Oh-fer-August

Nope…not gunna duuh it…Wudn’t be prudent
Believe me, I know. I know my tendencies. And if you’ve read this blog or have known me for any length of time, you know ‘em too. But I’m not gonna do what I normally do in this circumstance; I’m goin’ a different way.

Once again, it’s been a while — like five and-a-half weeks — since my last post; in baseball terms I did an ‘oh-fer’ the month of August, and as you may know, my oft-repeated wont after such a lapse in content is to come out spewing apologies for my absence, particularly in view of the fact that as recently as June I publically ‘rededicated’ myself to more regular blogging.

Yeah, I know. “Wolf.”

However I’m not feeling particularly apologetic today. In fact, as much as I would like to have done the opposite, I more-or-less voluntarily took a break from social media the past month or so, partially out of necessity — and partially to see if I could really pull it off.

In retrospect, I’m kinda proud of myself for doing the right thing.

The hardest part was reducing my Twitter stream to less than a trickle. To their credit, several people actually did miss me and expressed some concern that I was in fact alright, physically, which I appreciated a great deal.

But no, I wasn’t abducted by aliens or in the hospital doin’ the H1N1 tango.

I was workin’ like a mofo.

I chose to pour all my time into two freelance web design projects I’ve been working on, the proceeds from which are vital to my family’s bottom line. I decided to give them nearly all of my attention and I must say the results have been extremely positive.

I’ll be back with links when everything is finalized (I’m still in the very final stages of wrapping up both sites), but I can’t help but admit that I’m really proud of how everything is turning out.

In the Pipeline
I’ll have to admit, however, I did cheat — just a little. I spent a couple days two weekends ago, writing the lion’s share of what will be my next multi-part post — a miniseries on the death of a well-known journalist who was a longtime friend and colleague of my brother Alex.

Hopefully, shortly thereafter, I’ll have a belatedly-posted, Mowerly Musings piece of as-yet indeterminate length, that really, I’ve been thinking about for most of this long, dreadfully hot and humid summer that we’ve had here in Middle Tennessee. It’s part ‘tolerate thy neighbor’ rant and part moral object lesson; and I hope it sounds as interesting on paper as it does right now, rattling around here inside my head. You be the judge.

Then there’s hockey. Training Camp for the Nashville Predators starts in a week-and-a-half, and the regular season, just a little more than a month from today. I’ll definitely be jumping back up on the Zamboni and previewing the Preds’ upcoming 2010-11 season on my hockey blog as well.

Ohhh…and I may have a few things to say about my daughter, Amy, and a gentleman friend of hers whom we met this Labor Day Weekend...

So yeah, I’ve been away, but it was an absence with a purpose, and my focus on work, I believe has indeed paid off (no pun intended). I look forward to engaging your comments either here, on PMFF, or on Facebook and Twitter.

The summer of my dis-CONtent, for the most part, is over.

Catch ya again real soon.


finis

Kicking Up Dust...For Reals This Time

Real quick-like
I don't know if you remember, but a little more than a year ago I indicated that AYBABTU was going to be undergoing a major facelift/overhaul/refocusing of direction; an 'AJ 2.0' treatment, as it were.

Well, I got close, but it never happened. Once 2009 got underway, I started seeing the handwriting on the wall with regard to my job security, and had no choice but to pour everything I had into trying to save my job, but to no avail; the choice had already been made — In Minneapolis, not in Nashville.

At any rate I set the blog upgrade on the shelf. Now, a year later and four months since the axe fell on my neck at The Company, I'm re-evaluating the potential role my blog might take for me professionally as well as personally, and I'm highly motivated to get it going again for a number of reasons.

I'll be switching to a similar, but more effective 3-column Blogger template here very soon, with a few (if not all) of the upgraded elements to be incorporated soon thereafter.

A Tarnished Halo
However, my first priority will be to save perhaps the most precious of elements from being lost forever: my comments.

I'll have a LOT more to say about this in a future post, but I know I'm not alone in my frustration over the demise of HaloScan, the erstwhile commenting system that was the first 3rd party service of its kind to gain a strong following among early Blogspot bloggers.

A few years ago, HaloScan was rather quietly acquired by applications developer JS-Kit. Not much was made of it until the past year or so, as the new owner prepared to roll out their own commenting product to replace the sun-setted HaloScan (a fact that while not completely secretive, was far from well-announced to HaloScan users).

Bottom line is, HaloScan is now dead and gone, and anyone who was using it has been being forced to 'upgrade' to the new JS-Kit product, called 'Echo' on a free one month trial. Well, my 30 days are up, and I have no intention of paying for Echo, so I'm in scramble mode, not entirely of JS-Kit's making. I shoulda done this a month ago.

Now for those who chose to always use the free version of HaloScan, this may not have been a huge deal; all they really have to lose is their comments from the past year, as HaloScan 'free' version comments disappear after one year anyway. So chances are, those folks weren't all that concerned about it.

However, if you're like me, and paid the $25 to become a premium HaloScan user to supposedly retain your comments 'forever,' you're kinda scrambling right now — like me — to figure out how to keep from losing the links to all those wonderful conversations you had with your readers over the years. And in my case, we're talkin' nearly SIX YEARS worth.

Therefore I am now in the process of porting my blog's comment system over to DISQUS, which is a supplemental system I've had an account with for years as well. It's a very good system, and has grown exponentially in popularity in recent years as the default commenting tool for Tumbl'r micro-blogs.

All that to say, if you see some weirdness going on over here, or some sidebar elements missing, or u-gigaly fonts on dispaly as you visit over the next day or two, it's just me tinkering and re-installing stuff. Hopefully by this weekend it'll all be in place (for the most part, anyway).

And most hopefully, I will have found a way to reintegrate my old HaloScan comments back into DISQUS, and the conversations we've enjoyed since May 22, 2004 can indeed live on.

Thank you for your indulgence...and don't forget your surgical mask...

:)


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finis

Olympic Chillin’ @ O’Chuck’s

Sometimes ya can’t measure a ‘good time’ in 140 characters or less.
This is gonna be relatively short, and I'm duping this post here on my personal site as well as my hockey blog for a couple reasons; one: I just have to make mention of it, and two: I’m simul-posting to AYBABTU because it has as much to do with my personal life as it does hockey.

Sunday night the Nashville Predators hosted another ‘Chill-Out’ Party at O’Charley’s restaurant in Franklin, TN. The occasion was of course the much-anticipated heavyweight Men’s Hockey bout between the USA and Canada at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver.


_{“I WENT TO A HOCKEY VIEWING AND A BLIZZARD BROKE OUT.” No, not really; there really was a game on the big screen TeeVee and much hoopin’ hollarin’ and carryin’ on ensued. A disk jockey from 107.5 The River (center) works the crowd.}

Not only was it a meeting of the only two remaining undefeateds in the ‘Group A’ division, as well as a natural blockbuster- must-see match-up by virtue of the natural rivalry between the Americans and their neighbors to the north, the game also featured the local attraction of the Preds’ top defensive pairing of Ryan Suter for the US and Shea Weber for Canada going head-to-head.

To the delight of the packed-house, ‛Sutes’ came out on top.

In a wildly competitive affair, the Americans defeated Canada 5-3, weathering a furious second period shooting storm from their opponents in the first period, then dialed up the intensity to match them in second, and shut them ‛em down in the final stanza, stunning the Canadian Dream Team going away.

