Where There's Smoke

Seven 7hings to Think About While You Think About Dying

2026-08-25T14:52:15.439-07:00

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.
- Dylan Thomas

You never fully realize just how much you want to live until you think you’re going to die.

For about 10 days, I thought I was going to die. I know that sounds all melodramatic but it really happened that way.

I went to see a doctor due to a random pain in my abdomen. The doctor ordered a CT scan and the next day she called to tell me that it showed that I had, “...a possible lesion on the head of [my] pancreas.”

Though I had no other symptoms, my mind immediately leapt to the worst possible outcome: the lesion was pancreatic cancer. I did some research and discovered that only 5% of people with pancreatic cancer are alive five years after their diagnosis.

Sidetrack for the best joke I wrote a couple days after the phone call:

Doctor: “You have a possible lesion on the head of your p-”
Me: *gasp*
Doctor: “-ancreas.”
Me: “Oh, thank God it’s only pancreatic cancer. For a second there, I thought you were going to tell me there was something wrong with my junk.”

OK, back to the story...

As it turned out, the CT scan was wrong. I had a follow-up MRI and it revealed a perfectly healthy pancreas.

But for the ten days between the phone call and getting the MRI results, I had to consider the very real possibility that I was going to die.

Everyone -- me included -- understands on an intellectual level that life isn’t forever. We’ve all had grandparents or an old Aunt Hattie who’ve shuffled off this mortal coil but to be faced with the reality of it for our owngoddamselves is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.

This whole situation caused me to stop and think about a lot of things. It made me think of how I have spent -- and am spending -- my life. It made me think of how important the people in my life are to me. I forced me to think about The After, about what comes next.

Not in the abstract. I had to consider all of these things as my reality.

So here’s what came to mind: Seven 7hings to Think About While You Think About Dying.

Cliches Come to Life: “Life is short.” “We’re not promised anything.” “Live every day like it’s your last.” When faced with the possibility of my life ending for realsies, every one of these cliches came to life for me. They’re cliches for a reason: they’ve been true since humans have walked the Earth.
Hospitals are the Worst: There are no two ways about it, there is little comfort in a hospital. I happen to live in an area with an amazing hospital system whose primary focus for all clinicians -- including the notoriously gruff doctors -- is to put themselves in the shoes of their patients. And they do an amazing job of it. But other than the maternity ward, hospitals rarely bring good news.
Hospitals are the Best: Because hospitals are places where people come on their worst days, they are the best places to touch other human beings. Everyone is having a bad day, feeling alone and scared. What better opportunity will any of us ever have to make someone else feel just a little bit better. Best of all? You’ll end up making your own visit just a little bit better, too.
It Really is the Little Things: There are at least a million little things I take for granted every day. The first cup of coffee in the morning. The sunset. The feel of my wife’s wrist on my fingertips, the smell of her hair, the warmth of her lips. How can I possibly stock up on enough of these things to last through The After?
Work is not Life: This one really, really matters. I’ve heard it said that no one lies on their deathbed wishing they had spent more time at the office. When I thought my number was up, the old cliche, “work to live, don’t live to work” came to mind. Once you’re dead, the office will find someone else to sit at your desk and after a few maudlin email exchanges, they’ll forget you were ever there. Your family, on the other hand, will miss you forever.
Life Insurance is little comfort: I have a reasonable amount of life insurance, enough that my wife and family would be taken care of financially. However, the look on my wife’s face when we discussed the possible future made it clear that money alone wasn’t what she had planned for our future. Actually, this was heartening. At least she doesn’t love me for my money.
Preventative Maintenance: Having to consider -- really consider -- the fact that no one gets out of this gig alive really drove home the point that I only get one body in this life. For the first 35 or so years I owned this model, I treated it pretty shabbily. I made some positive changes over the past 15 years but drove home the point that I’d like to drive this one for another 100,000 miles or 30-40 years, whichever comes first. I see a lot of high-fiber, low-fat, zero-taste food in my future.

BONUS 7HING:

Most people have heard of dog shaming (http://www.dogshaming.com). For the seven of you who haven’t, it’s an internet meme where a photo of a dog in a compromising position is posted with a sign describing their shameful behavior. It amuses the owners and the dogs really don’t know what the heck is going on.

Apparently “sick shaming” is a thing, too. When you tell people you’re sick (or may be) the first reaction is “Oh, you should have quit smoking” (duh) or “Do you eat unhealthy?” (I don’t). The implication, of course, being that whatever illness you have is the result of something you’ve done. In other words, you deserve it.

Notwithstanding the utter bullshittitude of this contention, why do people do this?

When a person implies that the illness is somehow the result of something the sick person did, it allows them the illusion that they are somehow exempt, that they are masters of their own health, that they will not make the mistakes you made, thus won’t get sick.

Well I got news for you, Sick Shamers: you have no more control over the randomness of major illness than I do. Sometimes bad shit just happens to people. In fact, you can pretty much bet your sanctimony that one day, some random bad shit will befall you. It’s not that I am wishing this upon you; it’s simply a fact.

Getting news like this is never easy. Why on Earth would you want to make it worse? You want to be human? How about some empathy? How about putting yourself in the shoes of the person who’s just gotten what may be the worst news of their lives and, oh, I don’t know, maybe try to bring them a little comfort?

Sick shaming is just a way to delude yourself into thinking you’re exempt. But you’re not. So how about you just don’t do it?

XOXO,

Smokey Joe

Pie Day

2024-11-26T22:18:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Pie Day.

Obviously not the day we eat the pies. That comes on Thursday. But it is the day for making the pies for the day we’ll eat them. It was the day Lauren and I made the pies for Thanksgiving.

Some years we weren’t living in the same town, so we had to make pies over video conferences. But it was our day for making the pies.

This year will be my second Thanksgiving without Lauren. It will be my first Thanksgiving without Zoe since 2008. And it’ll be my twenty-ninth Thanksgiving without Dad.

So Pie Day will be a little sad this year. A little sadder, even, than last year, my first without Lauren since 1997.

But…

This will be my seventh Thanksgiving with Diane, Brett, Stephanie, and Charlie. It will be my forty-first Thanksgiving with Jon and Brady. It will be the sixty-fourth Thanksgiving with Mom and Malinda.

Oh, sure, we don’t always have the opportunity to physically be in the same place for Thanksgiving. But I’m thankful for them being in my life nonetheless. On Thanksgiving and on every other day of the year.

So this year, I’m thankful for the 7 Thanksgivings I’ve had with Diane, Brett, Stephanie, and Charlie. I’m thankful for the 41 I’ve had with Jon and Brady. And I’m really thankful for the 64 I’ve had with Mom and Malinda.

I’m also thankful for the 35 Thanksgivings with Dad. I’m thankful for the 16 I had with Zoe. And I’m thankful for the 28 I had with Lauren.

That’s an awful lot of Thanksgivings I’ve been blessed to spend with some awfully remarkable people in my life. For that, I’m thankful.

Oh, yeah…I’m also thankful for pies. Especially the ones Lauren and I will make tomorrow.

On Pie Day.

P. S. It is legal in all 50 states (and in all 195 countries across the world...probably) to eat pumpkin pie as an appetizer and for dessert on Thanksgiving. So go wild.

Dad: By the Numbers

2024-06-10T09:04:00.000-07:00

I outlived my Dad today.

I don't know what to say next because I don't know what comes next. Today is my 22,877th day and I never got to see what he was like on his 22,877th day. Or his 22,878th.

His calendar stopped at 22,876. Forever.

So I'm stepping into uncharted territory.

My Mother has known me much longer than she knew him. That doesn't seem right. The two of them made me and my sister, after all. Mom and Dad knew each other for 41 years. Mom and I have known each other for almost 63 years.

Dad and I only got to know each other for 35. I've been without him now for nearly 28 years. In seven years, I'll have not had him for longer than I did have him.

I could use a roadmap. I wish he'd stayed longer. A lot longer. I think it might've helped.

I guess what I'm saying is I wish he'd have gotten his 22,877th day...and more. Lots more.

I hate that so many of the days we had on Earth together weren't what they could have been...should have been. Sadly, we don't get those days back. Such is the nature of days.

Early Happy Father's Day, Pop. Father's Day this year will land on my 22,882nd day. Five more than you got. And 28 Father's Days without you.

That's so unfair. For both of us.

I See You Loud

2024-05-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

Some days She speaks to me more than others.

Just this evening, a man came in wearing black-and-white-checked Vans, then I saw a children's book authored by Lauren Child.

I see You, gurlie. I see You loud.

It's OK

2024-05-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

It's OK to ask me about Her.

Don't be concerned that mentioning Her will bring Her to mind and make me sad.

She's never not on my mind. And I'll always be sad that She's gone.

But I'll also always be happy that I had Her in my life. Not just happy...blessed.

I will always think of Her. Every day. Some days, all day. Those days can be really heavy.

But when you ask me about Her, it tells me you cared about Her, me, or both of us. That makes the heavy just a little bit lighter.

On the less heavy days, asking me about Her makes me smile. I think of some silly thing She did that made me laugh. Or some crazy thing She did that made me shake my head. But it always reminds me how fortunate I was to have Her in my life for 27 years.

I don't talk about Her nearly as much as I think about Her. I don't want you to have to feel the heavy.

So even though I talk about Her sometimes, I keep most of it to myself. And that can be a little bit lonely.

But that's OK. She matters so much to me and always will. If you know her, She matters to you differently. And that’s OK.

So it's OK to ask me about Her.

Because when you ask me about Her, it lets me know you cared about Her. Or me. Or both of us.

And it tells me that Her being gone matters to you, too. Then I feel less alone with my thoughts of Her.

And that makes me happy.

And I bet it makes Her happy, too.

Lauren Renee Higginbotham

February 9, 1993 - May 6, 2023

Return to Loo Corner

2024-03-01T03:31:00.000-08:00

Welcome to your life

There’s no turning back

On May 6, 2023, at 1:46 am Eastern Daylight Time, Lauren Renee Higginbotham died of multiple organ failure due to cirrhosis, resulting from alcohol dependence. She died of what is commonly called alcoholism.

Lauren was 30 years old.

And she was my daughter.

It’s my own design

It’s my own remorse

Help me to decide

Lauren knew she was an alcoholic. She entered her first alcohol treatment program at age 21. Over the next nine years, Lauren was treated multiple times for alcohol abuse and dependence, as well as other issues related to (and not related to) alcoholism.

At one point, she had remained sober for more than one year before once again drinking, which she knew would not turn out well. And it didn’t.

Help me make the

Most of freedom and of pleasure

Lauren loved the beach. She lived most of her life in Florida, so it’s what she knew and where she found peace. Lauren also loved her friends. She was what I like to call a “friend collector.” When she would move from place to place, or when friends would move on with their lives, Lauren didn’t replace these friends. She kept them, stayed in touch with them, and simply added more.

Lauren also loved dogs, adventure, and her family.

These were her pleasures.

Lauren also liked drinking. More specifically, Lauren liked that when she drank, the demons in her mind that haunted her, quieted. At least they did for a while.

By the end, drinking no longer gave her peace from the emotional and mental wounds that she accumulated over her far too short life. But, while she tried, she never could stop drinking.

And it killed her.

Say that you'll never, never, never, never need it
One headline, why believe it?

The last time I saw Lauren was April 27, 2023, just nine days before her death, at the hospital she would ultimately never leave.

Lauren's Mother had told me Lauren was very sick, but I don't think I truly believed her. Or it didn't really sink in.

I went to visit Lauren and the overwhelming first impression I had when I walked in the door of her hospital room was just how yellow she was. The whites of her eyes, weren’t. Her skin was yellow and her fingernails were yellow. It was obvious she was not in good physical shape.

The most difficult part to process, to this day, was how disconnected from reality she was. She was convinced that she was in a hotel, not a hospital, and she called what she believed was the “front desk” numerous times over the three days we spent with her. She was convinced that she was leaving to go to dinner with us, and she grew increasingly frustrated with the nurses at the “front desk” who refused to let her go.

At this point, Lauren had multiple IVs, a Foley catheter, and an nasogastric tube. Needless to say, she wasn’t going anywhere to eat anything.

Because of Lauren’s liver disease, the ammonia level in her bloodstream caused myriad bizarre behaviors and thought patterns. She was convinced that there was a chihuahua in the air conditioning vent in her room, speaking to her.

There’s a room where the light won’t find you

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

When they do I’ll be right behind you

Lauren told us she wanted “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” played at her funeral. I tried to play that off and suggested we play it at her wedding instead. She agreed. But the odd thing is that she wanted a one-man band version played, with her as the one-man band. And she played no instruments. She said she would just make the sounds with her mouth.

Lauren was not OK. And she never would be again.

When I left Jacksonville to return home, I kissed Lauren on the forehead and told her I’d see her soon. We were hopeful that the doctors would be able to stabilize Lauren’s kidney and liver functioning so she could begin to heal. A week after we left, she underwent a first round of dialysis and the doctor was hopeful. “After all, she’s young. She’s only 30.”

Two days later, Lauren was gone.

So glad we’ve almost made it it

So sad they had to fade it

We didn’t play “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” at Lauren’s funeral. Nor will we have the opportunity to play it at her wedding.

Lauren was my daughter. Is my daughter.

And she didn’t have to die.

I can't stand this indecision

Married with a lack of vision

Lauren didn’t have to die.

