Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 4 of 6)

It's Sunday, May 22, 2011, Day Four of my six-day pre-blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU, reposting of some of my somewhat more obscure, yet favorite stories over the seven-year life of this space.

Seeing as though we apparently missed The Rapture, I thought that today I would reprise a story about someone who at least lives in Comedy Heaven: the legendary King of Latenight, the late Johnny Carson.

The post, The King Is Dead...Long Live The King originally appeared on Monday, January 24, 2005, the day after Carson’s passing, as my tribute to a longtime hero of both my childhood and adult life. Johnny Carson defined an entire genre of television and certainly, just as well defined a big part of the lives of his millions of fans throughout his show’s 30 seasons on the air.

It’s almost unbelievable that today marks 19 years since, quite literally, Carson’s swan song: Bette Midler’s rendition of ‘One For My Baby’ at the close of the penultimate Tonight Show With Johnny Carson (the actual final show the following night, on May 23. 1992, included no guests besides sidekick Ed McMahon and previous Tonight Show video highlights).



At any rate, in tribute to that, and because I’ve always considered this one of the most heartfelt stream of words ever to proceed from my fingers...Enjoy.

MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 2005

The King Is Dead...Long Live The King

Sorry to interrupt, but this can’t be helped.
It was my sincere intention to complete my current series before I went on to any other subject. The story of my brother’s current battle with Alzheimer’s Disease has taken more than six weeks so far, and it’s been excruciating to try and get through. As a matter of fact, I’ve got plenty of other story ideas I want to get to. They’re all lined up in queue inside my head just waiting to be written as soon as I can get this current gorilla off my back. However interruptions happen, such as my side posts at Christmas and New Years, because they’re holidays that merit such timely recognition. Now another event has occurred, which in my world deserves similar pause and reflection.

The King is dead.

No, I’m not talking about Elvis — he’s still working the graveyard shift down at the 7-Eleven. I’m not talking about some Middle Eastern potentate or even the King of Beers. I’m talking about the King of Late Night. I’m talking about Johnny Carson.

Johnny passed away around dawn Sunday morning in his Malibu, CA home, apparently due to complications from emphysema. It was no doubt the result of his many years of cigarette smoking, which makes it all the more disgusting and painful for me to take.

You see, I come from a long line of smokers. I am the only one of all my brothers who has never smoked. My Dad quit 22 years ago after having smoked on and off for 23 the previous 43 years. All of his family have been heavy smokers, including my paternal Grandfather, who himself succumbed to emphysema in 1973. I guess that makes Carson’s death a little more personal for me. And it also makes me a little more angry because it circles back to add a stinging reminder as to my own failure as a parent; the fact that despite the example of our family’s history I apparently couldn’t make a strong enough case to prevent my own children from becoming smokers themselves.

Shawn and Amy tell me that they are mostly ‘social smokers.’ They acknowledge that it’s a harmful habit and that someday, they will definitely quit. But as I’ve told them to no avail, I’ve grown up around it and would dare say that I’ve known quite a few more people in my lifetime who after only smoking for a few years have tried to quit and found it extremely tough. How tough, I can’t say, because thankfully it has never been my problem; yet it’s obviously something that’s difficult to deal with, so why start in the first place?

Okay, okay...I’m veering way off course here. It wasn’t my intent to make this post a rant about smoking. I’m not a cigarette-Nazi, and quite frankly it doesn’t bother me to be around it; after all, like I said, I grew up with smokers; I’m used to it; it’s not a major issue. What I do have an issue with is the fact that it has killed yet another person; a person I grew up with; a person I truly loved and thought the world of: Johnny Carson.

You all know who he was, but if you don’t have a clear recollection of actually witnessing him host The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, you likely don’t know what he was. He was a pioneer. He not only defined the genre of late-night talk, he was The Beatles of talk show hosts. He set the standard. He broke the mold.

In the 1960s, when I was between 8 and 12 years of age, there was no cooler treat than being able to stay up until 11:30pm to watch The Tonight Show. I always felt so ‘grown up,’ getting the chance to laugh at the sometimes racy, certainly ‘adult-oriented’ humor of Johnny and his guests. Carson defined the now standard concept of the comedic monologue to begin each show; now it’s standard practice. It may not have started with Carson, but he became the standard-bearer for its use to subsequent generations of comic talkshow hosts to follow.

I know that a lot of you thirtysomethings probably think that Johnny Carson was a little old-fashioned, compared to the raucous, zany or hip, urban styles of David Letterman, Jay Leno, Conan O’Brien and Arsenio Hall. Certainly they all fed off of the Carson genre and added their own special augmentations, most of which are both funny and worthy of praise in and of themselves. But if you were to ask them (and all have been asked over the years) who is the greatest of them all, to a man they point to Carson.

Everyone watched Carson. Of course the fact that there was no cable in all but a fraction of U.S. households in even the latter years of his run didn’t exactly hurt his ratings. But the fact is, Johnny Carson was the definition of water cooler discussion. His show was what everyone talked about in the office the next morning. His monologues were often the topic of discussion for morning radio DJs throughout the country. And perhaps as importantly, all America knew that if someone made an appearance on the Tonight Show, either as an interviewed guest or a musical performer, that person or band was important. They had made it. That’s how significant Johnny Carson’s influence was.

Johnny & Ed
I had actually been thinking about Carson recently, and wondering how he was doing; it seemed amazing how time had flown since he left the public eye. After leaving The Tonight Show on May 23,1992, he basically went into seclusion, making public appearances very rarely and television appearances almost never.

Carson’s sidekick for over 30 years, Ed McMahon would go on, following The Tonight Show to enjoy perhaps his greatest celebrity with the syndicated Star Search TeeVee series, while also putting his face on seemingly any show or product he could throughout the decade of the 90s.

Yet even as McMahon’s public presence began diminishing over the past few years, I was still hopeful to see Johnny to resurface at some point. Unfortunately he stuck to his guns just as he’d said he would when he announced, “When I retire from television, I’m going to stay retired from television.”

And now he’s gone...and I feel like shit.

I feel as though someone just reached into my soul and ripped out a huge chunk of my childhood, not to mention a good part of my adult life. I don’t know anyone my age who didn’t think the man was The Man. He was, quite frankly, a hero to my generation; someone to be admired.

Johnny Carson was 79 years old; not exactly a spring chicken, but three years younger than McMahon, who is now 82. Not that I would have ever wished it upon him, but I always figured that Ed would be the first to go.

The Boy Who Would Be King
When we were kids, my brother Alex and I would pretend that we were Johnny and Ed. I was Carson, of course.

We would do imaginary interviews with greats like Jimmy Stewart (with me doing double-duty with an extremely lame Jimmy Steward impression). Of course Zha Zha Gabor would always stop by with her legendary cat and her even more legendary question to Johnny (which I would learn only years later are merely urban legends). And of course, Carnac the Magnificent would make an appearance as well, giving the answers to Ed’s questions before they were even asked.

But now all these years later I hold in my hand the LAST question. It has been hermetically sealed inside a mayonnaise jar, sitting on Funk & Wagnall’s porch since noon today.

The question is a simple, “Why?” However, we’ll never know the answer. Carnac won’t be making any more appearances.

The King is dead.

Long live the King.


_{Photo Courtesy Carson Productions, Inc.}

Dance

I love my wife, and I know she loves me. We love each other despite the respective compulsive behaviors we continually embrace that drive each other a little crazy sometimes.

For example, I acknowledge that I suffer from Dishwasher Palsy; that affliction in which a person’s hands cease to function beyond the act of setting dirty dishes in the sink (as opposed to continuing on that extra foot-and-a-half to place them in the dishwasher).

On the other hand, Michelle suffers from a malady that seems to run rampant in her workplace, called Office Email Forwarditis, in which she seems helpless to resist the urge to forward every chain email she receives to at least a dozen other people and then, in turn, to me as well.

These electronic missives of folly generally fall into a narrow range of categories. Many are somewhat offensively political in nature. Others are simply goofy larks involving some Baby Boomer’s waxed nostalgia for ‘the good old days’. And we've all seen those embarrassingly juvenile collections of silly images, featuring various snide and/or corny captions, usually screaming at you in 36-point Comic Sans or Brush Script (IN ALL CAPS, OF COURSE).

As a graphic designer, these emails often give me the urge to jump off a cliff. As a rational, thinking person, I sometimes have my doubts as to whether or not the originator employed those same capabilities at the time they were dreaming these things up.

Nonetheless, I never delete them out of hand. I always at least give glance to each email, because every once in awhile Michelle will surprise me with a winner; a chain email with a difference; one with a sentiment that rings true, regardless of its level of trite sappiness; a message whose aim to remind us how precious our time on this planet truly is and how we need to make every minute count; one that is right on target.

The email she sent me on Wednesday was like that. I really needed it too, as I had received news the day before that truly placed the whole concept of ‘life’ into perspective for me once again.