If you want a further description of how the game unfolded, I'd invite you to visit my friends, On the Forecheck or Preds on the Glass; they do a much better job of that stuff than I do. Just wait until you’re finished reading here first, aiiight?

The only other thing I'll tell you about the game was that on the USA’s fifth and final goal (an empty-netter by Vancouver Canucks forward, Ryan Kesler), I had the pleasure of leading the room in a rousing chant of, “WE GOT FROS-TIES (clap-clap-clapclapclap), WE GOT FROS-TIES (clap-clap-clapclapclap),” etc.

Yeah I was loud. I was yellin’ at that big screen just as if I was in my own living room and all the people around me were my welcome guests. And the great thing about it was that I’m sure that everyone in that room felt exactly the same way.

What a great group of hockey fans we have here in Nashville! I know, I know, there are great fans all across the NHL, but if anyone anywhere wants to even THINK that Nashville isn’t a vibrant, enthusiastic, knowledgeable hockey market, they would be wrong; dead wrong.

As great as the game was, the party was even better. Gnash was there, as were the Predators EquiplinQ (and no, that’s not a typo), issuing Predators swag to all. Nashville FM radio station 107.5 The River did a great job hosting the prize giveaways during the first intermission (I won a $25 O’Charley’s gift card!). It was loud and raucous and fun.

And as great as the game and the party and the festive feeling that everyone shared, the thing that made it all so great for me were the human connections I made there.

Twitter is great because of the way it diffuses our natural guardedness; it gives us a sense of security to more-or-less be ourselves in a mass group circumstance in a way we most likely wouldn’t if we were in the same situation meeting that same group of people face-to-face.

Heh — let’s be real here. If we were all meeting as many folks as we generally communicate with on Twitter in a real-life sitch, heck, we probably wouldn’t even be heard, for all the people in the room. However, as it is, with Twitter we have the opportunity to be real with the whole Twitterverse on a one-to-one basis.

Given that easy familiarity, it makes expanding those connections even easier when we meet these ‛friends’ in real life.

Seeing Puck City (for the first time)
When I arrived at the viewing party, the room was already filled with hockey fans just buzzing about the game that was soon to start; no seats to be had anywhere. I looked round for familiar faces and thought a few of them registered, but none strongly on the AJ Friend-O-Meter. The waitress who deftly handled the entire room of 50-6o people (which is only a wild guess on my part, there may well have been more than that) was standing nearby taking drink orders from an adjacent table when I decided to be assertive and ask if it would be possible to get more chairs to accommodate myself and the three or four other folks standing there in the door near me.

She politely suggested I go ask the hostess, which made sense. But as I began to duck out of the room to go up front in search of my question's answer, someone called out my name, “Hey, AJ, wait!”

I did a slight double-take in the 3-4 feet in the space of the I had traveled and stuck my head back into the room. “Who said that?” I asked. “Did someone call me?”

The gentleman in the near booth to my right turned to say, “Yeah, it was me. We have a room in the booth if you wanna sit here.”

The man was sitting next to a young woman and another guy across from her, but the seat directly adjacent to his was unoccupied. Of course I enthusiastically accepted his offer. “THANKS!” I exclaimed. As I scanned the faces of he and his party I was trying to figure out the connection, but couldn’t. “How is it you know me?” I asked, sliding my hiney into the booth.

“J.K. Robbins...See Puck City.” And immediately the lightbulb came on. “AH! At last we meet,” I said, beaming.

I was thrilled to meet one of the few remaining Preds bloggers I had yet to run into at one of these Tweetup/Meetup events. J.K. started his Predators blog about the same time as I did mine. We hadn’t met, but I’d commented a few times on his blog, SeePuckCity. He introduced me to his friends, all roomates: the lovely SPC Steph, who co-authors the blog on occasion to his right; Jamie, the gentleman to my left.

Left to depend on the kindness of strangers once again, my new friends came through, big time. We spent the remaining 15-20 minutes before game time about Twitter, the Preds, and our mutual Nashville blog network buddies and acquaintances, and then shared the game together with the rest of the room as if we’d been tight for years.


_{CHILLIN AT THE CHILL-OUT. Left to right: AJ, Jamie, SPC Steph, & fellow Preds Blogger, J.K. Robbins of See Puck City.}

J.K. Robbins is a funny dood. He has a sharp wit (see his version of the viewing party and note his superb snideity in how he describes the EquiplinQ dancers — and BTW, if you’ve never heard one of their radio commercials, you won’t get it; but if you have...brilliant!) that comes across in his writing, but is especially entertaining in person. I knew nothing about him prior to Sunday, save that he was a Preds fan and a smart writer. Now I know enough to know that he’s also a guy I wouldn’t mind hanging out with from time to time.

But I’m gonna stop short of sending a corsage and asking him to the prom...just in case my wife is reading this.

Seriously though, it's refreshing to know that as isolated as we can sometimes make ourselves in social media, all the while convincing ourselves we’re really ‘connected’ because we chat with possibly thousands of peeps each day on Twitter, it’s still that human experience that completes the effect.

If you’ve never attended a Tweetup, you should. You really don’t know what you’re missing.

If you’re a Predators fan and have never attended a Preds Tweetup or other fan event, Gnash will officially come to your house to terrorize your dog.

All the calories, none of the ‘G’
Oh, and speaking of terror, buddy, you don’t know what skeered is until you’ve received the stink-eye from our favorite repelling feline.


_{GNASH WAS EVERYWHERE; the cat couldn’t stand still. He was so active I couldn’t even get a clear picture…geeze.}

Just when I was thinking we were old pals, at one point during the second period of the USA/Canada game, during an especially furious onslaught of Canadian shots on U.S. Goal-keep, the Buffalo Sabres, Ryan Miller, two Americans were trying to wrest the puck from Columbus Bluejackets All-Star forward (and the BJ we most love to hate), Rick Nash.

I shouted out instinctively, “KILL NASH!”

Now if I’d said that on Twitter, there wouldn’t have been a problem. However Gnash, who was standing about six feet to my left couldn’t see the lack of ‘G’ in my real-life ‘tweet’ (and if you knew what my actual speaking voice sounded like you’d appreciate that little euphemism a whole lot more), and...well, let’s just say, I doubt I’ll be on the Big Kitty’s Christmas Card list this year.

But phonetic disparities aside, a great time was had by all.

Reconnects
As an added bonus in the human contact area, I had a chance to spend some time with a couple of great Preds fans I had actually met briefly in person at a recent Preds game, as well as a former co-worker I hadn’t seen for months.

Shelly, her husband and her daughter Raven actually sat in the seats just to the right of ours in Section 329. At the time, we exchanged pleasantries, but never introduced ourselves. But when they walked into the viewing room Sunday night, I recognized them immediately. However I didn't know if they remembered me. We made eye contact a few times, and they gave a look as though they thought I looked familiar, but just couldn't make the connection.

After the game, as I was leaving, I sought them out to say hi assure them that I didn’t have a chain saw and chloroform in my trunk.

I reminded them of where we’d met and we had a great conversation. I discovered that they too are on Twitter, so if you want to follow a fantastic and fun Mom-Daughter Preds fan duo, be sure to visit @dont_puck_it_up (Shelly) and goalies_are_hot (Raven).