And neither do you.

Most people have a “Lauren” in their life. Someone whose drinking or other substance use is causing problems in their lives and the lives of those who love them. Some of them get sick or do permanent damage to themselves or others. Some wind up in jail or prison. Some of them create lives for themselves that are simply survival and painful to watch or live.

Some of them die. Like Lauren.

But some of them recover.

All for freedom and for pleasure

Nothing ever lasts forever

From the time Lauren was 4 or 5, I called her "Loo Loo," or "Loo."

That is why, at Patchouli Joe's (our bookstore in Denton, Texas), we created Loo Corner. This is a hand-curated selection of books specifically dealing with substance abuse recovery for women. The majority of the books have been recommended by women in recovery as books that helped them along their journey to recovery from alcohol and other substance problems.

Patchouli Joe's will donate 20% from the sale of the books in Loo Corner to an in-residence substance abuse treatment facility in Denton, help young women to find their path to recovery.

I will never forget Lauren and I am confident I will never fully recovery from losing her. She was my light, my Sweet Pickle, my baby girl...my daughter. My Loo Loo.

Her death will never make sense to me but if one person is able to find a path to peace that Lauren never did, her death will not have been in vain.

I think Lauren would like that.

I love you, Loo.

And I always will.

All for freedom and for pleasure

Nothing ever lasts forever

Everybody wants to rule the world

("Everybody Wants to Rule the World" lyrics © Bmg 10 Music Limited; written by Ian Stanley, Roland Orzabal, and Chris Hughes)

Thirsty?

2021-12-18T08:31:00.006-08:00

Your dog has no idea where their fresh water comes from.

They just know that when their throat is feeling a little parched, or if they need a drink to wash down some kibble, or if they’re just bored, they saunter to the water dish and it’s filled with fresh, clean, cool water with which to slake their thirst. (Or water with ice, if your dog is particularly spoiled/loved).

The expression of joy bordering on ecstasy on the face of your favorite pup after they drink illuminates the room. They went to their dish, lapped up some refreshment, and they turn to you with such an expression of bliss as to say, “I cannot believe how amazing the world is and how fortunate I am that I am blessed to have been able to partake in such a magical life moment!” Or words to that effect.

Their response is not to run over to hug your leg and say, “Thank you, dear friend, for having done such a kind and wonderful thing for me!” It is simple joy and gratitude that the water (with ice) was there.

Yum!

They usually aren’t even around while we’re doing it. They’re either napping somewhere, or out chasing squirrels, or getting into the bathroom garbage can while we’re not looking. They just know that when that moment of thirst comes, the water is there and life is good.

Sometimes we get to witness this joy and that is our reward. Often, however, we don’t see it. We just glance at the dish and notice that the volume has diminished and surmise that our beloved canine friend has partaken during the day.

So why do we do it?

Aside from the obvious life sustaining need to provide our furry friends with liquid, we go the extra steps of cleaning the dish, running the water until it reaches an appropriately cool and refreshing temperature, before filling the bowl. Again, if your buddy is particularly (properly) pampered, you add ice to ensure it retains the cooling and refreshing properties longer.

Sometimes this is, frankly, a pain in the ass. We just want to dump the dish and run tepid water into it, just to have the chore completed. But we don’t do that. Because we love our critters, whether we get to see them enjoy the watery fruits of our labors or not.

Again…why do we do this?

Because we love them. We want them to feel some of the joy we feel when they snoodle up next to us on the couch or in bed, to feel appreciated the way they make us feel appreciated when they respond to our re-entry into the house as though we were the greatest of God’s majestic creations.

It doesn’t matter if they previously opened Christmas gifts well before December 25th (or 24th, if you’re a cretin). We don’t care if they pooped on the rug that time we left them in the house too long or if they shredded our favorite pillow.

We don’t take the time and care to give them fresh water as our end of a transaction of love. That’s not how our arrangement works. They do some stuff we like and some we don’t. It doesn’t matter. We still give them fresh water (with ice, if you have a soul) and we do it gladly.

We do it because we have been blessed to share a walk along life’s path with them for a spell, and we want them to be happy. We do it out of simple, pure, and unmitigated love.

Here’s a thought: Wouldn’t the world be a happier and all-around better place if we treated each other the same way?

What if we decided that, deservedly or not, we were going to give everyone else in the world a metaphorical drink of cool, crisp water. Hell, let’s go all out and even include a little ice to make it even more refreshing.

It wouldn’t matter if they knew who did the nice thing or if no one ever bothered to thank you. If we just all set out a dish of cool water everywhere we went, so that no matter who came along, it would be there for them.

Wouldn’t it make you happy if you were thirsting for some positivity, only to find that someone had left a dish of it somewhere along your daily path?

Whaddya say?

Pop

2020-06-21T08:21:00.001-07:00

Charles Edward “Chuck” Mayes was born on January 18, 1934, at the Presidio of Monterey, California. His mother, married often, was at the time married to a man named George Mayes, a soldier stationed in California.

Chuck Mayes is my Father.

My Dad never talked about knowing George Mayes. In fact, throughout his life, he never was quite certain if George was his Father. He never talked much about his childhood at all and most of what I know about it came from my Uncle George, my Dad’s younger brother.

Dad was one of nine children -- two girls and 7 boys. From what I understand about his childhood, it was largely focused on surviving challenging circumstances. I’m not really clear about where he lived during most of his youth but I do know he spent time with a grandfather in Webster, Massachusetts. Aside from that, when Dad talked about where he grew up, it was more about the living circumstances -- foster homes and living with family members -- than a particular geographic location. At age 14, he was sent to live with his mother’s brother in Wisconsin.

Two months and two days after turning 18 years old, Dad joined the US Air Force. Given what I understand of his upbringing, he was statistically more likely to have ended up in prison. Yet Dad spent the next twenty years of his life devoted to the Air Force, serving both in the Korean war and in Viet Nam. Dad married my Mom in 1955 while Dad was stationed in Tucson, Arizona. They had two children: my sister Malinda in 1956 and me in 1961. They were married for more than 40 years.

Dad picked up his GED somewhere along the way and toward the end of his military career, he began taking college courses. By the time he retired from the Air Force in 1972, he decided to become a teacher, achieving that goal in 1976.

When I think of my Dad, I largely think of the things we did together. Playing catch, throwing the ball across the street, pausing for cars to pass as the neighbors arrived home from work. I remember camping as a family and him teaching me how to safely handle a firearm while teaching me to hunt. We spent a lot of time fishing, some of my fondest memories of time with Dad.

Being a military man, Dad was often away in exotic places like the Philippines and Boise, Idaho. As a child growing up in northern California, all the places Dad went seemed equally distant and exotic. So I remember many times when Dad wasn’t there.

Dad taught for nearly twenty years after the Air Force. He had a particular passion for, and fondness of, special needs children. Given his challenging childhood, that makes sense to me. He always fought for those who couldn’t always fight for themselves.

Most of my memories of Dad are of him being larger than life. He was gregarious, intense, funny (though he could not tell a joke to save his life), and his laugh brings a smile to my face every time I think of it.

Dad never met a stranger. He would strike up conversations with anyone, on any subject, at any time. Again, I smile knowing that this particular apple did not fall far from that tree.

Like many of us, Dad has his demons. It’s understandable, given his upbringing. He had flaws -- also like all of us. While he may not have always been proud of the things my sister and I did, he was always proud to be our Father.

By quick count there are seventeen human beings that owe their existence to my Dad. My sister and I each had two children. My daughter has a son and my sister’s kids each have five. These are fully formed, flawed, living human beings that would have not otherwise existed had it not been for him. There are also another four who, while not blood-related, knew “Poppi” and whose lives were shaped by him.

In addition to the twenty-one of us, there are literally hundreds more (maybe thousands) whose lives were directly touched by Dad. In addition to his students, there were the kids he coached in Little League and others with whom he came in contact with. All who knew him remembered him, most fondly.

My memories of Dad are less movie reel and more snapshots. I guess that’s really how memories are. Trying to acknowledge a man's life in a few words is like trying to describe the ocean. I can tell you about some of its features but you can't truly know what it's like if you don't experience it. And no matter how many times I've visited, I will never know what it's like to actually be the ocean.

I will never be able to know what it was like to be my Father. Mostly, however, I remember a man who loved being a father and who did everything he knew to do to make his children’s lives better than the one he’d been given. And he did that.

Dad departed this mortal coil on September 4, 1996. He was far too young -- just 62-years old. There's not a week that goes by when I don't think of him and wish for just one more conversation. Instead what I have are the memories of a man without whom I would have not gotten to experience this adventure we call life.

We all have Fathers. Some are noble and inspirational. Some are so broken and damaged that all they can do is inflict more damage on their children.

But most Dads are somewhere in the middle, a mix of positive and negative traits. Just like all of us. Most Dads simply do what they believe is best for their children, while attempting to navigate their own life challenges.

My Dad was no different than the rest except in one key way:

This one was mine. And he’ll never be replaced. Or forgotten.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

God Bless -- and Forgive -- America

2019-07-04T06:32:00.001-07:00

I recently had a discussion on social media with someone about the effects of slavery on the overall economy of the early United States.

The discussion (predictably) included inputs from some whose comments seemed more intended to divide than unite.

On social media! I know...right?!?

I was presented with the following question:

"So it sounds as if cotton and slavery are very intertwined. What shall we do?!"

While it might have been intended to be dismissive and/or snarky, I chose to accept it as an honest inquiry worthy of a thoughtful response:

What shall we do?

My reply:

I certainly don't claim to have all the answers but here are some thoughts about what we could do:

- Acknowledge the fact that at the time of our great Nation's declaration of independence from England -- a declaration that included the phrase, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness..." -- the practices of many of those in power did not align with this principle. Their businesses (including the cotton industry and others which benefited from it) benefited from the exploitation of African slaves.

- Try to understand that because of this fact, those whose ancestry included slaves are likely have a far different reaction to discussions about the founding of this country than those of us who descended from European ancestors.

- Accept that these reactions are valid and based on facts from our history.

- Openly and freely discuss the uncomfortable notion that not all of America's history is noble. Just like an individual is flawed, so too is the fabric of our country. When a person screws up, most of us have respect for them when they acknowledge their mistake and do what they can to make things right, particularly when they correct the damage done to others. Same holds true for a group of people, even a nation.

- In that vein, one would have to acknowledge and understand the harm done in order to repair it. The only way to do that is to truly listen to and hear the perspective of those harmed. Kind of like what our forefathers did in their missive to King George and the world back in 1776.

So, Steve, to my way of thinking, the first thing we as a nation can do is un-defensively hear the perspective of others whose experiences are different than ours. The list of those who view this great experiment differently from us is long: African-Americans, Asian-Americans, Spanish- and other non-English-speaking immigrants, LGBTQ+, women...the list goes on.

We create a nation where those differences can be discussed openly, with an eye toward finding our common human ground. We create an environment based on the principle that, in fact, ALL people are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

We be human first and American second.

I am eternally grateful for the fact that I was born in this great country. I take no pride in that fact, however, as I had nothing to do with that.

I do, however, take pride in having stood to defend those whose voices were not being heard and for fighting for those who could not fight for themselves. I take pride in earnestly listening and trying to understand the perspective of those whose experiences are different than mine. I take pride in the fact that when I screw up -- which I often do -- I can acknowledge it and do what i can to make things right, then not do that thing again.

I take pride in being a decent, though imperfect, human being.

Those are the things America is capable of. And it's up to each of us to insist upon it, as a Nation.

Perhaps this would be more succinct (and coherent) after coffee but your question weighed on my heart.

So today, on the 243rd anniversary of the declaration of our independence as a Nation, I ask that God continue to bless, guide, and forgive all Americans as we endeavor to grow toward the ideals upon which the Nation was ostensibly formed.

The United States Flag, tattered but intact, imperfect but representative of an aspirational ideal.
Taken at Veterans Park in Leander, Texas on Memorial Day 2019
© 2019 EvenFellows Publishing LLC. All rights reserved.

Seven 7hings: About Helen

2019-03-30T10:22:00.000-07:00

A rare guest blog today, by Diane Boeglin Mayes in honor of her long-time friend who conquered cancer and has joined the Spirit of all the loved ones who've gone on before us...

7 things you should know about my friend Helen:

1. Helen was a renowned kitchen cleaner, particularly other people’s kitchens. I was pregnant with Charlie when my mother passed away. Helen came over and made me sit down and visit with her while she cleaned my kitchen. It was the nicest thing that anyone could have done for me at that moment. It wasn’t until later that I realized she pretty much cleaned everyone’s kitchens whenever she visited anyone.

2. Helen is the reason that Charlie will have to marry someone who has perfected the back scratch.

3. When I got divorced Helen was the only person to successfully stay friends with both of us. Anyone who knows us realizes this was a great accomplishment. Helen just wouldn’t let either of us lose her friendship.

4. Helen loved a celebration. She would always buy the biggest balloon to take to the restaurant for birthdays. She even made me wear a goofy hat and sash for my bachelorette party. If you know me, you know that I only wore it because it was Helen who asked me to. She wouldn’t have taken “no” for an answer.

5. She loved her DFW area sports. She would hoot and holler for all of the Dallas teams, as if they could hear her from our seats in the nose bleed section.