Another Episode of ‘Life Interrupted’
This past Tuesday, my morning oatmeal was soured by a Facebook message from my cousin Jeante, announcing that yet another victim had been claimed by our family’s curse of Early-Onset Alzheimer’s Disease (EOAD). Another of my maternal cousins has followed her mother and elder sister into heaven years earlier than she ever should have. She was 54; the same age as me. And even though we hadn’t spoken nor even occupied the same room since we were kids, this courageous woman was extremely special to me, via the familial and experiential bonds we shared on numerous levels.

‘Cheryl,’ as I’ve referred to her here in my blog, had battled the disease through active participation in AD research for the better part of the past 20 years. She was a pioneer, an invaluable asset in the field of Alzheimer's research.

Over the last quarter of her life, she had been in a unique and harrowing position of awareness, knowing of the death sentence that had been imposed upon her from birth. At age 35 she became aware that she carried the familial gene that has inflicted the horrible reality of EOAD upon generations of my maternal family tree. However in response, she didn’t retract in fear; she didn’t shut down but rather, became activated, and for the next 15 years, courageously volunteered in the research efforts of the Indiana University School of Medicine’s Alzheimer's Disease Center, as well as in clinical trials of various other institutions in her local area.

She had learned the devastating truth of her condition just prior to the round of tests involving my entire extended family back in 1992, where, under the auspices of IU’s Dr. Martin Farlow, a precursory test for the disease had recently been discovered.

Her decision to become an ongoing participant in the institution’s research involved at least two cross-country trips per year from her home in Oregon to Indianapolis. And while the experimental drugs she helped test likely lengthened her lifespan, in the end, they only postponed the inevitable.

Nonetheless, she considered it a worthy effort; and so it was, as the clinical trials in which Cheryl participated were among those involved in the eventual development of the now-commonly prescribed AD drugs, Aracept and Nemenda. These drugs serve to slow down the onset of Alzheimer’s Disease, and in cases of the longer-developing, non-hereditary, so-called ‘sporadic’ variety (most common in elderly populations), can indeed extend a victim’s mental viability a great number of years.

Unfortunately, the aggressive variety of EOAD that has plagued my family isn't nearly so inclined to be denied for very long. Cheryl’s onset was largely delayed into her late 40s, which is several years removed from the average typical beginning of onset in our family’s experience (usually between the ages of 39-41).

And to be sure, by comparison Cheryl would have no doubt been taken from us years earlier if not for the drugs that she helped to be developed. That her own onset symptoms were delayed for so long is no doubt a tribute to the drugs’ success.

At age 54, she lived at least 5-6 years beyond the established pattern of those in our family who had previously succumbed to EOAD.

Although she knew that she carried the gene indicating she would develop Alzheimer’s since 1991, Cheryl wasn’t positively diagnosed until 1999. I didn’t hear anything about her condition until about five years later, when she would have been around the age of 48 — the same age my mother and one of our uncles were when they died. Her elder sister Denise had passed at age 49, however Cheryl remained well-functioning for several more years.

Albeit only over the phone and via email, I finally got to meet Cheryl’s husband Mike a few years ago. He revealed to me that it was in 2005, after she’d gotten lost driving to the office of her longtime physician that they knew her disability was entering the final stages.

Another Long Goodbye
Cheryl was bright and vivacious; I’ve been told she could charm the spots off a leopard. She was a successful businesswoman, working as a manager and buyer for a major department store chain for more than 23 years. But most of all, her husband loved her. Mike, like many other spouses of AD sufferers, has gone through hell and back to be there for his best friend.

Upon realizing that her onset had progressed to the point that her faculties were deteriorating rapidly, Mike, still in his mid-forties, took early retirement from his career as a successful printing company executive to spend as much time as possible with Cheryl while they still had time to enjoy life together.

He purchased a touring motorcycle and the two of them set off for adventure, traveling the United States from Portland to New York City; from Arizona to Alaska; soaking in every moment, feeling every emotion, and bonding as never before. These were the fleeting memories that Cheryl carried with her unto the end; until her thoughts became a morass of brief glimpses and confusion.

Mike began fund-raising efforts in Cheryl’s name through Alzheimer’s Memory Walk events in his local community, consistently being one of the top money-raisers to benefit The Alzheimer’s Association.

If I had a vote to nominate anyone for sainthood, there’s no doubt in my mind who’d get the first nod. I can honestly say I’ve never seen greater love so obviously expressed by a husband for his wife than that of Mike for Cheryl.

Following the couple’s travels over 2006-07, by early 2008, Cheryl’s need for constant care grew to the extent that Mike had to enlist the services of a Memory Care facility in Portland, where he was able to still spend time with her daily, but finally receive a modicum of rest from his exhausting role as primary caregiver.

Cheryl’s earthly journey came to an end this past Monday morning.

Cheryl’s death obviously brings to the forefront of my mind, my younger brother Alex, who still clings to life, himself in the final stages of Alzheimer’s onset. He’ll be 51 in May.

Alex has been on the onset-slowing AD drugs since his diagnosis in late 2004, which has helped to delay his decline. However he was diagnosed comparatively much later in the process than was Cheryl, and is currently in hospice care, likely in the final months of his life.

No, I didn’t forget about The Email
As is my wont, I now circle back to the reason I began writing this post in the first place: the sentiment from the chain email that Michelle forwarded to me this week.

It’s a fairly corny, but poignant and sweet sentiment that I would encourage us all to heed, never forgetting that life is but a vapor and that there are no guarantees. I’m hopeful you’ll get as much out of this silly verse as I did.

And as far as forwarding it goes, do feel free to cut and paste. I think this is one that everybody needs to see.

This was written by an 83-year-old woman to her friend.
*The last line says it all. *

Dear Bertha,

I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting in the yard and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time working.

Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experiences to savor, not to endure. I'm trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them.

I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, or the first Amaryllis blossom.

I wear my good blazer to the market. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties, but wearing it for clerks in the hardware store and tellers at the bank.

"Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now

I'm not sure what others would've done had they known they wouldn't be here for the tomorrow that we all take for granted. I think they would have called family members and a few close friends. They might have called a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think they would have gone out for a Chinese dinner or for whatever their favorite food was.

I'm guessing; I'll never know.

It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew my hours were limited. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and parents often enough how much I truly love them. I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every morning when I open my eyes, tell myself that it is special.

Every day, every minute, every breath truly is a gift from God.

If you received this, it is because someone cares for you. If you're too busy to take the few minutes that it takes right now to forward this, would it be the first time you didn't do the little thing that would make a difference in your relationships? I can tell you it certainly won't be the last.

Take a few minutes to send this to a few people you care about, just to let them know that you're thinking of them.

"People say true friends must always hold hands, but true friends don't need to hold hands because they know the other hand will always be there."

Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance.

finis

Secundum Memor

For me, Memorial Day is always at least a day late
My father served in the army during WW II, but luckily for my family, didn’t see any time on the battlefield. He’s still with us today; a hale and hearty 86-goin’-on-87 year-old.

None of my aunts and uncles lost their lives fighting for our country either.

I didn’t have any friends or relatives who died in Viet Nam (that I know of, anyway), save for a high school buddy of my late brother David, Glenn Bailey, for whom I always say a prayer each time the calendar rolls around to the final Monday in May.

I don’t believe either of my kids have had friends who’ve lost their lives in Iraq or Afghanistan; nor have any of our family friends with children in current military service dealt with the anguish of such a fate.

Even my most famous soldier-relative, WW I’s most decorated, Sergeant Alvin C. York, who defied incredible odds and employed legendary valor, managed to come through his tour of duty in The Great War with life intact.

So, that being said, Memorial Day, apart from a general reverence on behalf all of the men and women who fought to secure my freedom, had never been all that personal a day of remembrance for me.

That is, until ten years ago today.

June 1, 2000 was the day my step-mom, Maxine was laid to rest.

She died that Memorial Day weekend from a viral infection, which suddenly overtook her body during recovery from a previous surgery. It was shocking; unexpected; devastating. She was 78 years old, but had always been in good health. However that began to change following a second knee replacement in 1999 and a subsequent series of complications, including removal of a benign tumor and a staph infection, which she was recovering from at the time that the secondary viral infection took over and ended her life.

The stormy relationship Maxine and I shared is well-documented, yet the loss I still feel each June 1st has never abated; and I doubt, ever will.

For the vast majority of my adult life, I was on wonderful terms with the woman who raised me; who taught me responsibility, and “the principle of the thing.” But it hadn’t always been so.

The lessons she delivered were hard and unrelenting; the same way that she had learned them, growing up during The Great Depression. I had every reason to rebel; every reason to hate her, but I endured, and eventually won her favor.

The years seemed to mellow her, but I’m not certain of that. All I know for sure is that her stance toward me changed after I became an adult. She often made it a point to let me know that finally, I had “done good” after years of not-so-subtly suggesting that I never would.

I learned the definition of forgiveness through my step-mother; not by her example, but rather by God’s provision of my opportunity to grant it unto her, despite all the reasons I had not to.