_{MY FRIEND, @christinewhite just HATES to have her picture taken…yup…that’s what she told me…just before she said, “Don’t make me sing…”}

My former co-worker, Christine, is one of my longest-standing fellow Preds fans. We worked together forever at The Company — she still does — and I hadn’t seen her since well before I was laid off in November. Chris is another fun and bright individual worth a follow on Twitter (@christinewhite).

All in all it was one of the better Preds outings I’d been to. I hope you’ll make it out to the Gold Medal Party February 28th at Bleachers Sports Grill, also in Franklin, which promises to be an awesome time as well.

Who knows, maybe we’ll be celebrating a U.S. Olympic Gold! And you know, there’s no better people to celebrate with than REAL people.


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finis

Justa Heads Up

Nothing to see here...yet
Yeah I know it's been awhile since my last post, but this brief note is to address that, along with accomplishing some business with Technorati.

New blog posts are coming, but life comes first. Lately I've been busy rearranging my life and doing a few freelance projects in the wake of my unfortunate workforce reduction reality episode three weeks ago.

So for the fine folks at Technorati, here ya go: HDQJAMZW7RND.

For anyone else who's interested, if you like hockey, you can find some recent material here, or, if not, just check this space tomorrow for what I hope will be a very interesting look at yet another one of my musical heroes, whom I had the privilege of finally seeing perform live last Sunday evening.

Beyond that, I have two other stories that are already half-written and will hopefully be up by the weekend.

Here's wishing everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday.

Talk to you soon...

No Longer in Flux, But Now it Sux Even Worse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

Could I have done more?

What did I do wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I know that I’m not.

I know there are brighter days ahead.

I know this economy will turn around.

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

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

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

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

I’m gonna miss my crew.

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

And it sucks — big time.


finis

It Sux to Be in Flux (Again)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit is certainly happening right now.

Talk to you soon...


AJ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yesterday was one of those days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inquiring 53 year-old minds want to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The singer wonders,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


finis

Happy Birthday to You, AYBABTU

I had no idea.
Honest. Until 30 seconds ago, I hadn't given it a second thought. Then it suddenly dawned on me. I looked at my watch — not to check the time, but rather the date.

Yesterday was my anniversary. Yikes!

No...not that one, silly. Fat chance I’d forget that!

Actually, it was my Blog-a-versary.

While thinking about how to commemorate it, I decided it’s time I went a little deeper into the details of how it all came about — a subject I’ve rather shied away from in the past here.

Hope ya packed a lunch.

Goof or Dare
Four years ago, on May 24, 2004, I made my initial foray into this wondrous medium with In a Blog of My Own. It was originally just goof; a lark; a dare with myself, really.

My original idea was to experiment with writing, something that I never truly considered I could do particularly well, yet for a long time had wanted to try. After all, it was an activity I devoted a lot of my daily energy to, via e-mails and message boards, so why not? However the primary inspiration for this literary whim was one board in particular: a web-gathering of folks loosely devoted to the fandom of Washington Post Sports/Lifestyle columnist, Tony Kornheiser.

You see, for over five years now, this group of Mr. Tony enthusiasts have gathered online daily to comment, cavort and sometimes deride the often outrageously funny and always quirky observations of the man currently best known for his shoot-from-the-lip sports commentary show on ESPN television with co-host Michael Wilbon: Pardon The Interruption, and more recently, as the third-wheel color commentator for ESPN’s Monday Night Football telecasts.

But before there was PTI and MNF on the TeeVee, there was the TKS on the radio.

The Tony Kornheiser Show had been around a long time prior to my becoming aware of its host's brilliance. It began in 1992 as a locally-produced morning radio talkshow out of Washington D.C., where Tony continues to live today. But in 1998, the show was picked up nationally by ESPN Radio, and quickly became one of the 4-letter’s most popular offerings, broadcasting from 9AM to Noon (Central), to an apparent cult-like audience all over the world.

In early 2002, The Company where I work finally removed its previous restrictions on streaming Web content, allowing employees access to streaming audio/video from our desktops for the first time; I was finally able to listen to ESPN Radio during work as opposed to only those rare occasion whenever I went out to lunch and managed to catch a few moments (typically of The Dan Patrick Show) on my car radio while traveling to-and-from.

Prior to hearing it on the Web, what little I knew of Kornheiser, whose show preceded Patrick’s, was from those random snippets I heard while driving around. I had never read anything he’d written for The Post, nor the three humorous books he’d penned since 1995. I caught only bits and pieces of his show over the years, but never enough to really ‘get it’ prior to that opportunity to begin listening regularly in early 2002.

You see, the TK Kool-Aide is often an acquired taste. But by June I was guzzlin’ it by the gallon.

The Mister Tony Experience
I had never experienced anything so engaging, so hilarious, and so much fun — and that's no exaggeration. Kornheiser’s wit, humor and commentary on both sports and non-sports/pop-culture subjects was unlike anything I’d ever heard or even heard of. However I’ll spare you of the long-winded description of what the show was all about. I mean, heck, that's what Wikipedia is for, right?

The reason I'm bringing this up after all this time, however, is because the recognition of Tony Kornheiser as my literary inspiration is long overdue. Without him this space would not exist; this anniversary would be meaningless, and so many of the friends I’ve made here these past four years would still be strangers to me and I to them.

It’s that simple. No TK ≅ No blog.

My ‘Other’ Fellow-Bloggers
As much as I count many of my readers as true friends, I have perhaps even a greater affinity for that group of message board geeks I mentioned earlier. I’ve spent the better part of the past six years with that group on a nearly day-to-day basis. Our original reason for gathering together was indeed Tony Kornheiser, but the time has long since passed that we would hang out together regardless of whether Mr. Tony was around or not.

We all know each other pretty well. We know how to poke fun at each other too. we're well-acquainted with each person’s foibles and hot-buttons. Nonetheless, among that group, none (save perhaps one) of these guys even knows about my blog, or the huge part that All Your Blogs Are Belong to Us has played in my life.

And the irony is, when I created this blog back in 2004, it was primarily to catch their attention.

But much to my surprise — despite the fact that these are an extremely Google-savvy bunch of guys (many of whom are computer professionals) — no one apparently has ever found me here, save for the one fellow I actually told about the place (and he’s kept his mouth shut so far).

As I alluded to here way back when, the title of this site was a ‘running inside joke’ within the group, which I fully expected at least someone to notice, but no one never did.

Then after the joke got cold and I decided to actually dive in and make use of this forum, I suppose I was too concerned about being teased about the content — the kind of stories I tell and the personal nature of my writing — to openly announce my blog’s existence to ‘The Blog’ (the unofficial moniker of this message board group). I decided to just leave well enough alone and if someone found it, I’d take my lumps and move on.

But even after a couple of years, reasonably secure in my anonymity, I continued to shy away from the subject for concern that Google would leave a trail of cyber-crumbs too easy for one of them to miss.

Later on it was that same avoidance of being outed that kept me from elaborating on the August 2005 trip to Reston, Virginia in the first (and thus far, only) face-to-face meeting of our group. It was the much-publicized event in which we met together to play golf with Tony Kornheiser and some of his radio show staff at Reston National Golf Club.