6. My wedding to Joe was supposed to be immediate family only, due to space. That was until Helen and I went out for lunch and she said that she was family so surely, she was invited too. How could I say no? Then Helen, even though she was already sick, spent the entire reception cleaning up after everyone, finishing up the day by cleaning the kitchen.

7. Helen was truly more than a friend. She was family. We raised our children together, laughed together, and cried together. I loved her like the sister I never had, and I will truly miss her.

And one more thing, I am pretty certain that after the celebration when she got to heaven, she was walking around picking up the cake plates and asking God if he was finished with his plate yet.

Helen Welborn was Texas: Kind, welcoming, and a backbone of steel. She was as gentle and sweet as she was resolute in her beliefs.

I thank God I got to know you just a little, Helen. Now sit your ass down and let someone else clean the kitchen for a change.

Dear Florida

2018-04-27T18:13:00.002-07:00

Dear Florida,

It’s not you, it’s me.

I think we’ve both known for a long time that this day was coming. We got together twenty-seven years ago and it has never been a good fit. Even though we reunited after my six-month relationship with Alabama and my year with Tennessee, we both knew it wasn’t going to last.

I mean, you did know that…right?

You have people flocking to you so I know you’ll be fine without me. In fact, you’ll probably not even notice I’m gone.

As I said, it’s me. I was just never able to adjust to all the things that make you uniquely you. Some people love the feeling of breathing liquid air and discovering sand deep inside various recesses three days after visiting the beach. I’m just not one of them.

Oh, sure, you have certain charm. Some parts of you are breathtaking, like your Emerald Coast beaches. The water is actually green! But to be fair, that’s not really you; it’s just the area around you.

And that I think is the real issue. You have a great reputation but there’s really not much substance to you. You’re so heavily influenced by outside factors and other people that there never really seemed to be much that was organically and genuinely you.

Your real claim to fame is warm winters, sunshine, and no state income tax. In fact, despite the rule that you never give yourself a nickname, you dubbed yourself “The Sunshine State.” Like most of your coastal areas (and Orlando), I just find that a little bit tacky.

Yes…there’s someone else. Someone that has warm winters and at least as much sunshine as you do. Plus it has no state income tax.

But in addition, this other place has a genuine culture all its own and a personality as big as it is geographically vast.

You see, Florida, I’m moving to Texas.

I’ll have plenty of warmth and sunshine with Texas, plus TexMex, music, BBQ, and people who have lived there for generations. Texans are Texans by blood. Most Floridians are Floridians because New Jersey and Ohio sucked.

I don’t wish you ill, Florida. In fact, I hope the best for you. But that has to start with some introspection and reflection on who and what you are. I wish you well on your journey but have no interest in continuing to slog along with you through the humidity, mosquitos, and gators as you discover what and who you want to be when you grow up.

So, best of luck to you, Florida. But in 48 hours, I’ll be in Texas and have no intentions of looking back. I’m already getting a little sense of what it means to be #TexasProud.

Sincerely y’all,
Joe

P.S. And, yes…there’s a girl. Her name is Diane and I adore her. She is warm (year round) and brightens every day (like sunshine). Plus she doesn’t charge me income tax (so far).

Something About Mary

2018-03-05T18:51:00.000-08:00

Riding up the elevator at work today a friend asked me, “So…how’s married life?”

“It sucks.”

She looked momentarily startled. Clearly not the response she was expecting.

“Um..OK. Why?”

“Because we live a thousand miles apart!”

Clearly that minor detail has had some adverse impact on the overall marital experience.

Obviously being married to Diane doesn’t suck. I love her very much and we grow closer every day. Well, emotionally and spiritually, that is. The physical distance hasn’t diminished one iota. We love each other very much and could not be happier to be married.

But the reality is that following our wedding we essentially returned to our respective pre-nuptial lives. We were married in a beautiful ceremony (thank you, Suzi!) in an idyllic setting (thank you, Susan!) surrounded by family and friends, some who travelled 12,000 miles (literally…thank you, Nick and Della) and some whose presence was simultaneously surprising and greatly appreciated (thanks, Mom).

Following our wedding day – literally the next day – Diane and I loaded up my pickup with our baggage (literal and metaphorical) and our respective daughters (see previous) and headed east for a wonderful week in Florida, where we all had wonderful bonding time. (The fact that Stephanie’s and Lauren’s bonding time was perhaps more exciting than ours takes nothing away from the fact that Diane and I thoroughly enjoyed our first week together as husband and wife.)

Then came the dreaded parting. One week after the wedding, we were separated (physically) once again.

Hence, it sucks.

Adding even more stress and anxiety to our status as newlyweds is that we still don’t know where we’re going to live. I don’t mean “where” as in we don’t know in which house. I mean we don’t know in which state. About the time we think the dust has settled and we have an eye on which town and state we’re going to be in, something else pops up and we’re right back to square one. We’ve been whipped back and forth more than a drunken bull rider at the Austin Rodeo.

Given the challenge of spending the first months as husband and wife 1,000 miles apart, the question several people have asked is, “Then why did you decide to get married before all that was settled?”

The answers to that question didn’t come all at once but for those curious, here is a look into our decision process.

As those who have been following our little soap opera know, we’ve had something of a whirlwind romance, nearly forty years in the making. We met when we were sixteen-years old and knew each other for less than a year before we parted ways. Thirty-eight and a half years later, we reconnected. The lives we had lived for the nearly four decades in between prepared us perfectly to come back together, though it took some time for us to really believe it was happening. (Truth is, once my knees buckled when I saw her in person after all those years, I knew. I just knew.)

Almost exactly a year after we reconnected, we decided we were going to go down that path and we became engaged. Naturally, discussions about the wedding popped up soon thereafter.

The location for the wedding came to mind almost immediately. About two months prior, I visited Diane in Texas. We went to dinner with Diane’s sister-in-law Susan (one of the Su’s-in-law), then watched the final game of the 2017 World Series at Susan’s home. Both the home and Susan were warm and welcoming and the love she had for Diane was evident.

The fact of the matter is that Diane and I would never have met each other those forty-odd years (some odder than others) earlier had it not been for her brother Rick and Susan.

So when we began talking about where to hold the wedding, I asked if Diane thought Susan would agree to us holding the wedding in her home, which she did.

But when to get married was still up in the air. But as we thought back to that early November night in Dallas, an idea began to percolate.

Like his father, Rick and Susan’s son Nick is a teacher living overseas. He was living in Taiwan with his girlfriend Della and the real star of the show, Medina. During the World Series game, Susan mentioned that Nick, Della, and Medina would be visiting the states in January and February. Additionally, Rick and Susan’s daughter Rachel would be coming from New York with her boyfriend during that same time. So Susan would have both her children – and her grand-diva Medina – visiting for a month.

The conversation between Diane and me started with, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we got married while Nick, Della, Rachel, Francesco, and Her Royal Highness the Most Exalted Medina, were in town?”

The “wouldn’t it be cool” quickly transitioned into “is it possible?” then “why not?”

So our first reason for getting married in February was so that Nick, Della, Medina, Rachel, and Francesco would be there.

But there was another reason why it made sense for us to move quickly, forty years later:

Life is short.

The decision to go forward as husband and wife and spend the rest of our lives together was already made. That deal was struck. The only remaining issue was one of timing.

With both of us having lost people close to us, we have a deep sense of just how precious our time with loved ones is. We were deeply in love, committed to each other until death do us part, so why not take advantage of a rare opportunity to have as many loved ones around us as possible on our wedding day?

And that’s what we did. The wedding day was perfect. I was able to talk with Nick a little about his Dad. I finally got to meet the dynamic Della face-to-face. I got to talk with Rachel and Francesco and even got to pay my respects to the true Ruler of the extended Boeglin family, Medina.

My mother and sister, Malinda, came from Las Vegas, along with my sister’s fiancé, Scotty. My oldest son travelled from Los Angeles. My daughter took the twenty-plus hour roadie from Jacksonville to Dallas (and back) so she could be there. Diane’s local family and friends came and one cousin and her husband even travelled from Buffalo, New York. Stephanie made the cake and invented Grooms' Balls™, and she, Brett, and Charlie stood with their mother. Malinda, Jon, and Lauren stood with me. The other Su-in-law, Suzi, officiated the wedding. Dozens of family and friends surrounded us and made our day perfect.

We were truly wrapped in a living, breathing embrace of love.

The day was so perfect that we had no doubt that we had made the right decision, despite the fact that we were going to have to go back to coffee alone every morning and Skyping before bed every night. It wasn’t optimal but the fact that we were married would – and has – sustained us as the uncertainty continues to swirl around us.

But the real reason we got married in February wasn’t revealed to us until a couple weeks after we became Mister and Missus Mayes.

Among the family surrounding us on February 10, 2018 were Uncle Frankie and Aunt Mary. When Diane’s parents passed away, it was Frankie and Mary who stepped in to be grandparents to Brett, Stephanie, and Charlie and to be Diane’s anchor as she navigated the rough seas on her own.

When I went to see Diane in November, we arranged to stop by and spend some time with Frankie and Mary, along with Diane’s cousins Kaye and Karl. The meeting was ostensibly so I could meet them but I was astute enough to know that it was really one of the final interviews before I would be allowed to join clan Boeglin/McIntosh. As have been all my interactions with Diane’s family, the visit was filled with warmth and love and I left grateful that I was getting a new Uncle and Aunt (and cousins) in the bargain.

Side note: Two things I remember most vividly about Mary from the visit to her and Frankie’s home were both related to her love of Texas. As an outsider (non-Texas resident), Mary showed me just how much she loved her adopted home state. Her “I wasn’t born in Texas but I got her as quick as I could,” made me chuckle. And she wore a ring, silver or white gold, with a small charm in the shape of Texas attached to it. So I got the sense that the fact that Diane and I were married in Dallas gave the union greater credibility in Mary’s eyes.

At the wedding, Mary was resplendent in a yellow dress, awash in grace, dignity, and love. She and my mother sat and visited for a long time and her innate ability to make everyone she encountered feel like the most important person the room was felt everywhere, by everyone. But this was no surprise. It was typical of her. It’s just who she was.

A few days after the wedding, we got word that Mary had suffered a heart attack and was in the hospital. The prognosis seemed promising but just as sudden as the notice that she was in the hospital came the word none of us wanted to hear.

Mary left us on February 21, 2018, eleven days after she watched Diane and I exchange our vows. Eleven days after she kissed us goodbye – on the mouth, of course – she passed on, joining Ronnie, Audrey, both Charleses, Rick, Tim, Daniel, and the rest of our loved ones who welcomed Aunt Mary home.

Before this, when people asked us why we got married in February, forty-some-odd days after we got engaged, we said that we wanted Nick, Della, Rachel, Francesco, and The Magnificent Medina to be there on our special day. We told them that life was short and we saw no point in waiting since we already knew that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.

We told them what we thought were the real reasons.

But the reality was that it wasn’t our minds that led us to choose that date. It was our hearts and our spirits. It was as though some force greater than us was guiding our decision, a decision neither Diane nor I ever questioned, before or since.

We got married on February 10, 2018 because were supposed to, though if pressed, we’d have had a difficult time expressing exactly why.

Now we know why.

Mary had to be there.

And she had to kiss us good-bye one last time.

On the lips. Of course.

Dear Brady: “What’s so special about Diane?”

2017-12-30T12:00:00.003-08:00

My youngest son, Brady, has a way of cutting to the heart of things. After recently returning home to Anchorage from the top of planet Earth (north slope of Alaska), he saw the announcement that Diane and I were engaged. As a son concerned that perhaps his old Dad had gone soft in the head, he wanted to know why I would want to marry again after the disastrous ending of my previous marriage.

Specifically, he wanted to know, “What’s so special about Diane?”

So for Brady and for anyone else who may be wondering but who haven’t had the guts to ask, let me try to explain.

Dear Brady,

Hope all is well with you there at the top of Earth. It is at this time of year when I can really identify with the harshness of the climate in which you live. While it’s 7° in Anchorage, it’s 42° here in Florida. It’s like we’re weather twinsies.

So you asked me what’s so special about Diane that I would want to marry her, given the craziness of the past year and a half. Good question. Fair question. Let me back up just a little and see if this helps.

Of course after things unfolded the way they did, there was no possible way I could ever trust another human being enough to have an emotionally intimate relationship. When someone whom you trust completely betrays you at a level like that, trust is a commodity that is simply not available. So I made peace with the fact that I’d have friends and acquaintances but would never have a close relationship with another woman. Why would I make myself vulnerable to that kind of betrayal again?

And it was in the midst of this emotional upheaval that I became reacquainted with Diane.

As you know, Diane and I knew each other in high school, about a thousand years and 8,000 miles ago. I had just completed the first of my three high school years in Germany, something of an outsider since my parents weren’t military at the time and it was the first time since I’d started school that I didn’t live in the hometown in which I grew up.

Even though you were an Air Force brat, you never had to (got to?) experience the overseas brat life. It’s really quite extraordinary, something I still think about today.

I’m fascinated by the dynamic that occurs in that environment. People from all walks of life are plucked from their safe homes, with people they know and a culture with which they are familiar, and dropped into a weird crucible in which the social instinct kicks in and you find ways to connect with people who may be vastly different from you, but with whom you crave a connection.