Ten years later, now with adult children of my own, with whom many of the same issues of will that my Mom and I battled having come and gone, I see things through different eyes; even more so now than I did ten years ago, when I stood at the podium of Forest Lawn’s Church of Our Fathers, delivering her eulogy.

There are always two sides to every story; dual points of view, both seemingly ‘right’ in the eyes of those who hold them. Whether it was hers or whether it was mine that was the correct one is immaterial.

What is important, and what is that part of the substance of my character gleaned from my relationship with Maxine, is that there is good in every situation, no matter how dark or daunting. A battle of wills does not always declare a victor, nor does it always brand a loser.

Maxine taught me that there is more than one way to love.

Thanks, Mom.


finis

I Finally Know How He Feels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*_{California Interscholastic Federation}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I said, I’m a lucky guy.


finis

So Long, Squirty

I wasn’t ready for this — not even a little bit.
I don't think one is ever prepared for the death of a family member — even if that family member has four spindly little legs and a bobbed tail.

However I have indeed been forced to say goodbye to a member of my family today and I'm in hell right now. I can barely function. But I know that if I don't get this written tonight, I may never write it.

So yeah, let's just get something out of the way right here and now. I'm gonna mourn here a little bit; I'm gonna probably end up bawling my eyes out before it's all over, and right now I don't give a rip about being macho, manly, or any of that 'maintaining-a-stiff-upper-lip' bullshit nonsense.

I’m really hurting right now, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

Earlier this evening we had the horrendously painful task of putting our little dog down. Squirty (previously referred to in my stories as 'Spotty') had cancer, and she’d been in a lot of pain for weeks. She was fifteen and a half years old — that’s 105+ years to us two-leggers — but she was always our baby.

Our four-legged kids
In one respect we think of them as our children; less than human of course, but every bit as vital and important as members of our family. In another respect, we acknowledge them for what they are: animals, whose life spans are but a fraction of our own, and whose existence in our lives is but a vapor.

Yet no matter how much we mentally acknowledge that we know they won't live forever, we're always surprised — even devastated — by the reality that they never do.

We call them 'pets, ' but they so far exceed the demeaning connotation of that moniker. They’re companions; reassuring friends making us feel loved and wanted. They give so much; asking so little in return.


There’s my dog! This is Squirty about a year and a half ago, September 29, 2007, during one of Michelle’s and my often daily visits to our new home construction site. The rich, golden-tan markings around her eyes and mouth had long since been replaced by the white hair of her old age, but she was always a happy dog. This is how I’ll remember her...smiling.

Squirty was a Toy Fox Terrier, the runt of the litter, and by far (in Michelle's and my opinion) the cutest one of the bunch. She was born June 3, 1993 in Dixon, Tennessee at a breeder specializing in pure bred Toy Fox Terriers (although the Westminster Kennel Club doesn't officially recognize them as a 'pure' breed — meh...whadda they know?).

She was the perfect addition to our family, joining us at the beginning of our journey to a new life in Tennessee. We got her about a year and a half after relocating here from the Los Angeles area, and just prior to purchasing our first new house.

She was smart, rambunctious, and as precocious as a dog could be, and soon had us wrapped around her tiny little paw.

Nonetheless at the time, I wasn't all that excited about the idea of getting a dog. Dogs were so much more high maintenance than cats, our heretofore pet of choice. We'd gotten a pair of kitties when we moved into our first house as a married couple, the one in Long Beach that we rented for 11 years prior to our Tennessee adventure. Now thirteen years later only one of those two litter-mates, a beautiful black, white and gray tabby named 'Tina,' was still around to make the trip to Tennessee, and we knew her remaining time was short.

Born on the 4th of July (well…close enough)
Michelle wanted a dog in the worst way. Her parents from Florida were looking to get one as well. They wanted a small dog, and were looking in the direction of Fox Terriers when they discovered this breeder in Dixon, a small town about twenty-five miles southwest of Nashville.

From the late 1980s and throughout the ’90s, Michelle’s parents spent their summers in east Tennessee, in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. So when we arrived in Nashville at the beginning of 1992, we understandably began seeing them on a more regular basis each summer, as they were now only four hours away rather than the usual twelve when they were back home in the FLA.

In 1993 they came to spend the Fourth of July holiday with us, arriving a couple days prior. While they were here they wanted to check out that breeder in Dixon. He was just about an hour's drive west of us. Michelle accompanied her folks but I stayed behind. We hadn’t even broached the subject of ‘us’ getting a puppy as well, but I can't say that I was surprised when Michelle returned home that afternoon, smitten. She insisted I come back out with them the next day, July 3rd, to see the pups for myself.

I felt as though it was slap in the whiskers to our elderly cat, Tina, but I finally relented and went along. Of course I too would be instantly mesmerized.

The litter had been born exactly one month earlier, and had it been any other breed, I may have been able to maintain my relatively hard-ass position. But as fate would have it, I actually had a built-in affinity for Fox Terriers; we had one as our family pet in Middletown, Indiana, the final four years we lived there prior to moving to California in 1969.

When it came down to selecting our puppies, it was only fair that Michelle's parents got the first shot. They chose one of the middle-of-the-litter pups, a larger and stockier female they would later name, 'Sugar.' My wife and I, delighted that they didn't glom onto our favorite, happily chose the runt, who may have been the smallest and most rambunctious, but who also was the most striking with her evenly black-spotted white coat and handsomely mottled black and tan head. Oh yeah; I too was smitten.

But so as not to appear a total pushover, I agreed to getting the dog under one condition — that I got to name it. I named her 'Squirt,' after the only family dog I really knew as a kid: the one we had in Middletown. He too was a Fox Terrier, and a small one — hence the name — but wasn’t of the ‘Toy’ variety. He was considerably larger, full grown, than our new puppy would be.

But the name fit. ‘Squirt’ she was to be — at least for the moment, anyway; apparently my ultimatums don’t carry a whole lotta weight. Within a week our puppy was re-dubbed, ‘Squirty,’ care of Michelle, who thought it a better suited variation for a girl dog. And of course, she was right.

Three’s Company
Squirty was indeed Michelle’s baby girl. I know the dog loved me too, but hey — she knew which side her bread was buttered on. She’d warm up to me eventually, but it took her a couple times of being shown ‘who’s was the boss’ before she stopped growling at me when I crawled into bed at night. Oh yeah, nothing says “welcome to bed” like your own dog bearing her teeth at you when you pull back the sheets.

But that didn’t last long. Meh…who knows, maybe she sensed that I still preferred the cat at that point…

Oh…did I mention that she slept with us?

From the second night on, Squirty was my personal hot water bottle. It started out as our only means of getting any sleep; doggie simply would not stop whining while she was in her own bed; she wanted to be in ours. And it quickly became a normal thing; whenever we were in the bed, Squirty was in the bed — even when we didn’t want her to be in the bed ifyaknowhatimean — which actually made for as many humorous moments as it did frustrating ones.

But all in all she was great. She was our joy in the face of a lot of trying times. She was always well-behaved and friendly; never snapped at a soul that I know of. And It was only in the last year — mostly just in the last month or so in fact — that she ever even soiled the floor inside our house. She was always so good to go to the door and let us know whenever she needed to go out and ‘do her business.’

And now in the end, thinking back, I suppose that should have been our first clue; her losing her way with her bodily functions should have told us that something wasn’t right. Maybe we actually did realize but just didn’t want to believe it.

The beginning of the End
About three weeks ago — but really it was more like five — Squirty really began losing her energy. Even in recent years ‘lethargic’ hadn’t even been in this dog’s zip code, yet we accepted it as we began noticing how much more she was sleeping lately; we simply chalked it up to old age. Then one morning, about a week ago, as was my custom while dressing for work, I reached down to pet my little dog as she sat nearby, watching me tie my shoes. As I wound my hand down from the top of her head and around her muzzle, I gently massaged the underside of her neck with my fingers. She’d always loved that; but not this time.

I nearly jumped out of my socks as she let out a yelp that would make one think I’d just stuck her with a straight pin. I returned to her and gently felt around the area on her neck and again she yelped in pain. I didn’t know what to think. Had she accidentally hit herself on the side of the coffee table or something?

I felt bewildered and sorry for Squirty, but didn’t put two-and-two together — none of us had at that point. I finished getting dressed and left for work.

When I returned home that evening, Michelle’s Mom informed me that Michelle had taken Squirty to the vet. During the day, her neck had swollen to twice its normal size. I was scared, but never assumed the worst. Maybe it was just a bad tooth that had caused the infection. Surely our dog would be okay, right?

Well, at least the vet thought so. He said that Squirty had refused to allow him to examine her throat, but he gave her a substantial infusion of antibiotics and was keeping her overnight for observation.

The next day the news was better. The antibiotics had indeed reduced the swelling, enough so that the vet felt good about going in for a better look, with Squirty under local anesthesia. Afterwards he said the x-rays he took detected a mass in her throat, but couldn’t reveal its nature. It could be more infection, but it could be something else. However he was encouraged by how well the antibiotics seemed to work on the swelling. He wanted to give things a week to see what course her condition would take. He seemed optimistic that it wasn’t life-threatening.

