA.

We stayed at the team hotel, adding that to the list of OMG.

Now this was 1981, so there was no TMZ or SI for Kids.

Hell, there was barely an ESPN.

If the Yankees wanted to walk around the hotel in their underwear, who would know.

(That’s what we in the TV biz call a segue. You know, I used to work in TV.)

So, I’m walking down the hallway of my hotel floor and all of a sudden a room door pops open and it is Reggie Jackson.

Yes, THE REGGIE JACKSON.

He’s standing there is his tighty whities and nothing else.

He says something along the lines of, “hey kid, do you have a pen?”

Before I could say, “you’re the guy from the candy bar,” I handed him my pen.

A blue one I believe.

He may have said thanks as he grabbed the pen and then...

and then...

he closed the door.

End of that story.

Not a great ending, I know, but a half-naked Reggie Jackson asked ME for a pen.

And I gave it to him.

Ok, that was a much cooler story as a teenager, but still.

Well the Yankees would go on to lose all three games in LA and the 6th game in New York to lose the series.

Four straight losses to end the year.

Not the finish that George was looking for.

In fact, he was so mad that he wrote a public letter apologizing for his team’s failure.

The person who read that apology to the Yankees fans, was my dad.

RIP Mr. Steinbrenner.

Blood, Sweat & Trail Mix

2010-07-13T01:21:00.001-04:00

Every year there are certain events cemented in my calendar.

My fantasy basketball draft.

My fantasy football draft.

My fantasy baseball draft.

My annual physical exam.

Fortunately, all four of those events have brought very positive results in the past.

But not every year.

Like the year I drafted Darko Milicic over Carmelo Anthony.

Or the year I passed on some guy named Jerry Rice.

Or the year that I released Roy Halladay.

Or the year that my blood test came back with a high ferritin count.

When the doctor told me my ferritin level had exceeded the limit, I thought she was making a joke about the little weaselly house pet.

Oh. Ferritin. Not ferret. My bad.

Biology was not my strong suit, either time I took it.

When the doctor starts reading off the results to your blood test and there’s no punch line at the end, you listen loud and clear.

Ferritin is the protein in the human body that stores iron and apparently I was storing too much.

She had me go to a local clinic for a follow up with a specialist.

Not that I needed a wake-up call, but considering the facility had “Cancer” and “Clinic” in their name it made me sit up straight.

Fortunately my concerns were erased fairly quickly when the specialist said that the level should be cleared up by giving blood on a regular basis.

Done.

I had donated before, once in college -- 20 years earlier -- but I hadn’t ever thought to do it again.

Until now.

Since that nudge by the good doctor, two-and-a-half years ago, I have given blood every 56 days or so.

That’s the amount of time they make you wait between donations.

Monday morning I made my 17th trip to the local blood bank.

And for the 17th time I made a joke about, “good thing my blood is red.”

I think the score is five chuckles, nine smirks and three do you really think I am interested in hearing that joke AGAIN.

It takes eight visits to donate a gallon, so today I started giving my third gallon of the good stuff.

In addition to donating for me, I’m also doing it for a bunch of other people who REALLY need it.

You see, my blood type is O- (oh negative), which only 7% of people have AND as a bonus, my blood type can be used by anybody else.

My stuff is the real deal.

Blood it is, Red Gold, Texas Tea.

I arrived at the center at 9:20am and by 10 O’clock I was back in my car, 470 milliliters lighter.

I’ve been so many times now the nurses know me as hey you.

The first item on the menu is a 49-question survey.

The same kind of questions you get at a job interview or so I’m told.

In the last XX months, have you had a piercing... a tattoo.. a transfusion... accidental needle stick... malaria... hepatitis... sex with a prostitute.

Whoa.

Where’s my attorney?

Did you spend three months or more in the United Kingdom from 1980-1996?

Do my teeth look that bad?

Have you ever received money or drugs for sex?

Have you had sexual contact with a male, “even once”?

I love it that they put the last part in quotes to make sure that everybody knows we are playing without mulligans.

Once you pass that test, next is a check of your pulse and blood pressure.

68 on the pulse. 96 over 70 on the blood pressure.