Keep in mind that I went through this in the 1970’s. There were no internet, email, texts, Skype, or Facebook. Telephone calls were very expensive and used only on the rare occasions when family emergencies happened. For example, I recall only two calls from Aunt Malinda during the three years I was there. The second was the birth of your cousin, Sarah. The first was when Aunt Malinda called, sobbing, to inform us that Elvis had died. Hey...we all define “family emergencies” differently. But you get my point.

Not only were we dropped into a group of people whom we’d never known and who didn’t know us, there was virtually no contact with the outside world. Oh, sure, there were letters and cards but in the fast-paced world of high school, waiting two or three weeks for a correspondence seemed like lifetimes. We occasionally stayed connected after people left but it wasn’t the same as our day-to-day navigating life.

As a result, we learned to adapt quickly, to get to know people and to determine who to trust and who not to. Of course, these quick assessments occasionally proved incorrect but eventually we learned that the social connection was important enough to risk getting hurt by the betrayal of a high school friend.

Because we were all we had, in a setting where outside influence was virtually non-existent, we connected with people. Only some of these connections ended up being enduring but as I said, we were all we had. So I learned to open up and let others get to know me and me get to know them, quickly. And as a result, the connections we forged were hugely significant to us.

It was all very new to me, having grown up in one town my whole school life. But I adapted and developed relationships with people from all cultures, from all over the United States and the World, with some of the most amazing people I’d ever known.

Then came the phenomenon known as “summer rotation.”

The standard accompanied tour (where military member was assigned to a base with his or her family) was three years and rotations were generally scheduled for the summer to minimize the disruption to the kids of the military member. I had arrived in June of 1976 and by the following June, I had made friends who had become hugely important to me. I learned I had to make myself vulnerable to others, who likewise did the same with me. It was really quite amazing and I haven’t experienced anything like it, before or since.

However, when June of 1977 rolled around, these people with whom I’d grown very close started leaving, heading back to “the world.” We talked about staying in touch and some of us even did...for a while. But while letters may have started out fairly regularly, they eventually diminished to the point where these close friends were no longer part of our lives.

I remember one departure that hit me particularly hard. There were twin sisters -- Allison and Beth -- with whom I’d grown close. While both were good friends, I was particularly close to Beth. They were a year older and Beth had been a great friend, helping me navigate not only the bizarre social situation in which I’d found myself, but also the normal boy-and-girl dymanic that all high school kids go through. While I had a huge crush on Beth, she didn’t feel the same way but that did not prevent her from being a great friend to me, helping me navigate this life that was so new and foreign.

So in early June of 1977, I convinced my parents to drive me the 45 minutes to the terminal from which Allison and Beth would be departing. I had dinner with their family while my parents went off shopping or something, then I said goodbye to them at the terminal.

On the way home, I was inconsolable. I had never experienced something like this, a loss so significant that it felt as though I’d lost a limb. Of course part of this was due to the fact that I was a hormonal 14-year old boy but it was devastating nonetheless.

My parents tried to console me, to no avail. How could they possibly understand the magnitude of my loss?!? Never mind the fact that they had experienced far more significant losses in their lives; it was the first time I’d had to deal with something like this and I was wholly unequipped to handle it.

Poppi then said something to me that at the time I held as blasphemous but that later I came to understand. He held up his right hand, all five fingers extended. “If over the course of your life, you can count the number of close relationships you have on one hand, you’ll be very fortunate.” While the prima facie stupidity of his comment rang loudly and clearly at that moment, I discovered that in this case (as in most others), the older I got, the smarter Poppi became.

I sobbed my way back home, then sobbed my way to sleep that night and probably through a few days, before life returned. More friends left but none were as painful as that first time. I eventually learned to deal with this unfairness and said my goodbyes quickly, like ripping a bandage off a still healing wound. But the wounds did, in fact, heal.

As I mentioned, this dynamic was all new to me. Many of the people there were used to this odd cycle of connection and loss, repeated every year. It was their normal. But for me it was still new and odd. I discovered, too, that it wasn’t any better when I was the one to leave the pack. When it came my time to return to the “world,” I discovered that I felt completely unmoored when I got back. I sought the type of connections we had in Germany and they just weren’t there. I discovered later that I wasn’t alone, that the reentry following Hahn was jarring and difficult for many of us.

It’s hard to explain to someone who has never had the experience. But it certainly shaped how I have interacted with people ever since, for good and sometimes not-so-good.

Of course for every rotation out, there were rotations in. As old friends would depart, new ones would arrive and we learned quickly that strangers in the hallway or on the football field were just friends we hadn’t yet gotten to know. Friends who would very quickly become indispensible part of our lives.

And this is when I met Diane.

After my first year there and having experienced one full cycle of being the new guy, learning to connect, then learning to say goodbye, I was a seasoned vet. I remembered very well the challenge of being dropped into a new social setting and having to quickly adapt. So as others arrived, I tried to be as welcoming as possible.

Of course the career military brats were used to it. But those of us who hadn’t spent our entire lives on one military base or another were a smaller subset of the larger group. We were experiencing this all for the first time.

Diane was one of these. Her brother, Rick, was a history teacher and took on the responsibility as the football coach my second (junior) year there. He and his wife, Susan, were from Dallas, Texas and he had taken a job teaching high school at the base, wanting to experience more culture than what they found in Dallas.

Diane convinced her mother that she, too, needed to expand her horizons and asked to spend a year with Rick and Susan in Germany. She had been born and raised in Dallas and had never lived anywhere else. And while the details of this negotiation is Diane’s story to tell, suffice it say that her perseverance paid off and she arrived in Germany in August of 1977.

Having been in Diane’s shoes just a year prior, I was eager to welcome the outsider, the young girl who had spent her entire non-military life in one place, now faced with the daunting challenge of living in a foreign country with a brand new group of people.

Diane told me that I was the first person she met at Hahn. She said I walked up to her, introduced myself, and even walked her to her first class once school started. As I mentioned, I could empathize with her situation, having been the new kid just twelve months earlier, so I wanted to be helpful.

The fact that she was a beautiful young Texas sweetheart might’ve had something to do with it. After all, I was a hormonal 15-year old boy at the time.

Diane and I dated for about a month, though “dating” might be too strong a word for the romantic relationships in Germany. Almost none of us had cars and the opportunities to socialize were pretty rare. Neither Diane nor I lived on base with the majority of our classmates so most of the time we spent together was in school or just after. If we could coordinate rides to take us home, we would stay around after school, but there weren’t many real dates.

After about a month, we drifted apart (neither of us can remember why) and we went our separate ways. We remained friends and still saw each other in social settings regularly. When she left at the end of the ten months, tears were shed and addresses exchanged. Unlike most of cases, we actually did exchange at least one letter or card. But as with most cases, we eventually drifted apart and we lost contact completely sometime in 1978.

Yes, I know I haven’t yet addressed your question, “What’s so special about Diane?” I’m getting there. After all these years you know perfectly well that I simply cannot go directly to my elbow without first circumnavigating my ass. So be patient.

OK...flash forward some 39 years. The world has changed significantly since 1978, particularly in the world of technology. I actually joined The Facebooks and began seeing and reconnecting with some of my old high school chums.

Some are just as they were when we parted, frozen in a place in time where life made sense and the connections we forged there were the foundation stones of our lives.

Others had seemingly blocked that time from their memory banks altogether.

Some spent years afterwards trying to find their place in the world, settling in Australia, New Zealand, and Thailand.

We were a diverse bunch, politically, racially, socially, economically, but we continued to share a connection that even after all those years remained unbroken. We shared that common experience. We were -- and we remain -- Hahn.

On December 31, 2016, I received a Facebook message from one such name from my past:

“Well hello there Joe! Do you remember me from my one year stint in Hahn?”

It was Diane.

Now keep in mind the timing of all this. This came right on the heels of The Lesbian Situation. I cannot understate the impact of that on my life. While intellectually understanding that it didn’t necessarily reflect a rejection of me, it’s difficult not to take it that way. And being rejected at that level, not just for who I am but for what I am, was jarring to say the least.

So by December 31, 2016, I was at the point where I was questioning everything in my life, including everything about me. Connecting with old high school friends (and even some from when I was as young as four-years old) provided an opportunity to reflect on who I was as a man in relation to who I foresaw myself becoming when I was younger. It was like being mentally teleported back to a time when the world and all it held unfolded before me.

As I mentioned, the fact that we had been connected for a period of time four or more decades previously opened the doors to these relationships. In some cases, the opening of the door resulted in an abrupt slamming, as some of these former friends had become angry, bitter, small people. Grown adults arguing politics online, calling strangers vile names, and just generally behaving like, well, teenagers. I wanted no part of who these people had become.

Others, however, had actually grown to be really good people. Kind, intelligent, accomplished, warm, empathetic people. The kind of people I like to have in my life.

But the fact that I knew these people forty or more years ago isn’t what made me want to keep them in my life. It was because of who they had become and who they are today.

Diane is like that.

As I mentioned, we dated briefly in high school but unlike most adolescent breakups, we actually remained friends after. Not just casual, hanging out at party friends. We actually maintained a closeness, due in large part to the fact that we were both kind, empathetic people back then.

So of course the fond memories of Diane played a role in opening the door for me. But that’s not what led us to where we find ourselves today, engaged after all this time.

Though I was pretty much at emotional rock bottom on December 31, 2016, Diane retained the kindness and gentleness of spirit that I recall from all those years ago. (Note: What an odd thing for a 16-year old boy to remember about a girl...that she was kind and had a gentle spirit.) She still had those things, along with intelligence, wit, and an overall great personality.

But most of all what Diane was at the beginning was a friend.

We started chatting on The Facebooks before ultimately graduating to telephone, then Skype. Her voice sounded exactly as it had back then, with that adorable north Texas accent sneaking through despite her Mother’s best efforts to quash it. When we began Skyping, I saw that she looked exactly as she had in high school, too. Unfair when you consider that I’ve aged like a catcher’s mitt in a Florida swamp in July.

So in addition to the new, burgeoning friendship and emotional attraction, the physical attraction had survived the decades as well.

Following The Lesbian Situation, I decided I was going to leave Jacksonville just as quickly as I could find work elsewhere. I considered several areas and the best economy of the group seemed to be in the Dallas area. Since I’d not spent much time in Dallas, I decided I needed to determine if it would, in fact, suit me as my next home.

Still living in the Dallas area, Diane offered to show me around, an offer that I readily accepted. So in April I travelled to Dallas to scope it out and it was there and then that Diane and I reconnected in person.

Obviously there was a warmth and affection over the phone and on Skype but when I saw her in person after all those years, the spark struck. The story of that first reunion can be found elsewhere but we figured out pretty quickly that something romantic might be in the offing.

Obviously, I was in no emotional shape to get involved in any sort of relationship. I was, as my friend Peter said, a “soup sandwich,” a description with which I agreed, though I clarified that I was a turd-soup sandwich. A sandwich constructed by pouring turd soup on bread. Decidedly unpretty. Fortunately I had a great therapist and close friends like Peter and Craig to help me walk through all of this toward the sanity that must surely lie beyond.

And Diane was right there, alongside my other friends, encouraging me to strip away all of the old baggage so that I could move forward with my life as a stronger, better man. Not with any ulterior motive; she was simply being the kind, gentle-spirited friend she had always been.

As time went on, we spoke more and more, eventually making our Skype conversations a nightly event. We wrapped up our days by talking and laughing, mainly at the absurdity of life. In July she came to Florida for her first ever visit to “Palmetto Bug and Humidity” state. Our affection grew, though I was still in full-on recovery mode.

By the fall, I began feeling like I was emerging from a fog. It was probably early October -- more than 14 months since the onset of The Lesbian Situation -- that I actually began feeling like a whole person. I was writing again, a sure sign to me that I had emerged from the turd-soup chrysalis in which I’d been encased.

I took another trip to Dallas, this time not just to check out the area but to visit Diane. By this time it had become clear that despite my intention to relocate to the Dallas area, employers were not cooperating. So it looked like I was going to end up in Jacksonville for the foreseeable future after all.

As I said, The Lesbian Situation resulted in me taking a long, hard look at my life and what mattered to me. I stripped away all artifice and decided who I was and who I wanted to be. By this point, I’d gotten really used to living by myself, coming and going as I pleased, with only Zoe’s feelings to consider. I developed a routine that worked for me and I became stronger every day. I was perfectly fine all by myself day-to-day.

This new view of life reached its apex on Thanksgiving 2017. About a week before, it was clear that there would be no family around and that I wouldn’t be spending time with friends. So the question came to me: What was I going to do for Thanksgiving?

The answer was perhaps the most powerful and liberating thought I’ve ever had in my entire 56 years on this planet. It came to me, crystal clear and fully formed, as though the words physically erupted from the mouth of God himself, directly into my soul.

What was I going to do for Thanksgiving?

Whatever the hell I wanted.

And I did. I smoked a turkey and beef ribs. I ate pumpkin pie for an appetizer and dessert. I literally had no face-to-face contact with another living soul. I was truly and completely at peace with myself in the world, and needed no one else to guide my way.

And it was at that point that I decided this was exactly how I was going to live the rest of my life. I was going to do whatever the hell I wanted. I wasn’t going to ask for anyone else’s approval or acceptance. I know clearly who I am as a man and while I still rely on the input of the friends in my life, I don’t need anyone else’s approval. I will henceforth chart my own path and live the life I want to live, discarding anyone from it who attempts to judge me or direct my actions.

And once I came to that realization, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Diane.