The next few days she did seem a lot better; not completely like her old self, but clearly headed in the right direction. She was scheduled to see the vet again today, Thursday afternoon, but on Wednesday, her neck began to become tender to the touch once again.

This morning, she looked like she was hiding a golf ball under her tongue.

Michelle dropped her off at the vet on her way into work, and we waited. The bad news came at 3:30 this afternoon. They biopsied the mass in her neck and found that indeed it was a carcinoma. It had started out deep in the salivary glands behind her left jaw, and grew like wildfire over the past two weeks.

The vet said there was nothing realistically that could be done; her entire salivary gland had become one huge cancer. There was no recourse. She couldn’t swallow; she couldn’t eat, and she was in constant, terrible pain.

Last Goodbye
When Michelle and I arrived at the vet’s office, we were taken into the exam room where they had our little dog wrapped in a towel and laying on her side on the stainless steel table. She was just beginning to come out of the anesthesia from the biopsy and examination.

The nurse told us that we could take as long as we needed to be with her; to say goodbye. Michelle and I were a mess. There was no way to hold back the tears even if we’d wanted to.

Squirty truly looked like death warmed over. Her shaved neck and the underside of her muzzle was horribly swollen and hardened by the edema surrounding the tumor deep within her neck. As we stood surrounding the table, Michelle and I took turns kneeling to get down close to her face. We wanted to look into her eyes; to let her to know that we were there with her.

Squirty’s breathing was heavy and labored; she shivered intermittently as she moaned a faint, high pitched squeal with each exhale, as if she were pleading with us for help as she lay there paralyzed in her partially anesthetized state.

It was grueling. Even after I had knocked on the door to indicate that we were ready for the doctor to come, we waited at least another 15-20 minutes before he finally appeared. However during that time, Squirty began to come to and at least a little bit of life returned to her faraway eyes. I kneeled down to make eye contact again and she looked right at me, weakly raising her head.

“There’s my dog!” I sobbed, “There’s my Squirters..”

It was only for those remaining five minutes or so that I believe Squirty knew Michelle and I were there. She stopped shivering, her breathing normalized and she made eye contact with each of us as we stroked, patted and loved on her, but never did she make any other significant attempt to move. I’m thankful for that. Either the sedation was still enough in place that she simply couldn’t move, or she just knew that it was no use.

She just lay there motionless until the doctor came in a few minutes later.

He asked if we wanted to be present and we both answered affirmatively. We just kept on stroking, sobbing and whispering our last goodbyes to our sweet doggy.

The vet shaved a small area on one of her hind legs and inserted an IV, to which Squirty gave a weak yelp. He then inserted the syringe needle into the IV and slowly depressed the plunger.

We said our final goodbyes. Thirty seconds later she was gone.

I don’t know if we’ll ever get another dog, but I’d be surprised if we don’t.

But not now; not for quite awhile, I’d say.

What Dreams May Become
I don’t know whether or not dogs have souls, but I know that they dream — at least mine did. On several occasions I had the pleasure of watching Squirty dreaming while she slept on our bed or on the couch: gyrating legs, flailing away; muffled barks; rapid eye movement — the whole nine yards.

She used to love to chase squirrels out of the back yard at our old house. Maybe that’s what she dreamed about. Maybe that’s what she’s doing right now.

Go get ‘em, Squirters!


finis

A Little Toilet Humor

Okay...maybe one more.
Yeah, it certainly wouldn't be the first time I've underestimated the length of time it takes me to do something. As you may know from my previous post, I fully intended to have this blog converted to the shiny new look and feature set of the new updated template that I've been feverishly crafting since last Friday. But alas, the bugger took me all of the hours I had to devote to it this past weekend, leaving me no time to actually write the two or so new posts I wanted to coincide with its formal introduction.

So I'll have to beg your pardon on the timing, but It may be next weekend before I officially flip the switch, given how busy a week I have directly ahead of me.

So in the meantime, I've decided to offer up one final exit post to tide you over. Sorta like its author, it's a real stinker, but I hope you like it.

It's a Mad world
I've gotta warn you, if you're like a lot of reactionary, politically-correct people these days, you may find the subject matter of this story offensive, gross, and disgusting.

If you're like me, you'll just find it funny.

I don't know about you, but I often do some of my best thinking in one of the two places I spend time each and every day: standing in the shower, or ensconced upon the porcelain throne.

This morning I was engaged in the latter circumstance, here at The Company where I work, when the sound of activity from a stall several feet to my left triggered a memory that almost immediately brought a smile to my face.

You probably have to be at least close to my generation's age to remember this well, but back in the 60s, that veritable bastion of sophomoric humor, Mad magazine, offered numerous 'special' issues throughout the year, containing various bonus paraphernalia — things like pull-out posters and/or stickers with gummed or peel-off adhesive backing. Oh, the havoc wreaked upon the painted surfaces on which we kids used to slap those stickers! It surely must have driven more than a few parents to drink back then. Of course, I can appreciate this now, but as a pre-teen at the time I couldn't have cared less.

There was one Mad issue that I recall fondly, featuring a set of what collectors now refer to as 'trouble' stickers; ones printed with various humorous cautionary phrases that poked fun at everyday appliances, pop-cultural opinions and everyday events; just silly, ridiculous kids-stuff, as per the Mad tradition. The sentiments were usually pretty corny, but geared perfectly to the goofball sensibilities of adolescents like yours truly.

Phrases like, "Stomp out violence!", "Attention Burglars! It's OK to break into this house!", and "Caution! The Driver Of This Car May Be A Hazard To Your Health!" always tickled my funny bone. But then again, some of the jokes just went — swoosh — right over my head. And just like that proverbial guy who busts out laughing after finally 'getting' a joke he'd heard a week earlier, it wasn't until years later that one of those miniature handbills would quite ironically change my life — and most likely save me thousands in future plumbing bills.

♫ Teach, your children well...
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not not normally one who talks a lotta crap — or even dwells on taking one. However, I've often wondered about the aspect of 'closing the deal' on that (hopefully) most 'regular' of all bodily functions.

I mean, who really teaches us how to use toilet paper?

Obviously, the likely answer would be our parents, or someone who took care of us when we were little. But how many lessons did they offer? Did they take the time to actually demonstrate the finer points, or did they just show us the roll and let us figure things out on our own?

Now again, this isn't something to which I devote a lot of meditation, but it has crossed my mind from time to time. Maybe it's crossed yours too. And if it hadn't yet, well...you're welcome.

Anyway, back to the stickers...

So there I was this morning, sitting in the stall, when I hear the sudden, continual sound of a spinning toilet paper dispenser, echoing from about three stalls over, on the far port side of the men's room. It sort of reminded me of the sound that a roller skate wheel makes when you spin it with the tips of your fingers.

"RhhrrrrrRAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT...RhhrrrrrRAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT...and so on, probably 4-5 times in succession.

It took a second or two for the significance of the sound to register, but then it hit me; that dude was usin' some paper, yo.

And after an initial, brief burst of contempt, leveled at the guy for the potential environmental-impact of his apparently wanton waste of waste-paper, I caught myself and smiled, then flashed back to the days of my adolescent youth when I too was a roll-spinner.

♫ Can't touch this...
My childhood fear of touching my own grunt was such that my typical tee-pee torrent had to double-over at least 5-6 times on the floor beneath it to convince me that a sufficient buffer would then exist between my right hand and the toxic waste to be wiped from my cute little hiney. I'm quite sure that by the time I was ten I had single-handedly (pun intended) used enough of the stuff to represent the deforestation of half the state of Oregon.

Now don't judge; I'm innocent! You see, I don't recall ever having more than a single instructional session as to the proper use of bathroom tissue. No one that I can recall ever told me how much was too much; I just kept on spinnin' that roll until I had at least a half-an-inch of bulk from which to work. Multiply that by four or times per session, and it's no wonder that the toilets at my house were constantly stopped-up, although I never once had an inkling that I might have had something to do with that.

However, for as strange and classically 'childhood' as that anecdote is, it took the aforementioned adolescent humor magazine to get me to see the error of my environmentally-irresponsible ways.

♫ Let the Good Times Roll...
I can clearly remember excitedly examining the sticker insert included with the issue of Mad that one of my brothers brought home for me on a summer's day in the late-mid-1960s. As I scanned the two pages-worth of adhesive-backed beauties in various shapes and sizes, I came across one that particularly appealed to the abject grossness of my adolescent boy sensibilities.

The sticker read: "WARNING! This toilet tissue must be MULTIPLE-FOLDED to avoid break-through!"

"HAAAAA!" I thought. "This is great!" "They're talking about probably the grossest, sickest, grodiest, most disgusting thing that could ever happen to a human being in history, right? How funny! How gross! WOOOHOOO! I gotta go put this up in the bathroom!"

And so I did; slapping that sticker on the wall, just above the toilet paper dispenser, where I (and the rest of my family) would see it every time I did my bid'ness for the next two years. Of course, at that later date, when I had reached the mature age of eleven or twelve, I began to see things differently (...okay...not that much differently, but a little).