It was a fabulous weekend! Everything from the greensfees to the hotel to the food was comped. But that’s another big story in of itself.

I posted a short teaser on the subject soon after I returned home, including a photo of the foursome I played with, featuring Kornheiser and his son, Michael. I thought for sure that would be the post that would blow my cover with The Blog, but alas, as of yet, still no one has said a word, although I’m quite certain that at least some of the radio show’s other listeners have surfed my site, but they too, to my knowledge, have remained silent.

But now, I really don’t care. If they find it, they find it. If they tease me, whatevs. I yam what I yam.

Bloger Beginnings
Perhaps I should ‘splain one thing that I’m sure must have at least somebody scratchin’ their heads. Why call a message board a ‘blog?’

The nickname of our TK message board, ‘The Blog,’ came about because it actually was one — right here on Blogger.com, back in the pre-Google days. However the format of the site, as well as their way blogs were posted, was much different at that point in time (circa 2002).

For reasons of brevity and going waaay off-topic if I took the time to properly explain it, allow me simply to say that it was weird and pretty unconventional, but the way things were set up on Blogger back then, one could take a group-authored blog and make a quasi-message board out of it. The reason we did is because it was free of both cost and censorship, and it was non-public, which is just how we wanted it. Still do.

However when Google saw a good thing and bought it, Blogger.com became something altogether different. The upgraded templates and new publishing processes were completely incompatible with our comfortably bastardized purposes, so we were forced to abandon our Blogger digs and find a new home. Fortunately via the efforts of one of our members (an IT professional) who went out and actually purchased a real message board program, we have since been ensconced in a more conventional Internet forum.

However the original moniker remains and we still refer to our group as the ‘TK Blog,’ and to each other as ‘bloggers,’ despite the fact that in all likelihood, only myself and one other member (who also has a Blogger site dedicated to Tony Kornheiser, but whom, again, still does not appear to know about mine) are the only ones who actually still are bloggers.

(E)mailing it in
And now, back to my underlying purpose of this post. I have a lot to be grateful for regarding my involvement as a fan of Tony Kornheiser and the ancillary trappings that have come along with it. It’s been a lot of fun. But besides being involved with a group that owed its existence to him, giving me both motive and opportunity for that involvement, I’m grateful to Kornheiser for also giving me the confidence to write and believe that I could be successful in expressing myself through the written word — all of which happened largely as a result of participating in his radio show as an oft-read e-mailer.

Now please understand, I have no delusions about being the next Dave Barry. There have always been and will always be funnier, more intelligent, — and certainly — more acclaimed contributors to TK’s show from a worldwide audience of millions than I have ever been. But from the summer of 2002 through the next 2-3 years, I was seemingly always on Tony’s radar. He read my e-mails so often that other listeners would jokingly try signing their e-mails with my name in order to increase their chances of making the cut.

And while I’ve never really believed I was all that, I was pretty damn proud of the fact that I could make the Orange Man laugh on a fairly consistent basis.

Naturally, the time constraints of anything being read on-air during a radio show are a large factor in whether or not the host can take time to include them. Given my disdain for brevity, that one factor probably worked against me as much as anything else. However it did force me to organize my thoughts and try to be as concise as possible — whether I was successful most of the time is debatable — but I know it did indeed give me a sense for composition and storytelling that I may well have never seen on my own.

Prior to my years of e-mailing the TK show, I’d never have dreamed of considering myself a writer — amateur or otherwise. And whether or not even now I have the right to think of myself in those terms, my life and my self-image, based on the feedback I’ve received from my readers here these past four years, has literally (pun intended) changed my life.

And so what about now, you ask — are you still listening to and e-mailing Kornheiser’s show? That answer would be — a little, and not much at all.

Critical Mass
Things began to change dramatically for TK after the launch of Pardon the Interruption in September of 2001. For years a local celebrity and writer of note for The Washington Post, Tony now began receiving a lot more attention, nationally. As a result, ESPN played up the radio show more to try and capture the coattail effect of its success. PTI received among the highest ratings of all ESPN’s regularly scheduled programming.

Even after moving the radio show from ESPN Radio, back to the local Washington D.C. market in late 2004 (but retaining most of his Internet listeners like your truly), Kornheiser’s star continued to rise.

He began receiving more and more requests of his time for various projects. He would constantly lament the fact that he now had “a dozen jobs,” and that something was going to have to give. Eventually, ostensibly, that ‘something’ would be his involvement with The Post, which had heretofore been his primary employer. He began writing less and less, finally condensing his weekly offerings into brief “columnettes,” as he dubbed them.

But as the print work diminished, the television work increased. The man who proclaimed in self-derision that he was born with “a face made for radio,” was seeing more face-time on camera than ever before.

Then three years ago, potentially his biggest break yet came down the pike — the opportunity to join Mike Tirico and former NFL quarterback Ron Jaworski (preceded the first year by another former QB in Joe Theissmann) in the broadcast booth for Monday Night Football. It was perhaps the biggest exposure that anyone in his shoes could have received, based upon the popularity of MNF. He actually didn’t want to do it at first, but would admit later, he simply had to go with the opportunity before him.

But the reason I’m going so deep into the Kornheiser resume here is because of the way that this move affected me and my involvement with the radio show. Due to the amount of preparation involved with the NFL season, the MNF announcing teams begins in earnest mid-summer with meetings and interviews of players, coaches and team officials, to get ready for the upcoming season’s broadcasts.

Kornheiser felt he needed the time to do right by his MNF commitment, so in 2006 he decided to leave the radio at the end of April, to begin fulfilling the new responsibilities that a daily radio show would render realistically impossible.

He left the air at the end of June, with the intent to rejoin the show the following January after the conclusion of the NFL season (a policy he has since followed for the last two years and will again in 2008). The break was actually a good thing for me, because basically, I was starting a new job too.

Buried Like Cheese...or Just Desserts?
At almost exactly that same time I was informed by my new boss at The Company that my job status was on rather iffy ground. They had made the decision to hire someone over me, a Webmaster position to oversee the implementation of the new, more modern corporate web site that The Company was paying an outsourced developer thousands and thousands of dollars to write.

It was a job I had hoped to be offered, but realized I was completely unqualified to perform at that point. I felt the wind of a door slamming on my career.

Suddenly, hearing my funny e-mails being read on the air wasn’t quite so important anymore. The whole scenario has been fairly well-documented in other posts, but the good news is that I didn’t lose my job, but am now in the process of learning and improving my skill-set to include those emerging modern web technologies that were never even mentioned, let alone expected of me prior to the new boss’s arrival.

And if that sounds like an excuse, well, it is. I made my bed by coasting and not pushing the envelope from within The Company’s existing IT regime years ago to give me a reason to learn what I needed to know, and now I guess I’m lying in it.

Quite frankly, as much as I’d like to, I don’t have time to listen to Tony Kornheiser anymore — save for the 30 minutes per day I can listen as it’s simulcast (albeit on a brief 15-minute delay) on XM Radio while I’m driving in to work — and I certainly don’t have the time and concentration required to come up with anything topical to say in an e-mail under my current circumstances.

To a lesser degree, the same goes for writing. I used to do a bit of that at work too; can’t anymore. Don’t have the time.

Sheesh; this post was supposed to be a celebration, but instead all of a sudden I feel totally bummed.