See, when I decided I was going to spend the rest of my life doing whatever the hell I wanted to, that didn’t mean that I was going to be a self-obsessed, pleasure-seeking asshole. That’s not who I am at my core. I am a kind, generous person. I had always had a soft spot in my heart for the underdog and the outcast and now I’ve decided that I am going to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. And I am going to be kind and generous and warm and giving and I didn’t care if I get hurt a thousand times, I’d still rather be true to myself and be vulnerable than to live another day as a cynic.

Diane feels the same way and lives her life accordingly. Just as she was all those years ago, she remains kind and sweet, with a gentle spirit and a giving servant’s heart.

So what’s so special about Diane? She’s an amazing woman, warm and kind and nonjudgmental. She’s compassionate and cares about other people, not just in theory but in her actions. She’s intelligent and insightful and warm and witty. She doesn’t care to change me or judge me for the way I choose to live my life. She just loves me for who I am and for who I am trying to become.

I love her for all these reasons and more that I discover every day. And because I love her, I am going to marry her and we’re going to spend the rest of our time on Earth doing what we can, in our own way, to make this planet a little bit better every day.

So that’s what’s so special about Diane.

And the fact that she is still a beautiful young Texas sweetheart might have something to do with it. After all, I’m still a hormonal 15-year old boy at heart.

Which lily leave: A 2017 Retrospective

2017-12-10T15:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Family, Friends, and the NSA who, as we all know, reads everything that's ever been posted on the Innerwebs -

As the end of the year approaches, I like to reflect on the year's events to try and gain some perspective. I try not to classify events as good or bad; rather, simply as events that shaped my life as I launch into whatever the future may hold.

So here are the 23 defining memories and experiences in the Life of Joe, 2017 Edition (in no particular order):

Diane. (Ok...it's in some order, with the most important first and last.)
7/21/1996 is still a thing.
12/13/1997 is not.
Twilight Tunes on the square in Denton, Texas.
Finally saw a game at The Swamp. OK...half a game. The Swamp is, well...a swamp. Doak is a way better venue.
Mom’s semi-annual heart replacements are getting more and more frequent. Doctors are now using hearts made from Legos^TMand partially chewed taffy.
Malinda and Scotty.
Lauren and Aaron in Gainesville.
Grouper cheeks are real and they’re spectacular.
Jolene became Joe-Joe-Ma before finally settling on simply “Joe.”
I would pay to watch Brett, Stephanie, and Charlie (not that Charlie) put a jigsaw puzzle together.
Seeing high school friends you haven’t seen in 4 decades is simultaneously disorienting and invigorating.
I cannot imagine the emotional and psychological impact of losing literally everything in a fire. I love you, Craig and Stacey.
The teachers at Brockett Elementary School in Aubrey, TX are the kindest, most welcoming people on Earth.
Google “Texas Homecoming Mums.” The images you see are real. As in real wackadoo.
Driving in three states in one day (Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida) is astounding to a Texan.
One of life’s simple joys is just happening to be in Dallas, Texas the same time your son is passing through. (Complete with iHop.)
Nebraska Furniture Mart has to be experienced to be believed.
Roger was cheering me up while he was dying of cancer. I aspire to be more like Roger.
While 4:44 was more emotionally vulnerable than previous releases, it can’t hold a candle to Magna Carta Holy Grail, the Black Album, Vol 3, or the Blueprint (1).
Yes, I’m kidding. But I’m not kidding when I say this might be the greatest line in the history of music: “You know the type, loud as a motorbike but wouldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight.”
No way Lee Harvey Oswald made that shot.
New love at 55 is just as exciting as it was at 15. And the best is yet to be...

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith, ‘A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be

afraid!’

Not that, amassing flowers,

Youth sighed, ‘Which rose make ours,

Which lily leave and then as best recall?'

- R. Browning

May 2018 be the year your greatest dreams and aspirations come to life...

Peace,

When life gives you lemons...

2017-09-13T15:52:00.003-07:00

Diane and I are going through something of a waiting period. It seems to be one of those waits in the hallway between one door closing and the next one opening. We are both confident the second door will open. It’s just that neither of us are really that into hallways. Or waiting.

While she was visiting Florida in July, the lemons on the tree in my back yard were growing larger, seemingly by the day. We chose one of the more mature lemons and determined that when it ripened, it would be the sign that the next phase of our life would be ready to start. It would signal that the second door through which we were intended to walk would open.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the lemonade...

Hurricane Irma rolled through Florida on September 10-11, wreaking havoc on virtually the entire state. (Note: See the link at the end if you would like to donate to Hurricane Irma or Harvey relief.) Families evacuated, vacations were cut short, homes and businesses were destroyed, even lives were lost in the path of what has been called the largest Atlantic hurricane ever to make landfall in the United States.

Needless to say, those of us in North Florida didn’t suffer nearly the destructive effects of the storm as did our neighbors to the south. In fact, I didn’t even lose power. I lost some branches that had to be cut up and hauled to the street but I have only gratitude for my blessings.

As dawn broke the morning after the storm, I went outside and noticed lemons on the ground. Dozens and dozens of lemons, in various stages of ripeness, were strewn across the backyard, in the grass and in the mud, all courtesy of Irma.

Reflexively, I looked up in the tree for “our” lemon, the lemon which, when ripened, would announce the arrival of our new life.

I looked in the usual place in the tree, the spot framed by branches that I had hoped would have provided protection from the weather.

Our lemon was not there.

I then looked to the ground, almost afraid of what I’d find.

Our lemon had not survived the storm.

Silly though it may sound, my breath caught in my chest for just a moment. I feared that the future we had planned was somehow now in jeopardy because “our” lemon had not been afforded the opportunity to grow.

But as my wits came to me and I laughed at my own foolishness, I noticed something about “our” lemon.

While it had begun ripening on the tree, I had not been able to see the back of it. As it lie in the mud on the ground the morning after the storm, however, I noticed that on what had been the backside was a bit of rot. The lemon we had chosen (randomly, might I add) as “ours” would never have been an actual edible fruit. Before it ripened, it would have rotted on the tree.

I stopped to think of whether there might be a lesson in this. Maybe the plan that we had come up with was the wrong plan. Maybe we needed to consider other possibilities besides the ones we had conceived.

So I started looking around the tree for other lemons that might signal our new beginning, mine and Diane’s.

On the far side of the tree, away from the patio, was a cluster of lemons. We had simply misread the signals the Universe had been sending us and one of these lemons would be harbinger of our future!

But a closer look at these lemons revealed they were actually not very good. They might ripen but the fact that they were already large, but lumpy and mottled, meant that they would likely never bear any juice. One in particular caught my eye -- the lowest hanging of the fruit -- but it, too, appeared as though ripening would not result in a fruit worth having.

As I began to wonder if we had put too much stock in the ripening of a lemon as an indicator of our destiny (we had), I sat down in the patio chair. Apparently there wasn’t going to be a lemon that would portend our future. I was just being stupid. I even wondered for a moment if this was the Universe’s way of telling me that our plans, mine and Diane’s, would never come to fruition.

Just as I began to give up on the idea that God would give us such an obvious signal, something caught my eye. Up in the tree, protected from the storm and almost invisible from the ground, was a lemon. It hung very near where “our” original lemon had hung, but this one remained in place.

This lemon was nestled in the branches, protected from the wind, and almost perfectly smooth. I checked the back and there was no indication of rot or any other deformity.

By all objective measures, it appeared to be the perfect lemon. The only thing about it that wasn’t perfect is that it hadn’t yet ripened. But that would come. All in God’s time.

So I guess the moral of this story is that sometimes we have plans in our life. They can be good plans, exciting plans, even plans to bring goodness into the world.

But sometimes those plans are usurped by things like...hurricanes. Plans that we hold dear might not be God’s plans at all and they wind up in the mud.

In hindsight, however, we are able to see that our plans were flawed. Even still, we want to cling to our imperfect plan rather than to wait for God’s perfect one. Then, when our plans are uprooted by storms (metaphorical or otherwise), we instinctively and immediately start making other plans. Sometimes we look for the easy way, the low-hanging fruit (to belabor the metaphor) but we often find that easy doesn’t necessarily equate to good.

But in life, as in lemon watching, sometimes you have to give up trying to make things happen and let God reveal to you what His perfect plan is.

Sometimes, that perfect plan is a lemon. And when it is, all we have to do is sit back and watch it unfold.

If you would like to donate to Hurricane Irma relief, I recommend you read this article from the New York Times first. It will help you choose a good charity while avoiding scams.

And let's not forget about Hurricane Harvey relief. Our brothers and sisters in Texas haven’t yet had their lives made whole, either.

Visiting Florida: A Tourist Guide

2017-07-09T07:56:00.004-07:00

In 2016, more than 112 million people from all over the world visited the state of Florida. Most of these visitors went to places like Orlando, Miami, Tampa, Pensacola, the Florida Keys, and the Space Coast area of Melbourne, though some of them accidentally ended up in Jacksonville. But, hey...their tourist dollars count, too.

And this is no accident. The state spends upwards of $75 million dollars every year on the “Visit Florida” campaign to market the state as a tourist destination. According to Florida Governor Rick Scott, this expense is justified because of the estimated $109 billion in visitor spending that tourism brings. And as all Floridians know, Governor Scott wouldn’t ever play fast and loose with financial numbers (*cough*Columbia HCA Medicare and Medicaid Fraud*cough*).

But while the State of Florida does a good job of pimping Mickey Mouse, Harry Potter, Jimmy Buffett, beaches, and all the fun in the sun activities Florida has to offer, they don’t do a very good job of informing visitors how to prepare for their travels.

So as a public service, I offer up this Florida Visitors’ Guide to Packing for Your Florida Summer Vacation:

Footwear: This is simple: the only thing you need is flip-flops. The “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” admonitions are loosely enforced in the Skin Cancer State. Exposed toe rot, sloth-like toenail claws, and unwashed feet are considered acceptable to wear to restaurants and weddings. Sandals are evening footwear. Closed-toed shoes are considered semi-formal. If you wear socks, that’s formal wear. Matching socks are reserved for proms.
Clothing: Avoid anything other than natural materials. Any poly-blend material will cause rashes that have yet to be named by the medical community. This includes any material that promises to “wick away sweat.” It wicks it into the clothing, turning that $45 t-shirt into a dishrag. Your best bet is linen.
Prepare for the Sun: The Florida sun laughs at sunscreen in this time of global climate change. Unless melanoma is on your bucket list, plan to bathe in zinc oxide, wear a hat with a brim wide enough to cover your entire family, and sunglasses that provide protection from UV-A, UV-B, and UV-LMNOP light.
Prepare for the Rain: While Florida’s sun is the state’s most often cited feature, the reality is that if you’re visiting in the summer, it is likely you will get rained on. And by “likely” I mean you will have fun-in-the-sun, just in the rain. Every single afternoon. And it’s not a gentle rainstorm, either. It’s the type that makes you feel as though the seventh seal has been broken and God’s wrath is literally raining down on the Earth. Unlike Dubuque or Boise or Denton, however, Florida rain does not bring relief from the oppressive heat and humidity. Following the daily Florida rainstorm, you’ll feel more like a basted turkey, though you’ll smell more like a teenaged boy’s 3-year old tennis shoe that’s been rotting in fecund soil for 45 days. You will remember the Florida afternoon summer rainstorms long after the memories of The Wizarding World of Harry Potter fade from your memory. Florida rain laughs at umbrellas so the only thing you can do to prepare for this is to pack a lot of clothes to change into.
Toiletries: In addition to the standard toiletries you would take anywhere you may travel (toothbrush, toothpaste, etc.), when you travel to Florida you need to plan on packing a moisturizer with aloe vera. Because you’ll fail to heed the “Prepare for the Sun” warnings (above) and you will get burned. Not like the sunburn you get back home when you mow the lawn. I’m talking radiation burns. This is not hyperbole. The most common type of radiation burns are those cause by UV radiation. Aloe vera is your friend.
Wildlife: Everyone expects to see Florida alligators when they visit and it is likely you will see them. However, the wildlife I’m referring to are the snakes, panthers, black bears, Capybaras, and the palmetto bug (pronounced “cockroach” everywhere else in the United States.) You can find additional information about Florida’s wildlife in item #6 in this “Seven 7hings” post from 2013. Florida mosquitos are to regular mosquitos as the sun is to a struck match. Florida mosquitos carry away nearly 5,000 full-grown Bichon Frise dogs every year. (Statistic contrived for hyperbolic purposes.)
The People: Then, of course, are the other wildlife indigenous to Florida: the camouflage-hat-wearing, pickup-truck-driving, racist, dip-spitting surfer douchebag, the woo-tang clan (aka “woo girls”, so known for their propensity to get drunk, scream “woooooo!” at every opportunity, and to drunkenly tryst with any camouflage-hat-wearing surfer douchebag who has a job), and every person from New York who retired to Florida but ran out of money after they decided it was literally hell on earth but before they could move halfway back up the country. Then there are the tourists. Oh, dear God help us...the tourists. But, hey, seriously...we’re really glad you’re here! Honest!
Hurricane Preparation: In addition to being peak time for Florida visitors, the summer months are also hurricane season in Florida. The only way you can really prepare for being in Florida when a hurricane approaches is to have an open-ended return plane ticket or to have driven. When a hurricane is coming, the single best course of action you can take is to turn around and go home. Not because the storm presents any particular danger; rather, it’s because once word gets out that a hurricane might be coming, you will be unable to purchase milk, bread, water, flashlights, batteries, or beer. Because once Jim Cantore or Stephanie Abrams roll into the town you’re visiting, it’s party time for the locals.