I guess unemployment has been berry berry good to me.

Then it was on to the tricked out, extra padded, chaise lounge chair.

There must’ve been a sale somewhere, because the clinic was stocked with at least ten of them.

Once the nurse confirmed it was me, I had a needle in my arm faster than you could say, YOUCH.

Actually it doesn’t hurt that bad and it’s for a good cause.

FREE GIFTS!

In the past they’ve given us donors everything from t-shirts to ice scrapers to water bottles and pins.

Today we got a beach towel.

To wipe up any extra blood I suppose.

But wait, there’s more.

When your are done giving blood, they encourage you to sit in the waiting area for 10-15 minutes and enjoy free treats.

Trail Mix, cookies, ice cream sandwiches, water, juice...

Where am I, Costco?

Giving blood has never been so much fun.

Now if I could only get Roy Halladay back.

"I am a Blogger"

2010-07-11T13:34:00.001-04:00

Four hours, 46 minutes and 36 seconds.

60 blogs.

Late Friday night, someone from Los Angeles took nearly five hours out of their life to read the story of mine.

I hope it was Steven Spielberg.

Thanks to my new friend at sitemeter.com, I am able to follow the up-to-the-second traffic on my website and see who’s out there.

I’ve never tried heroin, but I can’t imagine it being any more addictive than that friggin website.

Friday night’s display absolutely blew me away.

Thankfully it has become somewhat of a regular occurrence for somebody new to check out a handful of my old blogs.

But 60?

Wow!

Good thing I don’t know who you are or you would have a new BFF.

For those of you who have never been unemployed, I don’t really expect you to truly understand the real feeling of being kicked in the gut.

I certainly didn’t understand it when I was told nearly twenty months ago that my services were no longer needed.

I certainly didn’t understand it nine months later when my contract ran out and I was no longer being paid to stay at home.

I certainly didn’t understand it week-after-week, month-after-month when all my “great contacts” got me nowhere.

But let me tell you, as someone who is beyond fortunate in life but beyond nowhere in my career, I understand it now.

I am SO ready for any piece of good news, even if I have to make it up.

Thankfully I have found a lot of things to keep me busy and for the most part keep me happy.

Working out, joining a band, coaching my kids, using expired coupons at the supermarket.

All of those things bring a sincere joy to my world, but a true celebration? Not really.

The closest that I have to come to serenity now is what you are reading.

My blog.

The fact that hundreds of people go out of their way, every day, to read the voices in my head is something that brings a big ole smile to my face.

Watching as this unknown person from my former hometown read blog-after-blog on Friday night, committing five hours of their life to reading about mine, made me feel absolutely incredible.

As sweet (or pathetic) as this may sound, at one point Friday night I remember blurting out, “I am a blogger.”

And proud of it.

I realize blogging may not help pay for the kids’ college education.

And it may not do much for the car payment either.

But it does help me get out of the bed in the morning or in most cases gets me to bed way after my bed time.

In all of my years of working in the TV world, past tense, I never had the desire or the ego to put my face on camera.

I loved working behind-the-scenes, coming up with some creative idea so that somebody else better looking than me could deliver it.

Writing this blog has been the closest thing to coming out that I have ever experienced.

When it was truly an anonymous blog, I felt incredibly comfortable saying whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

I had no hesitation in talking about my good days AND my bad days.

I had no hesitation in talking about anything.

Especially when I heard from so many people around the world who have truly connected with my story and inspired me to keep going.

But now that there are a group of people who know who I am, including a growing list of friends in-and-out of my former profession, that is a little more challenging.

After all, I don’t want to hurt my reputation.

Ha.

I’ve got my lawyer friend reminding me that, “maybe you shouldn’t say that.”

I’ve got a TV friend saying, “you never know who is going to read this in the future.”

I’ve got my daughter telling me, “I hope LeBron doesn’t read that blog.”

And deep down, they are all right, I suppose.

But the bottom line for me is after 43 plus years of life, I have finally connected with something that makes me happy.

Not as happy as using those expired coupons, but happy.