Manning Up
I guess I’m rightfully constrained to the obvious guilt I now feel over the time I spent concentrating a little too much on the TK show as opposed to what I was actually being paid to do. Nonetheless, the reality is that it may not have mattered; I was in a pretty impotent place back then, professionally. I had no power to change anything with regard to The Company’s IT department, who usually treated me with no more respect than a fly buzzing around the room. I was pretty much on my own; development resources were constantly in backlog. The only way things could have changed would have been for me to take the bull by the horns and do it by myself. Admittedly, I failed miserably on that count, always waiting for somebody else to make the first move.

Now of course we have Trey, my direct boss (as opposed to my big boss, Katie, the Marketing VP who hired him). He has been exactly what I’ve needed: a patient teacher who respects the skills I have, while gently pressing me to expand my knowledge in those areas in which I’m lacking.

It’s a lot more daunting than anything I’ve had to do in my nine years at The Company, but it will pay huge dividends down the road. And oh, yeah, it’ll also make it possible for me keep my job; that’s a nice bonus too.

Seasons
It really is interesting, the way seasons of life come and go; each one bringing with it sometimes life-defining circumstances and events. One day you think of yourself one way and the next, everything has changed; then just when you think things will always be that way, BAM — they change again.

I’ve often wondered what will be the ultimate purpose or effect that blogging will have had on my life. Tony Kornheiser once thanked me for my “enthusiasm” for his radio show. Who knows...maybe I was a bit too enthusiastic.

Whatever. What’s done is done, and really, the benefits I’ve gained from the end product of all this — my blog, my friends, my discovery of a means of self-expression I never knew I had before...

Oh yeah, whatever dues I have to pay, post hoc — hell, they’re chump-change.

This season of my life in which I’ve discovered writing is and always will be one of the most liberating, important moments of self-discovery I have or ever will know — of that I am certain. It does appear however to be on its way out with regard to my daily devotion to blogging, and that does indeed make me sad.

But was it worth it? I could go on and on about the way it has completely transformed my relationship with my father; all the great friends I’ve met, whom I hope will always be a part of my life; all the things I’ve come to appreciate about just thinking, and then dealing with the challenge of putting it all down in written form.

That’s a lot to learn at age 48, which is the age I was when I started this thing.

I guess something I’ve learned is that there really is no end to life, not at least until it actually ends.

Here’s to a few more rounds.

Happy Blog-a-versary to me.


finis

What a Difference a Lifetime Makes

Welcome to the IRS’s version of ‘Thanksgiving’
In case you didn’t know, today is April 15th — not that it makes that much difference to me. I filed my return in February and my refund is already in the bank. Not trying to gloat, just sayin.’ However to be fair, it really does matter to a lot of other folks, and not too long ago I was one myself, so I’m honestly not without my due empathy.

But anyway, this morning I was on my way out the front door, my backpack and gym bag draped over my right shoulder and my left hand on the doorknob. It was then that my left leg began to throb.

“Who the hell is calling me this early?” I thought. Y’see, my cell phone generally sleeps in most mornings and issues neither a peep nor a shudder until at least noon.

The notable exception to that rule is when Michelle calls. She leaves for work a half-hour before I do, so if there’s an accident or a cop staked out with a radar gun somewhere along the path she and I share in our morning commute, she’ll give me a hollar to let me know. She’s really good about that.

So I immediately thought that might be the case, but when I fished the cellphone out of my pocket and checked the display, I was surprised to see that the caller was someone else who hangs out on my branch of the family tree: our son Shawn.

He was calling to ask about which part of the form he received back from his tax preparer to send in along with his check, this of course being the most sacred of national holidays, Tax Deadline Day.

Last summer we told both of the kids after their respective college graduations that we would still be there to help them in certain areas, but only in a pinch. They gladly accepted being nudged out of the nest, but to be sure, this would be a new experience for them.

One of the things that they both have been taking care of on their own now for the past two years running is seeing to the filing of their own federal income tax returns. Amy has filed the 1040-EZ form online, and Shawn, due to the fact that he too has followed in his Pop’s footsteps as a self-employed individual, has been forced to go out and find someone else to do the work, what with the potential difficulties of doing a business tax return on one’s own.

So as I answered his questions I’ll have to admit to simultaneously feeling a sense of pride that my boy was getting his feet wet in the goings-on of the ‘real world,’ right alongside a slight pang of guilt for suddenly realizing that I had brought into the world yet another man who just like me is completely incapable of doing his own taxes.

But after we ended the call and I continued out the front door, the chilly April morning air collided with bright warm morning sunshine and I reflected on how much different my life is now, especially in relation to the way I myself used to face April 15th each and every year.

I smiled and thought to myself, “Wow. What a difference a few years makes.”

Still the same…but different
I suppose it wasn’t really that long ago, but it feels like a lifetime ago; and perhaps it was. Perhaps I really was a different person back in the days when I used to avoid April 15th like the plague.

I knew I couldn’t really give it the slip, but I sure gave it the ol’ college try.

Being a freelance graphic designer for fifteen years, I knew that nearly every year we would have to ante up to Uncle Sam, so every year I waited until the last minute to prepare my taxes and never sent in my return (and that all-important check) early.

In fact, I was usually one of the guys who had to scramble just to get to the post office before it closed — despite the fact that they always stay open late on Tax Deadline Day

Many times we either got our money in late or not at all, and were forced to throw ourselves at the mercy of The Service, to accept installments. What was even worse, on three occasions we had to work through the millstone-around-the-neck experience of an IRS tax lien — the last one of which we were forced to pay off to become eligible to buy our first home here in Tennessee.

And as one might guess, it was a fairly hot-button issue between Michelle and me. Enough instances had passed in which my slothfulness had indeed bitten me in ‘da tush, forcing us to pay even more in interest and penalties to the IRS.

The subject of tax season always brought with it a predictable tension. “Have you gotten started on the taxes yet?” she’d ask repeatedly. “Nope, not yet. Soon, though,” I'd respond matter-of-factly, knowing full well that I had no intention of doing anything until no sooner than April 5th — which may seem like a plenty sufficient timeframe in which to get our return in, but it’s really not.

Anyone who has ever caught the famous comedy act of the ‘long form’ (Form 1040 and its lovable sidekick, Schedule ‘C’) knows that when you own a business or even itemize personal deductions, backup is everything. The IRS has certain things that are automatic ‘red flags,’ and one of those is a deduction I took annually that opened me up for scrutiny each and every time: the ‘Home Office’ deduction.

Home office deductions have to be carefully documented. The reason they’ve fallen under so much scrutiny in recent years is because so many people have abused the privilege. Too many have counted too much of their home as ‘used’ in their home office allocation — and in turn, too high a percentage of rent/mortgage cost, utilities, etc. And going overboard with the dollar amount is a big no-no — intentional or otherwise.

Consequently now, according to my former tax professional, bad home office deductions are one of the chief reasons someone may be audited. It’s vital that if entitled, a person does it right, with proper documentation and a realistic percentage of how much of their home and its expended resources actually went into the day-to-day cost of running the business.

Do it wrong, or worse, do so with the intention of pulling a little som’som’ over on the IRS, and you can be reasonably sure you’ll become a much more popular person. However when an auditor shows up at your door, they usually aren’t wearing party hats.