There is a lot about Florida that is very different than places where humanity can actually survive. Hopefully these tips will help prepare you so that your Florida vacation is less traumatic than it otherwise might be.

One final thought: have you ever noticed that most people who vacation in Florida only do so once? That’s usually enough.

To paraphrase that old expression, “Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me once, shame on Rick Scott.” (Note: This is merely a rhetorical device. Rick Scott is clearly incapable of feeling any shame.)

So, welcome to Florida!

Enjoy your vacation to Yosemite next year.

A Tale of Two Brothers

2017-06-29T17:09:00.000-07:00

I never had any brothers.

I had a great brother-in-law and an incredible Father who grows even more incredible the older I get and the longer he’s gone (thus, the more I miss him). I have great male cousins, Uncles, a grandfather who thought (erroneously) that I hung the moon, and men friends who have been rocks when I needed it and a boot in the ass when I needed that. I even have what I can only refer to as a boyfriend-in-law (my sister’s boyfriend) who is another strong male presence in my life.

And don’t even get me started on my Sister I could live a thousand lifetimes and never begin to show my Sister how much I appreciate her. She is -- and this point is inarguable -- the greatest Sister in human history.

But I never had any brothers.

So why is this titled “A Tale of Two Brothers?”

Of the men I’ve had in my life, two of them stood out and are large reasons why I am alive today: Roger and Mike. Roger was a cousin and Mike was one of the closest friends I’ve ever had.

But both of them were more than that. They were like brothers to me. They knew everything about me. They saw me at my worst and still loved me, never rejected me. Both were members of a fellowship I joined in 1996 and were instrumental in helping me navigate what I saw then as the impassable path to entry.

So when I say I’m alive today in no small measure due to the love of these two men, it is not empty hyperbole. I literally, sincerely do not believe I would have been able to get here from there without them.

Mike and Roger are my brothers. And today I’m very sad.

I learned recently that Mike took his own life in November of last year. Roger died today of pancreatic cancer.

Without getting into the details of Roger’s life, the nature of exactly how we were related was somewhat convoluted at the beginning, though the connection I felt to him was always there. He was my sister’s age (a few years older than me) so he was the big brother who picked on me whenever we were around each other. But it was never mean. He always had a smile on his face and even then, I knew him as a safe place in my life, someone from whom I never had to protect myself.

I was stationed in Tucson, Arizona in the mid-1980’s so I was able to spend time with Roger. At that time, he ran his own insurance agency and when I mentioned that I was considering getting out of the Air Force, he offered me a job. I had no insurance experience and there wasn’t much call for a forklift driver at his agency. But he offered me a job, to include teaching me how to actually do the job.

Roger was like my big brother as far back as I could remember and in 1996, I discovered we had yet another connection. As I struggled, he was happy and offered support, encouragement, and of course love. With a smile and a hug, he let me know things would be OK and when they weren’t, he was always available to me to listen and tell me he loved me. Over the years this connection remained strong, even though we didn’t see each other nearly as often as we’d have liked. But he was always there for me.

After all...he was my brother.

I saw Roger last in August 2016. We both travelled to Las Vegas to celebrate my Mother’s 80^th birthday. And of course, as he always had, Roger lit up every room he was ever in, just from the pure love and joy (and Joy) of life he had.

Life hadn’t always been kind to Roger but you would never know it from his demeanor and, more importantly, how he treated everyone. You could never leave an encounter with Roger without feeling like you were the most important person in the world to him at that moment.

Roger got word that he was sick last fall and in December, I finally joined a social media platform that enabled us to stay in even closer touch, chatting several times a week. Even as he battled treatment and the illness that ultimately took him from us all, he always made it a point to make sure I was OK.

Imagine...him going through cancer treatment trying to cheer me up.

But that was Roger. And Roger was my brother.

Mike and I were both in the Air Force and we first met in the late 1980’s. He was stationed in Homestead Air Force Base in South Florida and I was at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia.

Following Desert Storm in 1991, I was reassigned to Hurlburt Field in the panhandle of Florida. Less than a year later, after Hurricane Andrew basically wiped Homestead off the map, Mike got stationed at Hurlburt as well.

From the outside, Mike and I were nothing alike. He was confident and smart and moved easily in any situation whether at PT with Pararescuemen and Combat Controllers or traversing the halls of the Pentagon. He knew more about our common Air Force specialty than I did and I leaned heavily on both his knowledge and his generosity in sharing it.

While at Hurlburt, Mike and I had a standing Wednesday lunch date at the Pizza Hut on Miracle Strip Parkway. We would talk shop, share gossip about our colleagues, and talk about our families.

Mike’s sons and mine were in the same social circles and spent a lot of time together. When I needed a regular Tuesday night babysitter, it was Mike’s daughter, Leah, who not only sat with my daughter every Tuesday night for almost two years but who also provided an incredible role model for her as well.

Toward the end of my drinking days, it was Mike who opened his home to me when mine was no longer an option. He picked me up when I was in no condition to drive more times than I can remember and took me to his home. He had a Bernese Mountain Dog (a very large breed) named Page. When I would walk into their home, Page would drop his tail and run away from me. But Mike never did.

As I mentioned, I struggled with some aspects of the fellowship of which Mike, Roger, and I were members. And it was Mike who made clear the path. Nine months before the very end, he and I spent an afternoon atop Mount Rainier, him trying to help me find some peace. (It was also during this trip that he kept me from falling into a bear’s den along a riverbank but that’s another story for another time.)

When I struggled to even consider the idea of a God, it was Mike who explained it to me this way: “Do you know how to make a bird? Do birds exist? Well, then something smarter than you is out there, otherwise there’d be no birds.”

And that was enough. Because of that, I was able to walk through the impassable door to a life I’d never imagined.

Mike and I had divergent political views (though he’d be happy to know I’ve since come around to his way of thinking...he was always one or two steps smarter than me) but that never stopped us from discussing politics intelligently and respectfully.

I guess that’s the overriding thing about Mike. I respected him. A lot.

And Mike never turned his back on me, even when I probably deserved it.

But that was Mike. And Mike was my brother.

When I saw Roger in Las Vegas in August, he was getting ready to celebrate 27 years of sobriety in a few days.

I’m glad I got to hug him and tell him I loved him days before his #27. And I’m sad that he won’t get to celebrate #28.

According to Mike’s wife, Cindy, he didn’t stay sober after our paths diverged. He started drinking again about ten years before whatever demons were chasing him finally ran him down. Cindy contacted me about a month ago to tell me he was gone. It was a couple weeks after that when I learned he had killed himself.

I’m just glad he was able to walk Leah down the aisle before he left.

I don’t know what the point of all this is. I just know that tonight I’m sad. But this story isn’t about me. It’s a tale of two brothers. Not brothers to each other except in the most abstract sense. But they were my brothers.

And now they’re gone.

I can never fully express my gratitude to these two men for the love and support they showed me over the years, particularly during my worst times. They never turned their backs on me and never stopped loving me, even when I was unlovable.

The best I can hope for is to carry their strength, compassion, empathy, warmth, humor, joy, and love forward in my life. I can’t pay them back but I pray I can show someone else even a fraction of the love they showed me.

So tonight I just want to thank these two for being a part of my life. It hurts to know that they’re no longer with us physically but I am grateful to a God I couldn’t believe in 21 years ago that He put these two men in my life.

I’m grateful to God for Roger and Mike.

I’m grateful for my brothers.

If you find it in your heart, please consider supporting the American Cancer Society in memory of Roger Norris (https://www.cancer.org) and/or 22KILL, an organization that works to raise awareness to of suicide, educate the public on mental health issues such as post traumatic stress, and serves as a resource for veterans in honor of Mike Urban (https://www.22KILL.com).

The Story of Teddy Rucksbag

2017-06-11T08:02:00.002-07:00

Teddy Rucksbag loved to travel.

Teddy was literally born to travel. Well, really more like “made” to travel since he was handcrafted in the mountains of India from fine goat leather and treated with natural oils before he

was sent out into the world. So he wasn’t really born. But he still liked to travel. A lot.

As soon as he sprang to life, with the last stitch stitched and the last zipper zipped, Teddy traveled down the mountain, across the ocean, and to a strange and exotic land called “Florida” to meet his new family.

Teddy’s new family was a handsome and kind man whom Teddy called “Shoulder,” a beautiful young princess named Lily, and two small, hairy people named Zoe and Charlie. Zoe and Charlie called the handsome and kind man “Lap” when he wasn’t around because whenever he came home and sat in Teddy’s cousin, Recliner, Zoe and Charlie would pile onto his lap. So they called him “Lap.”

But Teddy called the man “Shoulder” because that was the part that Teddy grabbed onto whenever the two of them went out on their daily adventures. Teddy loved to go on adventures with Shoulder and Shoulder took him on an adventure every single day.

Sometimes Teddy and Shoulder would just walk outside and go for a ride in a truck to Shoulder’s office, where Teddy would sit on the floor and watch Shoulder work all day. But that was OK with Teddy. He loved Shoulder and he knew that after Shoulder was done working, they would go for another ride in Shoulder’s truck again and go home to see Lily, Zoe, and Charlie.

When Teddy and Shoulder got home, Teddy sat at the bar on a barstool. Even though he wasn’t traveling, he loved his barstool and Shoulder would come visit throughout the day and evening to get things out of Teddy. Teddy loved it when Shoulder would visit because he liked to be useful. So he decided he would be the most useful rucksack ever.

But sometimes when Shoulder, Lily, Zoe, and Charlie were asleep, Teddy would think back to another friend, the first friend Teddy ever had. Teddy and his friend were made together, in the mountains of India. But Teddy’s first friend was more than just a friend. She was Teddy’s girlfriend. And her name was Sandy.

Teddy and Sandy left the house on the mountain on the same day. While Teddy went to live with Shoulder in the strange and exotic land called “Florida,” Sandy travelled to another strange land called “Texas.” Sandy was adopted by a beautiful and gentle woman whom Sandy called Queen Flower. Sandy loved Queen Flower and loved to go places with her but she still sometimes missed her boyfriend, Teddy. She sometimes missed him a lot.

Both Teddy and Sandy thought about their brothers, sisters, and cousins back at the house on the mountain. Besides Teddy’s brother and sister rucksacks and Sandy’s family, the Satchels, they had lots of cousins. Their cousins were all bags and had family names like Briefcase, Laptop, Messenger, Camera, Handbags, and Travelers.

And not all of the bags were brown like Teddy and Sandy. The Funny-talking man whom everyone called “Grandpa” (even though his real name was Trevor) didn’t want just brown bags. He also wanted bags made with black leather, too. “All bags will be equal, wot?” Trevor said, in that funny way he talked. And the people who made the bags at the house on the mountain smiled because they liked brown bags and black bags and all bags. They were bag-happy and Teddy and Sandy were glad about that because they were bag-happy, too.

Teddy and Sandy got to see each other one time after they left the house on the mountain, when Shoulder went to visit Queen Flower in Texas. The four of them had a wonderful time and Teddy and Sandy were able to talk and laugh and tell each other about their adventures in the strange places they lived, “Florida” and “Texas.” The visit was very short but Teddy and Sandy were very happy to spend time together. Plus they were happy when Shoulder and Queen Flower told them they would get to visit again real soon.

Not long after visiting Sandy and Queen Flower in “Texas,” Shoulder told Teddy that they were going on another trip, this time to a place called “Washington, DC.” Teddy was very excited to get to travel again, since traveling was what Teddy was made for. Shoulder even introduced Teddy to another new friend, Sam S. O’Knight. Teddy and Sam quickly became good friends and Sam would even let Teddy ride on his shoulders when Teddy got tired or just to let him see more of the fun things there were to see on their trip.

Even though he had fun on the trip to Washington with Shoulder and Sam, Teddy was sad that he didn’t get to see Sandy. When Teddy got to ride on a train for the first time, all he could think about as he stared out the window was how much Sandy would have enjoyed it, too. When he rode in the fancy car with Shoulder and Sam, Teddy was still lonely and sad because his girlfriend Sandy wasn’t there to ride in the fancy car with him.

Still, Teddy was grateful that he got to travel to a new place and get to become friends with Sam. After all, Teddy was a travel bag and travelling was what he was made for. He got to fly on another airplane, see new and exciting things, and begin to fulfill his destiny as the greatest travel bag in the history of the world.

Once Teddy, Sam, and Shoulder got home, Sam went back to his place under Shoulder’s bed. Teddy went back to his routine of riding in the truck to Shoulder’s office and then sitting on the barstool when he and Shoulder got home. Teddy thought about Sandy and Queen Flower often during the long, quiet nights when Shoulder, Lily, Zoe, Charlie, and Sam were sleeping. He thought about how much fun they had in Texas and thought about how great it would be when he got to see Sandy and Queen Flower again.

Then one morning, Shoulder told Teddy some exciting news.

“So, Teddy, ol’ buddy...guess who’s coming to visit us in a few weeks?”

Teddy hated guessing games because he wasn’t very good at them.

“Who?”

Shoulder smiled and slipped Teddy onto his left shoulder as he walked out the door toward his truck.