I do know that I began to see the sticker, and what it said, differently. Oh yeah, I'd always known it was a joke, I'd just never really understood the setup. I knew the concept was a goof; but then it began to occur to me that maybe — just maybe, there was actually something to be learned there. The sticker suggested something that I had never really even considered: the concept of actually folding toilet paper — as opposed to wadding it up in a huge ball — which had always been my M.O. — in order to create maximum cushion between digits and dung.

Following my established method, break-through was pretty much an impossibility. But could it be feasible to actually use less tee-pee, even...dare I say...multiple folded? Do people actually do this? How could anyone employ such a risky practice?

Nevertheless, the Environmental Movement was already firmly entrenched in the national consciousness by the late-60s, and was an important consideration at the time, even for a young boy such as myself. Killing trees unnecessarily was a big no-no, and the little ecological angel on my shoulder was beginning to assert herself in my decisions. I decided I would try and go folded, and thereby, hopefully go easier on the tee-pee.

It was one small step for a young boy; one giant leap for tree conservation.

And so to this day I continue, just tryin' to do my part for the planet. I considered using corncobs once, but thought better of it. Nope, I'll just keep on foldin.' Oh, I know it's not much, but it IS a little something that I can do-do to help save good ol' Mother Earth.

And now I once again pause to consider the plight of the roll-spinner over in the fourth stall, with whom I shared the restroom earlier today. All things considered, I feel kinda sorry for the poor sap, and sorrier for the planet. But maybe he's just oblivious to it all like I once was. Maybe he didn't have anyone to teach him the way of the multiple-fold when he was a boy.

Then again, maybe he just grew up without any decent bathroom reading material.


finis

Shea…Goodnight

Stirrin’ Up the Ghosts
It happens without fail; a venerable stadium or sports arena comes to the end of its lifespan and no matter how flawed or frayed it’s reputation or viability over the course of its advancing age, a flood of emotion and sentimentality always swells within the public and the press.

Now I’m not usually given to parroting news articles I read for use as blog subjects. However this morning while in the midst of our Sunday A.M. ritual of coffee, quiet conversation and the Sunday Tennessean newspaper, I became aware of something that I’m really not sure I knew before I read it. The more I read, the more emotional I became. Twinges of sharp sentiment filled my chest as the story brought to the surface memories that had lay dormant for years.

If you have any more than a modicum of awareness about the current doings of Major League Baseball, then you know that world-famous Yankee Stadium closed its doors last Sunday night. The New Yankee Stadium will open for business next spring in is new location right across the street from its esteemed predecessor.

However New York’s ‘other’ baseball team, the Mets, despite its own storied past, is also getting a new stadium next year. But I’ll be damned if I was aware of it.

The author of the Associate press article I read pretty much assumed that; his opening line: “By the way, Shea Stadium is closing, too.”

The article went on to celebrate the stadium, located in Flushing Meadow, NY, a place not only rich in sports history as the home of the Amazin’ Mets of 1969, but also that of the old American Football League’s New York Jets, who upset the NFL’s Baltimore Colts in Superbowl III that same year behind Quarterback ‘Broadway’ Joe Namath’s ‘guarantee’ of victory.

Several other non-sporting events dot the landscape of Shea’s forty-four year history. Of the most notable were The Beatles groundbreaking first U.S. major outdoor stadium concert on August 15, 1965, and the October 3, 1979 Pope John Paul II visit in which the Pontiff supposedly stopped a steady rain by the raising of his hand.

That wasn't the only miracle seen at Shea; in the summer of 1969, they seemed to occur there on a nightly basis. A team that had up to that point been the joke of Major League Baseball would finally come of age; and in the process, ignite the love of sports in a young boy observing, nearly a thousand miles away in rural Indiana.

(My) Amazin’ Mets
Given that I’m such an unabashed California/Anaheim/Los Angeles Angels baseball fan, and have been exclusively for thirty years, it’s not something I’ve spent a lot of time talking about, my onetime affection for the New York Mets. But for a period of about ten years, beginning in 1969, I ate, slept, drank, and breathed the New York Mets. They were my introduction into the phenomenon of sports fandom.

In ’69, when I would turn thirteen years of age, I really wasn’t all that much of a sports fan; of course that fact wasn’t because I hadn’t been surrounded by it. In my sports-mad family, my Dad was a big-time Chicago Cubs fan; my elder brothers pulled for the Cincinnati Reds. But if anything, my baseball allegiances fell in the direction of the New York Yankees, due to them being the favorite team of my best friend at the time, my Cousin E. He was by far the most influential person in my life during my early adolescence. Between my 3rd and 7th grade years we were inseparable; I looked up to him like a big brother. So naturally, as E rooted for the Yanks, I rooted for the Yanks. But at the end of the day, I was just imitating someone whom I respected; I really don’t remember having any sense of connection with the Yankees or any other team. I was just tagging along with the bandwagon.

And then along came Jimmy Qualls.

Urrrghhh…Freakin’ Jimmy Qualls.

A career minor leaguer in the Chicago Cubs system, Jimmy Qualls spent a grand total of two-and-a-half seasons in the big leagues, amassing 141 at-bats strung out over 63 games. To say he was a marginal player is an insult to margins. Nevertheless, his 15 minutes of fame are fixed in the annuls of Baseball history.

The day after one fateful game, on July 9, 1969, a newspaper article changed my life. The game it reported launched an obsession and perhaps a miracle as well.

Tom Terrific
In 1969, Tom Seaver was a young 25 year-old pitching prospect in his 3rd season with the Mets. He had already had two back-to-back 16-game winning seasons for a horrendously mediocre Mets franchise that was now finally beginning to open some eyes with their better-than-expected start to the season. They were chasing the division-leading Cubs, who appeared to be the class of the National League, and hosting them at Shea Stadium for what would turn out to be a pivotal series.

Seaver was magnificent that night, mowing the Cubs down inning after inning. After eight rounds at the plate, the Cubs still hadn’t managed a baserunner. Tom Terrific, as the New York press had dubbed him, carried a perfect game into the ninth. Three outs to go, to achieve the rarest of pitching feats.

After getting the first out on Randy Hundley’s failed bunt attempt, up came Qualls. No one in the humongous crowd of 59,083 thought that the little-known rookie was any match for Seaver, but on this night, he was.

Qualls laced a soft line drive into left center field for what would be the Cubs only hit — or baserunner of the game. The Mets won 4-0, but Seaver lost his perfect game bid. Nevertheless, that performance by the Mets’ young ace is unarguably regarded as the catalyst game of the Mets’ pennant run. After having trailed the Cubs for the division lead by 8 games on July 4th, this victory fueled them into overtaking Chicago and going on to win their first Word Series title.

But the next day, when the Associated Press reported the story of Seaver’s near-immortal game, it was painted as if Obi-Wan Kenobi was explaining a ‘great disturbance in the Force.’ How dare this little pipsqueak deny Tom Terrific of his date with immortality! Jimmy Qualls name became mud in the New York media and in my mind as well.

I read the article, reprinted in the local newspaper, not because I cared about the Mets at that point, but rather because of the front page-of-the-sports section photo of Tom Seaver, displaying his now-famous knee-drag delivery, making a pitch during his one-hit performance. The photo’s caption read, “A very determined young man.” That description intrigued me, so I read on, becoming entangled in the drama of the story, so beautifully crafted — albeit one-sidedly so — by the New York-based writer.

How could you not root for a talented, determined young man like Seaver, leading his team, once the laughing stock of baseball, to a date with destiny?

This is my first and most lasting memory of Shea Stadium, although I didn’t know anything about the place at the time. I would however know plenty before the season was over, as I immediately became a Mets-Maven, and most accurately, a Seaver-Sycophant.

Everything went right for the Mets from that point forward. The Impossible Dream would be realized. New York would go on to win the division, the National League pennant, and finally, capture the World Series title from the heavily-favored Baltimore Orioles. I was on Cloud Nine. The Mets were MY team, and WE had won it all.

Kinda screwed over my expectations for future seasons though…

Life in a New Citi
Shea Stadium has seen its last game. Unfortunately, the Mets of 2008 couldn’t pull off the magic act of their predecessors of 39 years ago. It came down to the last game of the season, Sunday. Had the Mets won they would have forced a one-game playoff to determine the NL Wild Card team in the playoffs. However they fell short in their last stab at bringing an October game to their venerable home field.

But they’ll just have to wait until next year, beginning a new chapter in a brand new state-of-the-art ballpark, which like the New Yankee Stadium is slated to be ready on Opening day of 2009.


Unfortunately, the construction of the new Citi Field just beyond the outfield walls were all the Mets faithful had to look forward to after Sunday’s final game at Shea Stadium.

Photo courtesy Nick Laham/Getty Images

The new ballpark, will (initially at least) carry the corporate brand of financial giant Citicorp. Citi Field is currently under construction in the parking lot of Shea Stadium, which will be razed over the winter.