And I don’t know about you, but I’ve been audited once before (not by the IRS, but by the State of California for state sales tax discrepancies) and I can assure you it is NOT something I want to experience ever again. So I made the decision a long time ago to do whatever it takes to keep my nose as clean as possible. I’ve since always erred on the side of caution, and if I didn't have a receipt for something, well too bad, Chuck, that's a deduction that simply got away.

I’ve always used CPAs to do my taxes — probably to my own detriment, financially — but it’s money well-spent, in my opinion. I’ve never been a numbers guy, and given my history, I’m scared to death of screwing it up. Therefore I’ve never done my own federal return — ever. Even now, as it’s been two years since my last freelance side job, we still use a tax preparer. Until recently I always had at least a grand or two of annual income from freelance graphics or web work. I kept doing it for as long as those usually longstanding clients continued to feed it to me.

However as the work dwindled, so did my desire to pay our CPA nearly $200 per year for working my ‘other business’ income into his tax prep for what seemed to be so little ultimate benefit derived from it.

Then Michelle discovered through the grapevine at work that there was a retired IRS agent who did taxes as a side job. The guy is GREAT! Does the whole deal for $75.00, which is about half what we used to pay the CPA. And even though I no longer deal with saving receipts and breaking down utility costs into a room-by-room usage cost, Michelle still does for her Longberger basket business. And as I’m concerned, that’s what makes his service such a bargain.

My wife’s own freelance business income doesn’t do much more than support her ‘basket habit,’ so the deduction figuring doesn't amount to much work on her part, but now it’s she who must spend time recording and figuring out all the various nuances of business expense deduction.

It’s just nice for me to be able to ask her for a change, “Hey…have you gotten started on the taxes yet?”

Gone Corporate
I really never thought I’d say it — or further, honestly even think it — but I really don’t miss freelancing. Sure, I miss having the option of occasionally playing hooky and going to the beach on a nice summer’s morning instead of working; or working all day in the same get-up I rolled out of bed in. But I don’t miss the all-nighters, and the artificial deadlines imposed by clients who thought that all you had to do was ‘press a button’ to realize fully concepted and laid-out artwork. That was especially true in the early days of web design. People had no idea what went into creating a web site and sometimes had some pretty unrealistic expectations.

However I do miss having the radio on all day long, especially back in the mid-90s, when we’d just gotten into our first house and I was really beginning to discover the richness of my favorite radio station, Lightning 100.

I also miss the feeling of satisfaction and the heady sense of power that comes with being your own boss, and relishing the fact each and every day. Those are feelings that were made even more poignant in the mid-1990s, when our finances were in shambles and my world seemed to be collapsing about my shoulders, yet somehow, with a lot of hard work we came through it all.

Yep, I miss all those things, but there are a few others I don’t miss.

I don’t really miss the isolation. Yeah I know I’ve said on more than one occasion, that I’ve honestly never ‘felt’ lonely. And while it’s true that despite being very much by nature a social person, and have always been content to be by myself if necessary, I now believe that my dearth of daily human interaction that was at least partially responsible for my perceived need to seek out someone who would fill a space that my friends couldn’t fill (because, hello, I didn’t have any), or that my wife seemingly didn’t want to fill.

I like the people I work with here at The Company. I like being with and feeling like a part of a team.

Yeah, as much as I always said I’d never ‘go corporate,’ right now, I really can’t imagine doing anything else.

Slow pay? No way!
But the one thing I by far miss the least is slaving away on a project for three weeks and then waiting another 30, 60, 90, or 120 days to get paid for it. Slow-to-deadbeat remittance is the bane of all freelancers; it’s what puts the ‘starve’ in the ‘starving artist.’

It’s the one thing that, try as you can to accept it, never ceases to get under your skin. It’s emotionally draining, and unless you are extremely disciplined as a budgeter, it can be financially devastating.

And that, finally, brings me back on point: why today is different from so many Tax Deadline Days past; why I feel so different now versus ten years ago.

I can now finally afford to pay my taxes. That was always my problem. My cash flow was just never such that I could afford to make the quarterly payments to the IRS like you’re supposed to. And if you don’t, not only are you looking at a penalty for said lack of prepayment, but much worse, you’re usually looking at a mountainous single-check payment — one I was never prepared for.

Just like any other endeavor in life, there is both cost as well as reward to the reality of being self-employed; tradeoffs. Things can truly be great, but there is no free lunch. And while I do miss the freedom I once had, I much more appreciate the security in knowing that I’m actually gonna get paid every two weeks.

Funny how a crazy little fact such as that can affect one’s outlook. It’s totally changed mine with respect to financial responsibility.

And by osmosis, hopefully, with regard to my son, Shawn, it’s now affecting his.

I’m especially proud of the way he hasn’t followed in his old man’s footsteps, although getting him to see the wisdom of doing right by Uncle Sam was something we had to work hard to illustrate.

From the time that we moved to Tennessee to start a new life, Michelle and I have been firm in our attempts to educate Shawn and Amy to not make the same mistakes that we had previously made with money. I was determined not to allow the sins of the father to be re-visited on the son and daughter.

As I’ve mentioned before, in recent years, Shawn has plied his trade as an arborist. Someday he wants to have his own company. He makes great money in his position, not only because it’s a dangerous job, being the designated treetop man in the outfit he works for, but also because he’s good at it, and is rapidly becoming an artist in his own right.

However one reason the money he makes is so outstanding is because he gets paid straight off the top (cue rimshot). Despite the fact that he’s been with the same company for over three years, he as well as everyone outside the owner is an independent contractor — or in my terms, a freelancer. The good news is, he’s not a middleman like I was in my line of work. He gets his money or the work doesn’t get done. So in that regard, he’s already on the plus side. Nevertheless there is one malady that befalls all freelancers, and it can really become a problem when tax season rolls around.

Freelancers get their full wage with no taxes withheld, because they’re contractors, not full-employees, and their employers aren’t held responsible to supply that service. From day one I explained to Shawn what that meant to him as a wage-earner. He was going to have to assume the responsibility for his own tax withholdings — and that’s a pretty tall order when you’re an early twentysomething college kid. I made him go right down to the bank and open a passbook savings account with no ATM access, just so he could bank the 20% of every paycheck he’d need to pay the government when April 15th rolled around and not be tempted to spend it by having easy access to the money.

And at first he did really well. Then a couple years ago he wrecked his car and had to buy a new one. Guess where the money had to use came from?

Oh…I dunno…maybe…the tax account?

And because he didn’t have the dough to pay his taxes when the time came, he had to file for an extension and had a ringside seat to watch just how much interest and penalty can accrue on a couple grand in six months’ time.

So he saved up and paid his taxes in August. That cured him.

Since then he still may not have quite the sense of urgency in getting his taxes ready that I’d like to see (but then, who am I to cast stones?), but he has always had the money when he needed it, and that makes me very proud indeed.

We’re trying our best to acknowledge the mistakes we made to our kids, so that they can spare themselves of the heartache and out-and-out dire consequences that poor planning and/or judgement can cause.