“Let’s just say that both of us will be getting to see our girlfriends again very, very soon.”

Teddy knew immediately that Shoulder was telling him that Sandy and Queen Flower were going to come visit them in their strange and exotic home of “Florida.”

And that news made Teddy very, very happy.

The Chronicles

2016-11-05T12:10:00.000-07:00

So, the first draft of the product of the Audience of One Writers Retreat is complete. First edit underway.

Not sure we'll make our target of having a fully edited, ready for representation/publication by the end of 2016 but the story of Radley and Sloe and Karm and Lizza (4-syllable pronunciation) is told.

Ebay (the 76-year old Laotian man, not the website) and Terry the Bus Driver (formerly of the University of Alabama basketball team) wound up playing larger roles than anticipated.

The process and related emotions:

Writing - This story is amazing!
First Edit - This story sucks!
Second Edit - Well, maybe...
Final Edit - NYT bestseller list, here we come!

On with the show...

P.S. While I'm at it, here are a couple of pictures from the retreat. See all of the pictures from the retreat here.

Quinoa Chicken Rolls

2016-09-04T16:27:00.004-07:00

A tasty, healthy option for Sunday dinner...or any other night of the week, for that matter.

2 Whole (or 4 half) boneless skinless chicken breasts

1 cup cooked red quinoa (season with 1 tbsp olive oil, 2 tsp Goya Adobo®, and 2 tsp Mrs. Dash® Tomato, Basil, Garlic seasoning, then cooled)

2-3 cups raw baby spinach

2/3 cup sliced baby portabella mushrooms

1/4 cup diced sweet onion

1/3 cup feta cheese

1 box Oven Fry® Extra Crispy (chicken) mix

1/2 cup parmesan cheese

1 egg

1/3 cup coconut milk

1 teaspoon lime or key lime juice

Brine chicken in warm water with 1 tbsp natural maple syrup and 2 tsp soy sauce for approximately 2 hours. Rinse thoroughly and pat dry.

Heat oven to 400° and spray glass baking dish with olive oil cooking spray.

Mix seasoned cooked quinoa with roughly chopped spinach, roughly chopped mushrooms, diced onions, and feta cheese. Set aside.

Pound the chicken breasts to approximately 1/2 inch thickness. Mix egg, coconut milk, and lime juice. In separate dish, mix Oven Fry® and parmesan cheese.

Dip chicken in egg mixture, then cover both sides with Oven Fry® mixture. Add 1-2 tbsp of the quinoa mixture and roll the chicken breast with mixture inside. Place rolled, filled breasts seam down in the glass baking dish. Spread remaining quinoa mixture between/around the chicken rolls.

Bake for 25 minutes.

GREAT SIDE DISH SUGGESTION:

Heat olive oil in large skillet. When hot, add diced garlic, then sauté asparagus and butternut squash. Serve when asparagus is al dente.

Audience of One Writers Retreat

2016-07-28T03:27:00.001-07:00

As a late-comer to the wonderful(ly frustrating) world of writing, I had much to learn.

OK, truth be told, I still have much to learn. But that's another story for another time.

Like many writers at the beginning, I believed my story and my voice were worthy of being heard, that simply jotting down my brilliant insights and clever bon mots would result in droves of fawning readers, agents, and publishers beating a path to my door, demanding the I share more unfiltered thoughts so they could put them before the word-buying public where we would all get rich and famous.

With apologies to Stephen Sondheim, a funny thing happened on the way to the fortune...

I discovered that the writers I loved who made things seem so easy were liars. The finished product that I held in my hands was the result of months (and in some cases, years) of hard work, pain, sacrifice, and editing, editing, editing.

They only made it look easy because they were really, really good at their craft.

And I discovered that I kind of sucked at mine.

So in an effort to suck less, I began exploring how the good ones got good. The formula, apparently, was quite straightforward:

Write.
Don't suck at writing.
Edit.
Don't suck at editing.
Repeat ad nauseam.

It all seems so simple...

So in order to plot my own course, I followed good writers around (virtually and literally, though I've so far dodged any restraining orders), picking their brains whenever possible. Writers like Tim Dorsey, John Lescroart, Perri (Mary and Pam) O'Shaughnessy, and Joshilyn Jackson were all gracious and generous enough to share their experience and practices with me.

And as a result, today I suck just a little bit less than before.

I'm in the midst of a collaborative project with a dear friend of mine with whom I'd wanted to work for years. What started out as a twisted response to an email then morphed into a challenge to make each other laugh (and/or cringe, apparently). We exchanged "chronicles" which soon became chapters in what will be our first book together.

We set a couple rules for our endeavor. First we determined that we would simply take the other's latest work and build upon it. Sort of an improvisational exquisite corpse. "Yes and..." became the only real theme of the story.

And our only real goal was to entertain the other. We were truly writing for an audience of one.

We also established a rule that we would use footnotes. Lots and lots of footnotes. No particular reason why. It's our goddam book and if we want footnotes, we'll have footnotes.

When we got to about forty pages, we decided the story was worth pursuing. When we got to fifty, we decided that Radley, Sloe, Karm, Lizza, Ebay, and most of all, Shameus deserved a world in which they could live.

We decided it was time for a writers' retreat.

I love the definitions of retreat offered by those rascals Merriam and Webster. All seemed to fit our intention:

An act or process of withdrawing especially from what is difficult, dangerous, or disagreeable: Nothing is more dangerous or disagreeable to a writer than the banality of day-to-day work life. So we will retreat from that.
The process of receding from a position or state attained: Both of us have attained a modicum of success in our professional lives (i.e., we're both still drawing a paycheck), positions from which we will recede for a few days.
A place of privacy or safety: We found a place far from the madding (and maddening) crowd where we'll be safe to follow the gang down whichever rabbit hole they descend.
A period of group withdrawal for prayer, medication, study, or instruction under a director: Well, we won't really have a director but we do have direction.

So we created the Audience of One Writers' Retreat. We rented a cabin halfway between our respective homes in Pace, Florida (him) and Jacksonville, Florida (me). And lest this become simply an opportunity to fish, eat badly, and try to out-fart one another, we established some specific goals, along with a plan to meet them.

Our primary objective is to feed the beast that is the story. We are there to serve it. We have characters (and oh boy, are they characters!) and a rough idea of the challenges they face. But we will spend the weekend doing the dirty work of outlining the story to make sure they actually end up somewhere entertaining.

We also established a detailed schedule. It will not be all sitting in front of each other, dueling laptops at the ready. We've built time into the long weekend to feed the creativity that fueled this project from the beginning. We'll fish and eat and nap and, yes, probably try to out-fart each other. After all, we're writers not statesmen. Writers write. And sometimes they try to out-fart each other.

So I'll let you know how it goes. Time will ultimately determine if carving this time we made in the midst of our busy lives results in a finished product but we'll know after this weekend if we spent our time well, investing wisely in our art.

And who knows? If all goes well and our weekend is productive, we may even open up the Audience of One Writers' Retreat to others going forward, to share our approach.

But don't worry. Any other writers we invite won't need to participate in any fart competitions.

Unless, you know, you really want to.

Independence Day: July 21, 1996

2016-07-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

On July 21, 1996:

Bill Clinton was still in his first term as President of the United States
The number 1 movie in the United States was "Independence Day" with Will Smith (et al)
The number 1 record in the country was 2Pac's "How Do U Want It" (A side, featuring Jodeci) / "California Love" (B side, featuring Dr. Dre and Roger Troutman)
Robin Williams turned 45
We were 1,878 days away from September 11, 2001
My Father was still alive
I was a 34-year old college dropout and an underachieving Air Force Master Sergeant whose second marriage was circling the drain

And...

I launched on a journey to an unknown destination, that I never wanted to take, but that has changed my life in ways I never knew needed changing.

Since July 21, 1996, I have:

Retired from the Air Force
Graduated college
Transitioned into a satisfying, good-paying career
Become a published writer, including a stint as an 84-year old Southern woman named Matilda Mae Sugarbottom (of the Andalusia Sugarbottoms)
Hosted a sports-talk radio show, which is where the nickname "Smokey Joe" was given me by one of our loyal listeners
Performed stand-up comedy
Buried my Father
Moved nine times
Worked for eleven different employers (not counting the Air Force). OK...it hasn't all been satisfying.
Formed adult relationships with my adult children. Most of them, anyway.
Been a son to my Mother, a brother to my Sister, a father to my Children, and a man among men
Developed a connection with a God with whom I was able to negotiate terms agreeable to both of us
Married the greatest human being I've ever known

"Thank you" is so horribly insufficient but my deepest, sincerest heartfelt thanks go to some of my guides along the way:

Mark Bartoloni
Dhulkti Springhawk
Dr. John Doyle
Leo Donnely
Ron Raby
Mike Greenstein
Dick Bower
Craig Bracey
Richie Hayward
My Sister, Malinda
Dr. Amy Karbasi
Innumerable others without whose love and support, who knows what might have happened

It's been an amazing twenty years.

I'll see you again on July 21, 2036.

Peace,
Smokey Joe

Could Any Laker Start for Another Western Conference Team?

2016-07-09T10:32:00.004-07:00

Back on July 1, after watching Jim “Fredo” Buss and Mitch Kupchak make some of the most questionable free agent decisions I’ve seen in nearly fifty years of following the Los Angeles Lakers, I tweeted the following:

“Do the @Lakers have a single player on the roster who could start for anyone else in the Western Conference?”

(To be fair, this was after the Mozgov announcement but before Deng.)

I was immediately called out by a Twitter friend, Le Musicien ‏(@LironDayo) who responded:

“Russell, Clarkson, Randall, Mozgov....and maybe Ingram”

I stewed for a few moments, wondering if someone with fewer than 1,000 followers could enter into something that would actually be called a Twitter “beef” before replying:

“Meh...maybe. I'll analyze this weekend but am not convinced."

So I decided to eschew my emotional response to the Lakers’ free agent activity and analyze the facts to determine who was right, me or arch-Twitter nemesis, @LironDayo.

The short answer is that I have to begrudgingly acknowledge that I was possibly wrong. It is possible that a player on the current Lakers roster might be able to start for another team in the Western Conference.

But LeMusicien was wrong, too. Based on my analysis of the 2015-16 NBA season, the only Laker likely to be able to start for another team in the West isn’t D’Angelo Russell, Jordan Clarkson, Julius Randle, Timofey Mozgov, or Brandon Ingram.

It’s Lou Williams.

(While it’s possible that Ingram may turn out to be a pretty decent NBA star, it’s not likely that he’ll be ready to start in the NBA by the start of the 2016-17 season.)

Before we dive down the advanced statistics rabbit hole, it’s important to point out that I’m an old-school basketball fan. I grew up with statistics like points, rebounds, assists, steals, and blocks as points of comparison between players. But most of all I relied on what I call the “Floor Test.”

It’s a simple test, really: Does a guy on the floor look like he belongs on the floor?

There weren’t many moments during the 2015-16 NBA season where any of the Lakers looked like they belonged on the floor of an NBA game. They were individually and collectively overmatched. At least according to my Floor Test (and the ol’ reliable wins/losses test).

But I’m nothing if not open-minded and progressive so I decided that instead of just relying on traditional statistics and my “you damn kids get off my lawn” eye for the game, it might be worthwhile to look at some of the more reliable advanced metrics to see if there was something in purple and gold that I was missing.

(Note: All statistics taken from Basketball-Reference.com.)

Now, I don’t want to open the debate over the value of advanced metrics. As I mentioned, I’m an old-school guy (also an old guy but that’s another column for another time) so I’m not sold on measures like Player Efficiency Rating (PER), Value Over Replacement Player (VORP), and Box Plus/Minus (BPM). But these seemed like a good starting point if I were to get an objective look at the 2015-16 Lakers as they compare to the other Western Conference teams.

As I mentioned, I’m not sold on all of today’s advanced metrics. For example, let’s take a look at PER. This advanced statistic can be a particularly misleading because in its raw form, it doesn’t necessarily reflect...well...sanity.

You may know that the PER was developed by John Hollinger to distill all of a player’s contributions into a single number by use of a complex algorithm that includes (but is not limited to):

- Field goals
- Free throws
- 3-pointers
- Assists
- Rebounds
- Some squiggly lines
- Rum
- Blocks and steals
- Block and tackle
- Man of Steel
- Personal fouls
- Impersonal fouls

These factors are all cooked in a crock pot, then divided by minutes played to establish the PER. Every year the league average is normalized to an average of 15.0. This allows for year-to-year comparisons between players.

Now, here are the top 10 players in the NBA for 2015-16, according to raw PER:

Rk	Player	Pos	Age	Tm	G	MP	PER
1	Jimmer Fredette	SG	26	NYK	2	5	47.4
2	Briante Weber	PG	23	MIA	1	3	39.3
3	Thanasis Antetokounmpo	SF	23	NYK	2	6	32.9
4	Rakeem Christmas	PF	24	IND	1	6	32.0
5	Stephen Curry	PG	27	GSW	79	2700	31.5
6	Bryce Cotton	PG	23	MEM	5	6	29.1
7	Kevin Durant	SF	27	OKC	72	2578	28.2
8	Boban Marjanovic	C	27	SAS	54	508	27.7
9	Russell Westbrook	PG	27	OKC	80	2750	27.6
10	LeBron James	SF	31	CLE	76	2709	27.5

Notwithstanding the fact that the only list atop which Jimmer Fredette should be is a “Whatever happened to...” list, look at the G (Games) and MP (Minutes Played) columns. The top four PER ratings are players who played in a collective six games for a total of 20 minutes. Obviously players with five or six minutes played do not provide a decent representation of a player’s value. So it was clear I had to refine the measure.