It’ll be bigger, more comfortable for fans as well as players, and should provide an exciting new element for the Mets faithful.

I always dreamed of one day attending a game at Shea, now sadly, that’s never gonna happen. But I may be able to eventually take in a game at Citi Field, hopefully before they tear it down.

I’ve decided that if that opportunity ever presents itself, I want to try and figure out where, in what will be the parking lot of the new stadium, the old one once stood. It’d be kinda cool to at least imagine that I was standing in the spot where the old pitching mound was; where Tom Seaver and his mates plied their magic so long ago, when the Mets truly were ‘amazin.’

Here’s hoping on behalf of Mets fans that some of those ghosts still roam the meadow.

finis

Oh and by the way, which one’s ‘Pink?’ — A Miniseries (2 of 2)

Us…and Them
As with many — if not most of the members of my generation, my chief musical influence growing up was The Beatles — having been completely immersed in their music from my early childhood on.

However by the time I reached high school, the Fab Four had already disbanded, although the individual band members’ solo careers were in full swing. And while the music was still important, ‘The Beatles Movement’ was beginning to lose steam as a vehicle of generational discourse as the decade of the 70s pushed onward.

While still retaining quite a bit of its ‘edge,’ socially, by the early mid-70s, Beatles’ music no longer pushed the envelope as it had done a few years earlier. it was by that time, pretty much engrained into the culture and universally embraced by all. Hell, even Sinatra was making the pop charts covering Beatles songs.

Those days of ‘Beatle Bonfires’ — the public burning of Beatles albums — had long since passed. The band that John Lennon touted to be “more popular than Jesus” were no longer a threat to proper society.

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, The Fab Four’s music was now part of the furniture. It was a substantial component of popular society, and rock ‘n roll was here to stay.

But while the Beatles music was no longer the short, sharp shock to the system of John Q. Public it once had been, there was, however, a growing rock ‘n roll sub-genre that still struck a chord of fear in the hearts of god-fearing America; the now-burgeoning brand of raw, hard-edged Rock that conjured up visions of anti-war protests, free love, and all-things-hippyfied.

Acid Rock, baby.

As for me, generationally speaking, I happened to fall just beyond the outskirts of the hardcore Hippy movement. I never quite got into the ‘tune in, turn on, and drop out’ vibe that many of those just a few years older than I had. There were several reasons for that — beyond merely my age. In large part I believe a lot had to do with the family and religious environment in which I was reared.

‘Hard’ Rock sort of scared me when I was a kid. I was more-or-less taught that The Beatles were as ‘hard’ as any music I had business listening to. And I gladly bought into that concept. So there was no real draw to embrace anything that was too-seriously ‘counter-culture’ (a widely-used descriptor back in the day).

Likewise, as I became older, I didn’t seem to have any real reason to go there, but like any other normal teenager I still yearned for something a bit more dangerous; something a little beyond the boundaries of my conservative upbringing.

Nonetheless I stood fast in my reticence to embrace anything beyond the homogenized realm of the Top 40, though deep down I really wanted to check out the Dark Side.

It took the simultaneous challenge of two guys whose lifestyles were pretty much the opposite of my own for me to see what a hypocrite I was for holding to such a position, and I’ll always be grateful to them both for it.

One was a person I knew only in passing. The other was someone I’d known all my life.

Come inside dear boy; have a cigar…
My Hard rock indoctrinators were a couple of guys at opposite ends of my interpersonal spectrum.

The first was my brother, Kenny (a.k.a. ‘TK’ in previous stories). We were only two grades apart in school but light-years divergent in personality and our respective personal belief systems.

Growing up, we fought like cats and dogs, with the elder Kenny always coming out on top. But following the physical skirmishes of our early youth, there would be battles of a different kind later on.

In 1969 Kenny had accompanied our Dad, Alex and I in the move to California, following our Mom’s death. But the abuse that I was willing to endure from Step-Mom Maxine, Kenny refused to submit to.

Those first nine months in our new home were like World War III. After just one school year (his sophomore year in high school), my elder brother convinced the folks that it would be best for him to spend the summer back in Indiana, staying with son #2, our brother David. Maxine wasn’t wild about the idea at first, but didn’t put up much resistance. She was as much in need of a little vacay from ‘TK’ was my brother from her.

Although he insisted it was just for the summer, I knew he wasn’t coming back. Kenny returned to Indiana to live with our elder brother David and finish out his last two years of high school. It was then that his life changed forever. My brother found religion — but not the religion you might be thinking of.

Kenny returned to SoCal to find a career and soon thereafter became a Buddhist — and an evangelical one at that. He subsequently attempted to convert the entire family, a devout Christian group, but didn’t find any takers; especially not in me.

Anytime Kenny came around, we knew that cat & dog act so well, we didn’t even have to rehearse.

The topic or occasion, it didn’t matter — we argued so often back then, it could have been over anything. It wasn’t just religion; Kenny and I were so such diametrically opposed personality-wise, I’m pretty sure that we must have argued about the time of day at least once or twice.

My brother really tormented me growing up, and for years I kept that grudge around with me like a pet. So anytime we got together, it didn’t take much for sparks to fly.

Another thing about my brother, he’s a ‘Type A’ personality, and could talk circles around anyone. He was a born salesman. Dood could sell sand to an Arab. He would later fashion that go-getter persona into a tremendously successful entrepreneurial career; but back then, in my eyes, he was just my blowhard bro who managed to get my goat in every argument, every single fucking time, and oh, how that burned me up.

Kenny’s the type who is such a great arguer that you simply cannot win — or at least I couldn’t. The best I could ever do was to get him to ‘agree to disagree,’ and try my best to walk away with at least a sliver of my dignity intact, although those times seemed few and far between.

No, what I remember happening instead on most occasions was me storming off, purple-faced, from yet another shout-fest that didn’t accomplish anything except perhaps granting him the satisfaction that he’d done it to me again — at least that’s how it felt, anyway.

But lest you think that my brother is some kind of malevolent being, please, put the rope away. While our personalities are as far apart as east is from west, our bond as brothers has always been indestructible. Kenny and I have long since mended the fences we spent our first couple decades of life together tearing down. We agree — respectively so — to disagree about our differences on all issues. I love my brother unconditionally and I know that love goes both ways.

And while I know that I could never be ‘like’ him, I do very much appreciate the fact that despite of my resistance, it was he who was the most instrumental in shaping a lot of my opinions later in adulthood, including a decision to broaden my musical horizons that would prove to be a truly life-changing paradigm shift for your truly.

Brain Damage
On the occasion of yet another patented rock music debate in which I insisted that I could live without experiencing the head-banging joys of Led Zeppelin, Mountain or Black Sabbath, he told me simply, “You can listen to what you want to, but I think you’re doing yourself a huge disservice to not even give it a try.”

Funny what just a little bit of conciliation will do when you’re conditioned for nothing but all-out assault…

The context of the discussion was hard rock, or Acid Rock as it was popularly colloquialized in those days. As far as I was concerned, ‘that music’ was strictly t was the product of the drug-influenced late 60s/early 70s. And even though my Beatles were one of the bands chiefly responsible for the genre’s early beginnings, I still bristled at the notion that music celebrating anything ‘radical’ could possibly be worth listening to.

And that was the problem: I was confusing the music with the culture. Not all hard rock lyrics openly celebrated drug use, or promoted counter-culture themes; I just assume that they did.

What I didn’t realize was that despite the outer appearance or even the actual life-practices of the musicians themselves, music stands or falls based on its own merits. Listening to it wouldn’t give me Brain Damage; but it might just expand my way of thinking.

At the same time that Kenny was challenging me to think outside my self-imposed music box, a second influential figure in my journey to the Dark Side would weigh in — my desk-neighbor in my high school Advertising Art class: a soft-spoken, avowed surfer/hippie counter-culturist-type named Van.

Van was a guy I had known only casually throughout high school, and I don’t believe we had ever been paired up in a class before. But on a seemingly daily basis we talked about music. And again there I’d be, holding the party line against all things Acid, while Van would defend the viability of his hard rock faves.

However sometime, during our Senior year, between late ’73 and early ‘74, Van set out on a mission to complete the work that my brother had started. He began going out of his way — very diplomatically, mind you — extolling to me the virtues of the British band Pink Floyd, whose then-recent landmark album, Dark Side of the Moon was making a huge splash just about everywhere — even on the Pop charts.

I remember his passion for the album. Van insisted there was no possible way I wouldn’t love it.

The record was about a year old at the time, and I was of course already familiar with its two ubiquitous singles, Money and Time, both of which were receiving constant airplay on just about every rock or pop format station in the country.

And sure, I liked those songs well enough, but something else restrained me from taking the plunge and exploring the more of that ‘taboo’ genre of ‘hard rock’ — a category under which Pink Floyd certainly fell in those days. It was a label having much more to do with my religious mores at the time than with anything else.

No Sympathy for the Devil
You see, being raised a straight-laced Baptist, I just wasn’t into that stuff. And it wasn’t as though I considered the music as all that bad necessarily, the fact was, it was simply out of my scope at that time in my life.