It’s taken a lifetime, but I think, maybe, I’m beginning to believe it myself.


finis

Two Tales of One City...or Somethin’ Like That (Part VII)

The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Such a Deal(ey)
I’ve really been looking forward to this part; it really could have been a series unto itself, the afternoon my Dad, Alex and I spent in Downtown Dallas at Dealey Plaza, the site of the event that truly changed America for my generation, and quite possibly all else to follow it: the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

The time of year wasn’t quite the same — early February instead of late November — but given those two dates juxtaposition to opposite sides of winter respectively, the effect seemed nearly identical. The air was crisp and cool and the sun shone brightly in the clear, blue Texas sky just as it did a little more than forty-two years earlier on that fateful day of November 22, 1963.

As someone old enough to remember JFK’s presidency and the way that just his name captured the imagination of people of all ages (I was seven years old when he died), this was a pilgrimage; a trek upon holy ground. It was hugely significant to me if for no other reason the event’s profound historical relevance to my generation.

But this time was just as special for its rareness; the opportunity for the three of us to do something together, just we boys. I really can’t remember when that had happened before — if ever — as crazy as that might sound. But then again you have to remember the circumstances in which we grew up. Being the two youngest of five sons, and particularly given the tragic timing of our Mom’s Alzheimer’s onset beginning within a year of Alex’s birth, ours was definitely not a ‘normal’ early childhood. Having concentrated access to our Dad simply wasn’t something that came along often. His time was stretched between increased hours at work to cover the hospital bills, and dealing with the sometimes-tumultuous goings-on of my three older brothers. Although we knew it was never intentional, Alex and I sort of got the short end of the stick when it came to our Father’s personal attention during those years.

But we never once felt abandoned or incomplete in any way, and I for one wouldn’t trade the relationship that I’ve had with my Dad as an adult for any amount of time we might have spent together as a child. I truly believe Alex feels the same way, and has indicated as much in many a conversation we’ve had on the subject over the years.

We were indeed victimized by our Mother’s illness and all that surrounded it, yet we never felt like ‘victims.’ We knew that we were loved regardless of the circumstances that swirled about our family. And on the occasion of this opportunity — the three of us spending an afternoon together sharing an activity which itself represented a great deal of meaning for all of us individually — that love was never stronger.

Alex knew who he was, he knew where he was, and he knew what he was doing. We had fun.

But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself. We haven’t even started the day off properly, that day being Day Three of the four-day 2005 visit.

He’s a Lumberjack and he’s okay
I actually made a lot more notes than I’ll elaborate upon in this story, but one point I wanted to touch upon was that our accommodations for the three nights we spent in Dallas. As I said before, our first concern was to not be a disruption. Seraph had to keep on working and school was in session, so kids and parents alike had their routines to keep; we didn’t want to be in the way. We opted for sharing a room at a nearby Super 8 motel about five miles away from Alex’s house.

It was good to have the opportunity to be able to unwind after the sometimes emotionally draining all-day sessions with Alex, especially so for my Dad as this was the first time he’d seen his baby boy in his tragic condition, not that he hadn’t been through this before.

We would commiserate and decompress, then hit the hay and sleep like logs; especially Dad — only he sounded like he was actually sawing them.

I’ve always kidded my Pop about his snoring. Back in 2000 when I came home for Maxine’s funeral, I stayed with him at their place in the assisted living center where they lived (and where Dad and his wife Helen still reside currently).

It only took one night of that experience to remind me that any subsequent circumstance in which I found myself sleeping within 100 feet of my Father would require earplugs as standard equipment. As it turned out on this trip, they were my singular ticket to dreamland.

I suppose I shouldn’t be too critical; Michelle tells me that I snore a little myself, but gawd help me if I ever duplicate my Pop’s performances on an average night. Yikes.

Momma Maxine always said, “if you can’t change your situation, change your attitude.” I’ll amend that here to say, ‘if you can’t change your situation, change your accessories. I did, the earplugs worked great, and everyone slept superbly.

On Wednesday morning we ate breakfast at the motel and then headed over to Alex’s. After receiving a few thumbnail directions from Seraph (I had the printout from the Dealey Plaza web site in hand that she’d given me), at around 10:30 A.M. we were on our way.

Mia Botha
Although it was in fact my second visit to Dealey Plaza, it was my first occasion to circumnavigate the Dallas Metroplex behind the wheel in more than five years — easily more than sufficient time for whatever familiarity I might have had with the freeway system there to be long gone.

Back in 1998 most of our family convened in Dallas to celebrate Thanksgiving at the home that Alex and Seraph owned prior to their current one. Three out of my Dad’s five boys’ families were represented, including Alex, myself, and even Son #3 — my brother Kenny and his wife — along with Dad and step-Mom Maxine, scant more than a year and a half before she passed away.

As a part of the long Thanksgiving weekend festivities, we all piled into cars and traveled em masse down to Dealey Plaza. I’m not sure if it was simply the fuss associated with making such an excursion with thirteen people (including my two whiny, mostly disinterested kids) or what, but I don’t remember getting a whole lot out of that visit. Thankfully this time would be different, but I still didn’t know where I was going, but it was a lot more fun getting there.

Maybe I didn’t listen, maybe I’m just a knucklehead (remember that one; it’ll come into play again in a later trip), but on the way to Dallas, I took a wrong turn — a wrong split, actually. After about a minute I realized my mistake and announced that we’d have to exit the freeway and double back to the place where we had gone astray. Alex however insisted that we were in fact going the right way and argued passionately to that end. Using the directions that Seraph had given me, I tried to explain to him that we had gotten turned around and needed to be heading east. “Well I LIVE here!” He protested, insisting that we needed to go west instead.

Nevertheless I had to go with my gut even if it meant upsetting my brother.

“Tell you what, Alex,” I offered, hoping to smooth his ruffled feathers a bit. “We’ve got all day; we’re in no hurry. Let’s just go east a little bit further and if the signs tell us we’re going the wrong way, we can always turn back around.”

Reluctantly, he accepted.

When we had gotten back to the original point of departure, this time I took the correct split and got back on course. Alex suddenly could see that we were headed in the right direction and began apologizing profusely.

“Mia culpa, mia culpa,” he exclaimed, disgusted with himself for making such a big deal to no avail.

“No, Alex; I screwed up first. Mia BOTHA, bro; We BOTH made a mistake,” I replied.

Alex chuckled. The tension was broken, and we were back on our way.

Wheelin’ and Deal(ey)in’
Negotiating downtown Dallas traffic was a nightmare. I didn’t exactly know where I was going, Dad didn’t either; and Alex, well, he wasn’t quite sure; you could tell that he wanted to help but was understandably struggling to get his bearings as well.

When we finally reached the general area, the real headache set in — I was driving down Houston Street trying to find a parking spot. At one point I nearly turned the wrong way up Elm — which is a one-way street.

We finally found a parking place across from the Hyatt Regency hotel, but some four blocks from Dealey Plaza. The lot was packed but still had a handful of open spots so we snagged one. That left us with a bit of a hike, which was fine with Alex and me, but a little tough on our Dad, who at a still-spry age of 84 was nevertheless having some trouble with one of his knees at the time. On a couple of occasions as we were strolling along, Alex and I would look up to realize that Pop was straggling behind us some 40 or 50 yards. We chided the old man to hurry it on up — we didn’t have all day y’know (even though we actually did). We all laughed about it; Alex seemed wonderfully relaxed and at ease. It was the official start of what would become an extremely enjoyable and memorable afternoon.