The average number of minutes played in the last season was 1,105 so I limited the list to only those players who played a minimum of 1,000 minutes (>1,000 MP), then took another look at the PER ratings:

Rk	Player	Pos	Age	Tm	G	MP	PER
1	Stephen Curry	PG	27	GSW	79	2700	31.5
2	Kevin Durant	SF	27	OKC	72	2578	28.2
3	Russell Westbrook	PG	27	OKC	80	2750	27.6
4	LeBron James	SF	31	CLE	76	2709	27.5
5	Chris Paul	PG	30	LAC	74	2420	26.2
6	Kawhi Leonard	SF	24	SAS	72	2380	26.0
7	Hassan Whiteside	C	26	MIA	73	2125	25.7
8	James Harden	SG	26	HOU	82	3125	25.3
9	Anthony Davis	PF	22	NOP	61	2164	25.0
10	Enes Kanter	C	23	OKC	82	1721	24.0

This looks like a much more representative list of the top NBA players (Enes Kanter notwithstanding) so I used the 1,000-minute threshold as a starting point to determine where the Lakers fell in 2015-16.

And it ain’t pretty.

Here are the PER ratings for the 2015-16 Lakers, with their two new acquisitions -- Timofey Mozgov and Luol Deng -- added into the mix:

Player	Pos	Age	G	MP	PER
Lou Williams	SG	29	67	1907	17.7
Brandon Bass	PF	30	66	1342	17.4
Luol Deng (MIA)	PF	30	74	2394	15.0
Kobe Bryant	SF	37	66	1863	14.9
Timofey Mozgov (CLE)	C	29	76	1326	14.6
Jordan Clarkson	SG	23	79	2552	14.3
Julius Randle	PF	21	81	2286	13.9
Larry Nance Jr.	PF	23	63	1266	13.4
D'Angelo Russell	PG	19	80	2259	13.2
Roy Hibbert	C	29	81	1878	11.2
Nick Young	SG	30	54	1033	9.1

When evaluating PER, the highest rated Laker was again Lou Williams, with a PER of 17.7.

To put this into perspective, here are a few facts about where Lou Williams -- the higest PER rated Laker among players (>1,000 MP) -- and the rest of the Lakers fell in evaluating PER:

- Every team in the Western Conference had at least one player with a higher PER than Williams. 71% of them (10 of 14 teams) had two or more.

- With the exception of the historically bad Philadelphia 76ers team, every other team in the NBA had at least one player with a higher PER.

- The average PER for players (>1,000 MP) was 14.8. There are only two Lakers from last year’s roster with PER higher than this average (Lou Williams at 17.7 and Brandon Bass at 17.4). Kobe Bryant (barely) finished higher than the average at 14.9 and Luol Deng tallied a 15.0 for Miami.

But trying to use a single statistical measure to perform this kind of analysis is like trying to watch ‘one sex tape to determine which is the trashiest Kardashian. So I looked next at Box Plus/Minus.

Box Plus/Minus uses a player’s box score statistics and the team’s performance to estimate a player’s performance relative to the league average, stated as a per-100-possessoions statistic. (Explanation courtesy of Basketball-Reference.com).

Here is a look at BPM scale in general:

- 0.0 is the league average

- +5.0 means the player is 5 points better than an average player over 100 possessons

- -2.0 is considered to be “replacement level”

- -5.0 is really, really bad

Again setting 1,000 minutes played as the threshold, here are the top ten BPM scores in the NBA in 2015-16:

Rk	Player	Pos	Age	Tm	G	MP	BPM
1	Stephen Curry	PG	27	GSW	79	2700	12.5
2	Russell Westbrook	PG	27	OKC	80	2750	10.0
3	LeBron James	SF	31	CLE	76	2709	9.1
4	Kawhi Leonard	SF	24	SAS	72	2380	8.3
5	Kevin Durant	SF	27	OKC	72	2578	7.9
6	Chris Paul	PG	30	LAC	74	2420	7.8
7	Kyle Lowry	PG	29	TOR	77	2851	6.8
8	James Harden	SG	26	HOU	82	3125	6.7
9	Draymond Green	PF	25	GSW	81	2808	5.8
10	Paul Millsap	PF	30	ATL	81	2647	5.3

Here’s an interesting coincidence: the players with the top five BPM ratings for the 2015-16 season also finished 1-5 in the Kia NBA MVP Award voting. And almost exactly in the same order, too, with the only exceptions being Westbrook and Leonard finishing 2 and 4 in the BPM rankings, reverse of the finish in the MVP voting.

So I think it’s safe to say that the BPM rankings for 2015-16 provided a fairly decent representation of the top players in the Association.

So now let’s look at how the Lakers fared:

Player	Pos	Age	G	MP	BPM
Luol Deng (MIA)	PF	30	74	2394	1.9
Brandon Bass	PF	30	66	1342	0.8
Lou Williams	SG	29	67	1907	0.3
Timofey Mozgov (CLE)	C	29	76	1326	-1.2
Roy Hibbert	C	29	81	1878	-1.3
Jordan Clarkson	SG	23	79	2552	-1.4
Larry Nance Jr.	PF	23	63	1266	-1.4
D'Angelo Russell	PG	19	80	2259	-1.8
Kobe Bryant	SF	37	66	1863	-2.5
Julius Randle	PF	21	81	2286	-3.6
Nick Young	SG	30	54	1033	-4.8

Clearly 2015-16 Luol Deng will be a significant upgrade over the top rated Laker last year, assuming he hasn’t already peaked at age 30. So Deng’s signing could turn out to be a bright spot for the Lakers going into the 2016-17 season.

Unfortunately, that’s where all the good BPM news stops. The top 2015-16 Laker was Brandon Bass, who finished with a BPM of 0.8, just barely above average. He was the only Laker to rank in the top 100 BPM (again, players with more than 1,000 minutes). He finished tied for 96 with Dwyane Wade and J.J. Redick.

The only other Laker to finish above the league average of 0.0 was Lou Williams, at 0.3.

Every other Laker was below average, as compared to the rest of the NBA.

Fortunately, as bad as Nick Young was at -4.8, he did not finish dead last in BPM among players (>1,000 MP). He finished fourth from the last, ahead of Ty Lawson (-5.1), JaKarr Sampson (-5.4), and Rashad Vaughn (-6.1). But he was second to the last in the West, ahead of only Houston’s Lawson.

Looking at how Lakers compared to other rosters from the West, all fourteen teams had at least one player with a higher BPM than Bass and 70% of them (10 of 14) had three or more. Perhaps not surprisingly, the Spurs, Warriors, Thunder, and Jazz all had four or more. The Spurs almost had enough players with BPM higher than Bass (9) to be able to put two full five-man teams on the floor.

So as far as BPM is concerned, the Lakers were bad but at least had two players above average. There’s a marketing slogan Jeanie Buss could use:

“We Have Two Returning Players Who Were Above Average! Renew your season tickets now!”

Now let’s take a look at Value Over Replacement Player or VORP.

VORP is “a box score estimate of the points per 100 TEAM possessions that a player contributed above a replacement-level (-2.0) player, translated to an average team and prorated to an 82-game season.” (Basketball-Reference.com)

You then multiply by 2.70 to convert to wins over replacement.

Here are the top VOPR-rated players (>1,000 MP) for the 2015-16 NBA season:

Rk	Player	Pos	Age	Tm	G	MP	VORP
1	Stephen Curry	PG	27	GSW	79	2700	9.8
2	Russell Westbrook	PG	27	OKC	80	2750	8.3
3	LeBron James	SF	31	CLE	76	2709	7.6
4	James Harden	SG	26	HOU	82	3125	6.9
5	Kevin Durant	SF	27	OKC	72	2578	6.4
6	Kyle Lowry	PG	29	TOR	77	2851	6.3
7	Kawhi Leonard	SF	24	SAS	72	2380	6.2
8	Chris Paul	PG	30	LAC	74	2420	6.0
9	Draymond Green	PF	25	GSW	81	2808	5.5
10	Paul Millsap	PF	30	ATL	81	2647	4.9

Once again, the usual suspects; the players we already have determined simply by watching the game to be the best in the game.

The only other point of note is that Draymond Green is severely underrated if some of these advanced statistics are to be believed. That also translates into severely underpaid but that’s another problem for Warriors GM Bob Myers to figure out once he gets done laughing at the league for pulling off that Kevin Durant coup.

Anyway, how did the Lakers fare in VORP rating compared to the rest of the league?

Player	Pos	Age	G	MP	VORP
Luol Deng (MIA)	PF	30	74	2394	2.3
Lou Williams	SG	29	67	1907	1.1
Brandon Bass	PF	30	66	1342	1.0
Jordan Clarkson	SG	23	79	2552	0.4
Roy Hibbert	C	29	81	1878	0.3
Timofey Mozgov (CLE)	C	29	76	1326	0.3
Larry Nance Jr.	PF	23	63	1266	0.2
D'Angelo Russell	PG	19	80	2259	0.1
Kobe Bryant	SF	37	66	1863	-0.2
Nick Young	SG	30	54	1033	-0.7
Julius Randle	PF	21	81	2286	-0.9

Again, the addition of Deng is a positive. His 2015-16 VORP was more than double the highest rated Laker, Lou Williams who finished at 1.1.

However, considering that the 2015-16 NBA average (>1,000 MP) VORP was 2.4, not a single Laker on the roster finished as high as “average.”

But as bad as these numbers are, here’s where things get really ugly for the Lakers: all 29 other teams in the NBA -- including Philadelphia -- had at least one player with a higher VORP than the Lakers’ highest rated player, Williams. Twenty-eight of the other twenty-nine teams had 2 or more.

And since this debate began with my assertion that not a single Laker on the pre-Luol Deng roster would be able to start for any other team in the Western Conference, I looked and who on these rosters anyone from the Lakers might be able to replace.

Of the teams in the Western Conference, all had two or more players with higher VORP than Lou Williams.

Half of these have five or more.

Tm	# VORP > LAL
Spurs	9
Nuggets	5
Warriors	5
Clippers	5
Thunder	5
Trail Blazers	5
Jazz	5
Mavericks	4
Rockets	4
Grizzlies	4
Timberwolves	3
Pelicans	2
Suns	2
Kings	2

CONCLUSION: My analysis of these advanced statistics support an argument that there may have been players on the Lakers roster (before the Deng signing) who could have cracked the starting five for another Western Conference team.

So the winner is Le Musicien.

But after looking closely at some of these advanced statistics, it’s clear that the loser is anyone who is a Lakers fan.

I Still Hope You Dance

2015-01-15T18:25:00.000-08:00

Just remember...it's never too late to dance.

So go dance, goddammit.

Go dance.

Love,
Pops

Dear Aunt Matilda

2015-01-10T17:46:00.003-08:00

From the wayback machine.

One of my early pieces, from my days as an 84-year old Southern Woman, Matilda Mae Sugarbottom (of the Andalusia, Alabama Sugarbottoms).

Dear Aunt Matilda,

I read your article "Time to reassess and redirect," in the January Splash! and have a question. Number 8 on your list must have some hidden meaning. I asked several persons about it and they could not understand what "Look into a dog's eyes until you see God staring back at you" means. Would you please explain what this means??

Signed, Steve B.

Dear Steve,

Thank you for reading the column and for taking the time to write. I am happy to explain what I meant by the "dog's eyes" item on the list.

I was taught as a child that God loves me unconditionally, that He will always protect and comfort me, and that He is always there whenever I call for Him. But it is so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day grind of life and forget about the importance of having God in your life. As I became an adult, I found myself growing further away from God. When I was pregnant with my second child, the doctor told me I had to spend the last four months of my pregnancy in bed. I was frightened and felt completely alone. I lay in the bed and prayed frantically, but found no solace.

About a month before Samantha was born, I was lying in bed next to Goldie, our two-year old Cocker Spaniel. I was sobbing uncontrollably, crying out to God, asking why He had left me all alone. In the middle of one particularly ungrateful tirade, Goldie laid his paw on my stomach and stared at me. This distracted me from my hysteria long enough to return his gaze.

When my sobs subsided, I began to feel something I hadn't felt in years. As Goldie lay there staring at me, I began to feel the presence of God. I had been so petulantly demanding that God bring me comfort that I hadn't stopped to listen and see if He was there. Goldie reminded me that God is with me always. I need only sit quietly and let Him comfort me.

I then realized that God had been with me all along, in the form of a gentle creature whose spirit was far more pure than mine would ever be. Just as I'd been taught about God, Goldie loved me unconditionally. When I was in danger or despair, Goldie protected and comforted me. And no matter what he was doing, Goldie would come running whenever I called. I had only to call, trust that he was coming, and sit quietly until he arrived.

God has an amazing capacity for finding ways to reach us. For me, he used a furry, barking creature that even I could understand.

Love, Tildie

P.S. To experience seeing God in your own pet, check out those available for adoption at Santa Rosa County Animal Services. You can call (983-4680) or email (animals@co.santa-rosa.fl.us) for more information. To see the pets, go to http://www.co.santarosa. fl.us/animals.