Hey, I was into pop; I was a Top 40 guy, like the vast majority of kids I hung out with back then. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend on records. I was mostly a radio-head. The only albums I owned were the Beatles LPs and 45s I’d had since grade school.

Of course I can remember a time when those in my family and church frowned upon even Beatles music. I clearly remember my Uncle Bill on one occasion trying his best to dissuade me from listening to it, calling it “ugly,” “the devil’s music,” and so on. I also clearly remember thinking the guy was nuts, but fortunately didn’t offer that opinion out loud.

Elton John’s Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting was about as hard as I rolled back then, and in fact, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was one album I did own at that time, but only because a buddy of mine had given it to me for Christmas that year. But by way of comparison, that was pretty much my speed in music.

AM Top 40 still ruled the airwaves in the early-to-mid-70s, and I was just all about it. Motown, Elton John, Chicago; these were the sounds that streamed from my car radio and 8-track player. That was soon to change, however.

Van was relentless; he peppered me daily with incessant praises of Dark Side, insisting that I give it a listen. But while I liked what I’d heard on the radio just fine, I was pretty lukewarm to the possibility that the rest of the album could be all that special. However having been primed by Kenny’s challenge, Van eventually wore me down. I decided it was finally time for me to broaden my horizons.

So I went out and purchased the 8-Track, and was instantaneously changed forever. Not since the Beatles had I received such a musical revelation. The aural qualities of lead guitarist David Gilmour’s instrumental and vocal craftings along with Roger Water’s unbelievably intelligent, biting lyrics came together in a sound so far beyond anything I’d ever heard before that I simply could not believe my ears.

The album truly rocked my world.

Okay, I know you may be rolling your eyes just a bit, particularly if you’ve grown up hearing the now familiar tunes from DSOTM and perhaps haven’t quite received the same rapturous experience that I did. And if that’s the case, I simply say ‘to each his (or her) own.’ All I can tell you is how it affected me. You simply have to understand just how different, how forward thinking that work was at the time.

I suppose that now, decades later, as Rock ‘n Roll has evolved and many artists have ridden the musical coattails of Pink Floyd’s, and subsequently, The Beatles’ innovative sound, you simply have to be as old as I am to appreciate just how unique and different things really were back in 1974.

However in my opinion, despite the passing years and musicians who have come and gone, attempting to borrow from the genius that is Pink Floyd’s legacy, no one will ever render that sound ‘common.’ It’s still every bit as fresh and ‘out there’ today as it was back then.

Comfortably Numb
So there as I sat last Saturday, enraptured in the envelope of sound booming from my speakers. I reconnected to that special sense of being I felt as a young man with my whole life ahead of me. Many changes, many victories, and a few defeats as well would follow in the ensuing years.

However I’m doubtful that in my life, my ability to feel — to inject my emotions into the soundtrack of that music; the impact it had on me emotionally — could ever have been duplicated by anything else.

I dunno. it’s a very personal feeling I have, and one that’s pretty tough to describe. But it’s one of the things I treasure the most about my life. It’s the one thing that no one can take away from me; the one thing that no one needs to validate.

Only me.

Only me and my music.

Thanks, Kenny. I love you.


finis

Oh and by the way, which one’s ‘Pink?’ — A Miniseries (1 of 2)

(Originally written on September 20, 2007)

This is the first in a number of former, nearly-completed-but-never-posted stories that have been piling up in my dead-blog box for as much as two-and-a-half years running. This particular one was originally intended to be posted in September of 2007, soon after we moved into an apartment following the sale of our home.

Hitting ‘The Wall’…
I’ve experienced more than my share of creeping malaise these past few weeks since moving into this one-bedroom apartment. Seems the more I unpack the less moved-in I feel. For Michelle and me the disconcertion of suddenly becoming vagabonds after nearly a decade-and-a-half of blissful geographic stability has been tough to take, and even tougher to shake. Despite the payoff that no doubt lies at the end of our journey — in January 2008 — it’s been pretty hard for us to focus on anything beyond than this ‘moving experience’ in the interim.

However last weekend, while in the process of getting settled, a wonderful memory came streaming back to me, reintroducing me to some feelings I hadn’t felt in quite awhile; it was just the recharge I needed.

Run, rabbit, run…
2007 has likely been Michelle’s and my busiest year ever since beginning this long, strange trip together. What with the kids graduating from college, then directly on the heels of that, our deciding to buy a new house and everything that has entailed; selling our existing abode quickly and then facing the reality of calling an apartment our home-in-between-homes for six long months.

It’s all been more than exhausting, physically, and dealing with the melancholy sentimentalities of leaving our ‘first love,’ every bit as taxing, emotionally.

But now, with the advent of having to cool our heels here in our temporary digs while awaiting our new home’s completion, I was determined to take advantage of the situation in at least one regard.

For all the obvious hassle of having to moving back into an apartment again, it did supply a sort of perverse nostalgia that Michelle and I both felt right away; it kind of made us feel like we were back in college again. And with that in mind, to go along with the experience it only seemed right to me to have a jammin’ stereo system in place to announce our arrival.

Nah…just kidding; I’d never be so inconsiderate as to indiscriminately play my stereo loud enough to annoy the paint, let alone the neighbors. Nonetheless, it is the law that an apartment just isn’t an apartment without tunes — well at least in my book, anyway.

So last Saturday I went to Wal-Mart, bought a cheap-o audio cart and celebrated the reinstallation of my stereo system here in our new temporary home. I even set up my old turntable, anxiously anticipating hours of listening to my old LPs — something I’ve done precious little of the past several years. However, it wouldn’t exactly be records I’d listen to initially, but rather CD bootlegs of LPs.

Turns out that my son, Shawn, had gone through an ‘old-school Rock’ phase a few years prior and had acquired CD copies of some of my favorite oId favorite Rock ‘n Roll classics. Fortunately for me he’d made ol’ Dad a copy of them although I had all but forgotten I even had them since they weren’t in commercial jewel cases like most of my ‘legit’ CD collection.

I pulled out a few I hadn’t listened to in what seemed like a lifetime; moldy-oldie albums that I once owned (and subsequently wore out) as 8-track tapes and/or LPs back in the 70s.

In addition to the obligatory Led Zeppelin Four and Houses of the Holy, which I had always enjoyed a great deal, but never counted among my favorite favorites, a select few of those little silver platters really sent my head spinning that afternoon, immediately returning me to that time in my life when anything was possible; a time when David Gilmour’s wailing guitar was my muse, and Roger Waters’ lyrics were my personal Devil’s Advocate.

I returned to my Animal(s) past and visited The Dark Side (of the Moon), once again.

For a single Saturday afternoon, Pink Floyd was back together and playing in my living room.

It’s not as though I’d forgotten how much I loved Pink Floyd. But for some reason, listening to those classic offerings that afternoon carried me back to the particular remembrance of why.

It was a memory I knew right then and there I had to explore; to write about, and pay tribute to someone I rarely speak of in this space, but whom I deeply respect; a person as different from me as night is from day, but to whom I will always be grateful, for challenging me to be whom I have in many ways become.


Next: Us…and Them

“Nothing is Better…” (An Ode to Oatmeal)— A Miniseries (3 of 3)

Sorely missed?
Earlier I mentioned two actions that were key to this story: an act of omission and another of commission. The omission was my doctor’s office dropping the ball in failing to re-up my prescription for Lipitor when I requested it in mid December of last year.

The act of commission was that of possibly the second most important woman in my life right now besides my lovely wife, Michelle, and it figures — she’s all about action. No dilly-dallyin’ around with this lady. She means what she says and says what she means. But she ain’t heavy; she’s my trainer.

I’m not sure how much I’ll be talking about her, so I’ll take the easy way out on the “what-name-to-come-up-with-for-this-person” dance I have to do each time I introduce someone from my real life into these stories; I’ll just call her Killah, because that’s what she does. She destroys me multiple times per week.

Killah is the in-house trainer at the fitness center on the grounds of my employer, The Company. She’s been there for a little more than a year, and after a period of adjustment for her in-your-face personality, she’s someone with whom I’ve become extremely comfortable trusting my fitness to. You see, in all the years I was a gymnast, I had some great coaches on whom I depended greatly. I depended on them to keep me going, because basically I’m a big baby. I have a difficult time putting myself through pain. But if someone else makes me do it, hell — I’ll run through a wall.

Killah is a great motivator. She’s in the mold of my all-time favorite gymnastics coach, my JC coach from my first two years of college — the first of which we won a National Championship as a team and the second of which I won one as an individual.

What made that 1976 season so special for me was the breakthrough I made personally, in large part through the pain-in-the-ass nagging of my coach. He had a way of making you so mad — at yourself, not him — that you’d do whatever he said just to shut him up.

Killah’s a little like that. She had me sized up, pretty much from the get-go, and doesn’t allow me to perform at anything less than the level to which I’m capable. And to her credit, she meets each and everyone else at that same individually based level. I came to respect her and her opinions on all things fitness from very early on.