When one of my closest friends forwarded my LeBron blog to another friend who posted on his Facebook page, I nearly fainted.

And not in a good way.

OMG!

What if somebody finds out that I think LeBron is a bum.

Wait a minute, WHAT IF somebody new reads my blog.

What if.

That would be cool.

DEAR LEBRON

2010-07-09T18:22:00.001-04:00

I realize that this is not a sports blog, but it will be today.

If you are not interested in my opinion on the LeBron James story, you’ve got a 123 other entries to choose from.

If you are looking for a little love with your white wine, try this one:

http://myjourney-unemployed.blogspot.com/2010/02/book-of-love.html

Or if you are looking for something sweet, give this a spin:

http://myjourney-unemployed.blogspot.com/2010/03/one-degree-of-separation.html

Ok, now to our lead story:

Dearest LeBron,

I cannot remember the last sports story that brought out this much emotion in me.

And honestly, I’m not really sure if I can truly connect with those emotions.

But I’ll give it a try.

On one hand, I applaud you for making winning your #1 priority in choosing Miami over Cleveland.

Or New York.

Or Chicago.

If that’s in fact what you really did.

On every other hand, I am disgusted by you.

I must disclose that my mother comes from Cleveland, so there is no question that I speak from a somewhat biased perspective on this one.

But the bottom line is, did you really need a one-hour infomercial to announce that you were breaking up with the city of Cleveland?

The state of Ohio.

The bizillion fans who believed until last night that you were actually a good guy.

And please stop with the “I took less money to go to Miami.”

First of all, you will be getting paid $110 million over the six years to play a game.

In South Beach.

$110 Million!

Unemployment pays me like $450 a week.

Please don’t bring up the money.

And oh by the way, you made $90 Million from Nike before you ever played a game in the NBA.

I’ve got news for you LeBron, you will never ever do anything EVER again for the money.

PLEASE don’t ever bring up the money again.

You are right, it wasn’t about the money.

As for how you treated the Cavs...

I just heard that one in every four households in Cleveland watched your big announcement last night.

That's too bad.

I'm sure you were hoping to hurt everyone there.

I’m not sure if your former boss Dan Gilbert, the owner of the Cavs, was one of those watching your three-ring circus last night, but I'm sure he heard about your decision.

Unfortunately it wasn’t from you.

Did you owe him a call? Owe? Perhaps not.

Should you have given him a call? Yes.

Did you give him a call? NO!

If for no other reason to appear to be a good guy, you could have done a whole lot of damage control by giving Gilbert a call before you made the announcement.

Or even a text.

Or a tweet.

Or a poke.

Or something.

If I heard correctly, you were playing in a charity softball game the night before this decision was announced.

Was that practice for the softball questions that you were going to get from the guys wearing the microphones for ESPN?

Unfortunately practice didn't make perfect.

You struck out.

I watched every single second of the broadcast and almost every second of the show after the broadcast.

Until I started gagging.

There was no way I was going to miss it.

But to paraphrase the late great announcer Jack Buck, I couldn’t believe what I just saw.

I cannot believe that somebody, who claims to be the King, is going to give up a two-thirds of his crown to join somebody else’s monarchy.

From day one, you’ve made no secret about the fact that Michael Jordan is your mentor, your hero, a major influence in your life.

Well as somebody who has lived the game of basketball for the last 35 years, I’m afraid to tell you, you will never be like Mike.

There is NO WAY Michael Jordan would’ve signed with the Lakers to play WITH Magic Johnson and James Worthy.

And there is NO WAY that Michael Jordan would’ve signed with the Celtics to play WITH Larry Bird and Jerry Sichting.

What made and still makes Michael Jordan the greatest of all-time is that when he came into the game, Magic and Larry were still wearing those short shorts, playing on the big stage every night.

Michael came in, grabbed the game by the throat and took the crown away from them.

He didn’t take the easy way out.

He didn’t Rosie Ruiz a championship.

He made B.J. Armstrong a champion.

You could’ve done the same, but you didn’t.

The reason that Kobe Bryant wanted a fourth title so bad wasn’t because he needed a ring to match the one he gave his wife.

It was because he needed a ring that didn’t have Shaq’s name on it.

IF you win a championship in Miami with your good pals, and I pray to the Gods of Mark Price & Larry Nance that you don’t, it will come with an asterisk the size of Barry Bonds skull.

Nobody and I mean NOBODY will respect you for bringing two bullies to the bike rack with you at 3 O’clock to beat up the President of the Science Club.

There would’ve been nothing sweeter in your life than winning a championship with the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Or even the Los Angeles Clippers.

Insert joke here.

I’m glad that your mother played such an important role in helping you accept your decision to (not) take the money and run.

I wish she would’ve added that taking the easy way out is no way to go through life.

Let me tell you LeBron, I love watching you play the game of basketball.

When it is all said and done, you may go down as the greatest basketball player of all-time.

Just like Alex Rodriguez may go down as the greatest baseball player of all-time.

Or Tiger Woods.

Or O.J. Simpson.

Congratulations LeBron.

You just joined a club that you will be in forever.

The heat is on.

Good luck buddy.

You’ll need it.

Three Of A Kind

2010-07-09T12:43:00.001-04:00

The sport of People Watching has always been one of my favorites.

Meeting new people may be a close second.

I don’t always love the new people I meet, but I do love learning about other people’s lives.

As the great English poet Roderick David Stewart once said, Every Picture Tells A Story, Don’t It?

It sure do.

In my current workplace, a temporary job for two more weeks, I share an office with two gentlemen.

On the surface, we don’t have a whole lot in common.

One is a 24-year old single-man and one is a 52-year old married man.

They don’t have kids. I have three.

In just a couple of weeks of getting to know him, the single man has shared many a detail about his single life. He lives downtown, enjoys the nightlife and wonders where his career is going.

The married man, a former standup comedian, has been writing and producing television shows for much of his adult life. He moved to our area, from Los Angeles, to try and improve his quality of life.

When it comes to ranking their priorities, work and career are definitely not at the top of the list.

Both guys, like me, are on freelance status.

Meaning, we don’t get medical insurance or any “benefits” AND as an extra bonus, they can get rid of us at any time.

In my case, I was signed for seven weeks, of which I have served five so far.

In their case, as long as there is work to be done, hopefully they have a place to spend their days.

Fortunately, we all get along VERY well.

We share a similar sense of humor.

We all have a cloudy, cynical outlook on what the working world has become.

And at 5 O’clock, we go home.

The 52-year old man recently bought a new home in our area after moving here just a couple of months ago.

The fact that his wife is out of work and he could be the same at any moment doesn’t seem to bother him.

His credentials are very impressive with previous work in everything from sitcoms to music videos to cable series, so hopefully he’s got a nice stash under his mattress.

The other member of our office trio is just getting started.

He is still trying to battle his way out of college debt.

He earned his degree a couple of years ago and with it came a big pile of bills.

Now he’s working a couple of jobs, including one in his preferred field of a career (TV production) and one in his preferred field of making money (bartending).

Like any 24-year old single man living in a downtown bachelor pad, he still finds time to work in a social life.

Just two weeks ago, he informed us that if you are ever downtown AND you run out of cash AND you need to buy a hot dog from a street vendor in the middle of the night, there is one street vendor downtown who actually takes credit cards.

Last Saturday night he was headed to that vendor for a late night/early morning snack.

Unfortunately he never made it there.

While on his way, walking with a couple of friends, a “huge” man walked up to my friend and punched him in the face.

It must’ve been punched, as in plural, because when the attack was over, the damage was devastating.

Broken bones on his forehead, a broken nose, two swollen eyes and he had some teeth knocked out.

The injuries were so bad that when he got to the hospital after the attack, they had to airlift him to another hospital for more specialized treatment.

By all accounts, this was a completely random attack for no apparent reason and unfortunately the man who did this has not been caught.

According to the police, there has been a string of these going on downtown for the last few months.

There have been some arrests made, but clearly they didn’t get everyone.

My co-worker had some significant plastic surgery yesterday and fortunately he is doing well.

He expects to be back at work as early as next week, which is great news for us.

And great news for him as he looks to pay off some new debt.