She is essentially the reason I decided to go off my meds, and reintroduce oatmeal into my diet.

Back in December, a few days after running out of my prescription, I overheard Killah talking to a woman about the benefits of oatmeal. She said it was one of nature’s most perfect complex-carbohydrates and an excellent complement to a healthy diet, not even to mention its qualities as a cholesterol-reducer.

I pretty much made up my mind right at that point. Now you may be asking why, given its other healthy aspects I wouldn’t simply want to eat oatmeal for its nutritional value alone in addition to supplementing with Lipitor? Why stop using something that had provided such dramatic results (which I’ll detail in a later story), especially in light of my overall health picture?

The answer to that question is based upon a couple of things. One, I hate taking pills; always have. I take a baby aspirin (for my heart) and a multivitamin every day, and that’s bad enough. Those are two things I will continue to take for the rest of my life, and it’s reasonable to assume that at some point, as I grow older, I’ll need to add other daily medications to the mix as well. So why not eliminate one now if I can get away with it?

However as good a reason that is, it pales by comparison to the main one: muscular soreness. This is a well-known side effect of Lipitor and most other statin-type drugs. Some people are more susceptible to it than others, and had it not been for the horror stories detailed by my stepmother a couple of years ago, I likely wouldn’t have put two and two together with regard to my own circumstance.

Back in 2004, when Michelle and I traveled to SoCal in the first of what would be two such trips that summer to my former homeland, My doctor had just begun giving me Lip.’

Helen, my Pop’s wife was aghast.

“You take Lipitor? That stuff is horrible!” she exclaimed. “Nearly crippled me a few years ago! I had to get off of it. Doesn’t it hurt your legs?”

I went on to explain that I’d had no such symptoms, and that I was sorry to hear of her bad experience with the drug. Privately I wondered whether or not her age might have had anything to do with her reaction to it.

Now keep in mind that this was barely six months into my current two years-plus regimen of working out twice a week. Back then I wasn’t nearly as consistent as I am now, and the type of workout program I was engaged in was more aerobics-based than the strength training paces that Killah now puts us through, week-in and week-out. All that to say, I don’t believe that I was in as receptive a position to actually feel the effects of any soreness side-effects at that point, so I didn’t give a whole lot of credence to the aspersions my stepmom had cast upon this wonder drug.

The epiphany I had regarding my muscular soreness didn’t arrive until this past fall. After having then been involved with fitness training well over a year and a half, feeling really good, and pretty much seeing my body mold back into a shape which at least resembled that of my competing days, something happened that really opened my eyes.

Tennis (elbow), anyone?
It was a Saturday in early November, and I was performing my dreaded annual ritual of raking up the tiny elm tree leaves that would choke my back yard lawn into oblivion should I leave them (no pun intended) unchecked. The new grass that had sprouted from our early-September over-seeding had matured to the point that it could withstand light raking without extensive damage; and it had to be done before the cold, wet winter weather set in, or otherwise render a merely sucky job, pert’ near intolerable.

The tall, mature twin elm trees in my back yard are the only remaining originals that existed there before our house did. We specifically instructed that they be spared when the lot was cleared from its heavily wooded beginnings back in the fall of 1993. The two trees were actually one of the main reasons we chose that particular home site in the first place. They may not have been the most beautiful trees in the world, but they were perfectly positioned. Now directly in front of our deck, they provide shade for the back yard and a protective perch, from which the hundreds of birds that visit us each year can swoop down to Michelle’s well-stocked bird feeder below, just a few feet adjacent to them.

Michelle loves her birds, and we have always loved our big trees.

But unfortunately, there’s a downside to our precious elms: the leaves; those tiny, arrowhead-shaped rascals that float to the ground each fall. Not only does their size make them difficult to rake and pick up, they are also highly acidic and damaging to the grass they come to rest upon. So getting them picked up is pretty much a “gots-ta” situation, especially when the potential victims are the newly-emergent seedlings that will be depended on to keep that area beneath the trees from becoming a mud pond during the balance of the year.

So I’m always sort of between a rock and a hard place with regard to this circumstance. If I wait to over-seed until after the leaves have fallen and raked up, it’d be too late in the season at that point; the grass seeds wouldn’t germinate, due to the already inclement temperatures of the late fall. On the other hand, if I do nothing and allow the leaves to remain, their inherent acidity would kill most of the seedlings.

Tough call, ain’t it?

So I rake, knowing full well that I’m also uprooting a fairly decent percentage of my new grass plants in the process. Call it the lesser of two evils, I suppose. But one of those evils not only applies to the health of my lawn, but to mine as well through the toll that job takes on my body.

Raking those boogers is tough enough, but doing so without destroying the tender grass plants they cover is even more so. It requires a steady, consistent repetition of light, shallow strokes with the rake, and it’s an extremely tiring exercise.

I’m always exhausted when I finish this yearly chore. Because of the amount of repetitive effort required, I typically hurt for a couple days afterward. However this most recent episode didn’t just tucker me out, it absolutely blew me away.

Later that evening, I felt my left elbow begin to tighten. The next morning I could barely move the joint without excruciating pain. I’d had elbow soreness before, but nothing like this. It was obvious that the stress of the repetitive raking motion on my forearm/elbow area was the cause, but this wasn’t exactly my first rakin’ rodeo. Why was it so sore this time? I was scared. The pain continued for weeks with only moderate subsidence. I felt weak as a kitten. Would I feel this way forever?

My doctor said it was classic tennis elbow, which is basically just tendinitis. The only cure is rest, but how do you rest your elbow without putting your arm in a sling? I backed off using my left arm during the dumbbell exercises that Killah routinely puts us through in our weekly workouts, but I was becoming more discouraged as the weeks passed.

Fast-forward to mid-December and the aforementioned prescription lapse with my Lipitor, coupled with the subsequent lapse of follow-up by my doctor’s office. A funny thing happened during the 5-7 days that all this was transpiring: my elbow stopped hurting. And then it hit me: nothing was hurting, really. In addition to the elbow issue, I had long since assumed that the “normal” soreness I experienced on a daily basis was to be expected from my workouts. I had often felt some exasperation over the idea that having been at this for so long, I was still getting sore at all; and sometimes my discomfort was considerable. As a competitive athlete for over 25 years, I was no stranger to the rigors and associated after-effects of training, but for just two lousy days a week, this just didn’t seem right. But again, there was always the thought, “Well, maybe it’s just old age…” I didn’t like it, but I just accepted it as such.

But now, not more than a week after my prescription had expired, my pain does too? What’s goin’ on here?

Que the light bulb!

Oh-my-GAWD! Could it be the Lipitor after all?

Beginning the first week of 2007 I decided to begin a self-imposed clinical test on the effects of oatmeal versus Lipitor on my cholesterol levels and overall feelings of well being.

I also decided to do something else that I should have from the outset; something that would certainly provide additional positive benefits. I resolved to add an extra day to my workout regimen, bringing it up to three per week, which I’d known for years is considered the minimum number of weekly vigorous exercise sessions necessary for real improvement of one’s fitness level.

I had tried my best to convince myself that I couldn’t sacrifice the time, but c’mon, AJ, what’s an extra 90 minutes a week from your life? I really don’t believe they’ll yank Law & Order off the air if you miss an episode or two.

So far, so(re) good
It has been eight weeks since I began my test; ten weeks since I stopped taking Lipitor. I’ve had my morning bowl of Quaker Oats at least six days a week (and usually seven) ever since and I feel great.

I’ve also noticed that in adding that extra workout day, my stamina has increased, my musculature has become better-defined, and that occasional late-night cookie rendezvous doesn’t seem to affect my midsection as affirmatively as it used to.

While I can’t say that I never get sore, there has definitely been a decided decrease. This is despite the fact that Killah’s program continues to progress, becoming more and more daunting with the passing of each six week period, as those of us participating in the Monday-Wednesday-Friday group become more and more fit. That I can live with.

But then again, I wonder; is it all in my head? Was my soreness anything more than the normal course that my body needed to take before breaking through to the next level, and now, in so doing, did that point just happen to coincide with the slip in my Lip’ prescription?

Am I doing myself more harm than would be wise at this point in my life; especially in view of my family history and my own known disposition for maintaining unhealthy levels of LDL cholesterol?

Time will tell. Actually I’ll know in about another month when I go back to my doctor for my six-month blood-work re-eval and annual complete physical. But what happens if he tells me I’m a dope for doing this without consulting him? What happens if even after eating oatmeal every day for twelve weeks my cholesterol is back up over 200?

But what if it’s not?

What if my EKG sings like a bird, proclaiming that my heart is ticking more strongly now than it has in years; what if my cholesterol is still at safe levels as a result of my increased exercise and healthier eating habits?

What if I can skip ‘The Lip’ for good?

Well, I’ll tell you what: that will be a great day, my friends; better health, an improved self-image; an extra thirty buck-a-roonies in my pocket each month…

Heck, that’s cause for a celebration!

Margaritas, anyone?


finis