Again, the weather was perfect for the occasion. The previous time we’d visited, it was overcast and rather cold. This day, however, the bright, sunny conditions and the time of day made the setting absolutely surreal. The landmark event of my generation, the JFK assassination, was coming alive to me as if I had actually been there on the scene 42 years earlier.

Next: The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
A three-hour tour

Two Tales of One City...or Somethin’ Like That (Part VI)

The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Papa’s got a brand new (used) bag.
Remember when I mentioned earlier that my Pop discovered he had forgotten his luggage — after we’d already arrived in Dallas and were just minutes from Alex and Seraph’s house?

And remember when I said that we decided that the first thing we were going to do was to go visit Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas?

And have you ever heard of the old adage, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry?

Such was Day 2 of this initial latter-day trip to Dallas. However in the long run it was actually a good thing, as it gave us something more to do than just hang out at the house and in the end provided some of the most enjoyable memories of the trip.

I had honestly forgotten about the incident until I started going though my notes I’d written in off-moments while we were there; hence my not mentioning it in the previous post. In my unaided memories of that trip, Dealey Plaza and touring the site of the JFK assassination was the event that really stuck out in my mind. But thankfully, I managed to keep a pretty good, dated outline of all we did during that four-day trip, including our actual Day 2 activity: shopping for a replacement suitcase for my Dad.

The fact that he’d left his clothes behind in Franklin could be remedied. But the course of action we took required that we find a new suitcase — albeit a temporary one — to service him for the time we’d be in Dallas, and to get him home without having to check a Hefty Bag at the airport counter.

The whole thing was a fairly comical circumstance. After arriving at Dallas Love Field Airport, we were shuttled on over to the rental agency to pick up our car. We were happy to find that they upgraded us to a minivan because they were out of the mid-size sedans I had reserved.

So once we’d secured our wheels for the tour-day trip, we were “off like a herd of turtles” as Pop would always say as we’d embark upon a new destination via automobile. We headed northward on the short trek to Alex’s home in the suburban Dallas Metroplex.

About ten minutes out from our destination, I thought it prudent to give Seraph a call to let her know we were on our way, and to have her refresh my memory as to which exit to take from the freeway. This was my first time driving to their new house as well approaching from the south. Although they still lived in the same area, before it still wasn’t all that familiar so I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a turnoff.

As I broached the subject of getting directions, Pop was quick to go for his ever-present AAA mapbook to see if he could offer some assistance. He reached for the suitcase that he was just certain was in the back seat of the minivan, then suddenly it dawned on him — not only wasn’t it there; he realized that he’d never placed his suitcase in the minivan. In fact, we hadn’t even visited the baggage claim area after we arrived at Dallas Love Field.

Didn’t think about it even once; the subject had never come up in conversation since we left Nashville.

Personally, I hadn’t given my Dad’s luggage a second thought because I never check baggage myself. I always travel as lightly as possible, and if it doesn’t fit into my suit bag and duffel — both carry-ons — it just don’t go, yo. So given the fact that I’m just not normally disposed to even thinking about checked baggage, inquiring about my Dad’s lack o’ luggage when we set off from the rental car place was by far the least of the numerous details that were racin’ ‘round my little head.

So as calmly as possible I began to retrace in my mind’s eye the events of the previous five hours since we’d left my house to head to Nashville International Airport.

On Monday my eldest brother Jack and one of his three daughters had driven Dad down to Franklin from Anderson, Indiana where he’d spent the weekend. They stayed the night and were due to head back home after we left for the airport Tuesday morning.

I clearly remembered seeing Dad carrying his suitcase out the front door, as I was right behind him as we were leaving the house. I went straight to our car, parked in the driveway, to load my two bags into the trunk. However Dad continued on down to Jack’s van that was parked on the street, apparently for one last look-see to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind on the trip down from Indiana.

I left the trunk open and went ahead and got into the car. From that point on I didn’t remember seeing his suitcase at all, nor did I remember unloading it from the trunk when we got to the airport. Apparently in all the excitement we decided that Dad must have left it on the street or sidewalk when he went to double-check Jack’s van.

I quickly made a cell call to my house, where luckily, Jack and my niece still were, waiting for us to contact them, for yes indeed, Dad had left the suitcase behind. But what were we gonna do now? The thing weighed a ton and would cost a fortune to ship overnight.

Being his own problem-solving-big-brother-kinda-self, Jack wanted to help. He offered to take the suitcase to the airport and see if Southwest Airlines would be willing to stick it on a later flight to Dallas. I told him no, I thought that was too risky; he’d have to provide proof that Dad had even taken a SWA flight and the logistics of accomplishing that would have been a nightmare. Alternatively, shipping the suitcase overnight would probably exceed the cost of Dad just buying all new clothes & toiletries for the time he’d spend in Dallas. I asked Jack to just proceed on home and thanked him for his willingness, but that we’d figure something else out. I would look to Michelle for help.

You see, at the time (unfortunately they don’t offer the service any longer) Michelle had the ability, through her work, to ship even personal items via a popular express shipping company at a drastically reduced employee rate.

Once we got to Alex’s I made the call to Michelle, who immediately swung into action. Fortunately she was able to leave work and go home to grab a few items of Dad’s choosing from the suitcase, re-pack them in a lighter-weight box, and then return to work and overnight the package to Alex’s place, to arrive late Wednesday afternoon.

Geeze…whattawoman!

Later on we would ship the suitcase containing the balance of Dad’s things back to his home in SoCal, only we shipped it freight-rate; it would take a week to get there, but at least the cost was reasonable.

Nevertheless, Michelle’s deft action wouldn’t solve the ensuing problem of how Dad would get the clothes and other things she was sending him back to California when we returned home on Friday. He wasn’t coming back to Nashville with me on the flight home, but instead I had booked a direct one-way flight for him from Houston (and oy…I’ll talk more about that scenario a little later…) to San Bernardino, CA, the airport nearest to him.

So with all that said, our primary activity on Wednesday was no longer that originally decided pilgrimage to Dealey Plaza, but to tour the local thrift shops to locate Papa’s brand new (used bag).

Wednesday is ‘Errand Day’
Point was, we could have just gone to Sears and bought him a ‘new’ new suitcase, but Dad liked the one he had, and would still have to use after he returned home to California. Why waste the money on a new case?

So Seraph suggested we try out one of the area thrift stores to see if there was something passable yet cheap enough to be essentially a ‘disposable’ replacement that Pop could use then set out at the curb once it had accomplished it’s purpose.

At that point in his onset, Alex was definitely still able to travel. He was only a few months removed from having his privilege of driving a car removed, having smashed in the front of his cherished Chrysler LeBaron convertible just a week or so prior to our trip to Indy that previous November. So there was no problem with him accompanying Dad and me on a little shopping trip to find a Papa a replacement travel bag.

So while we were out, we asked Seraph if there was anything else we could do. She asked if we’d pick up some coffee. With our mission plan set, we headed out.

We tried two separate thrift stores in the area, but the second one was where we found both a suitcase and a nutcase in the same location.

The Second Glance Thriftshop is a part of (from what I’ve been able to glean from Internet searches) a national network of stores whose proceeds go to benefit Battered Women’s groups and like charities across the country. The local store was just a few miles from Alex’s house and was the one Seraph seemed to be the most familiar with.

After really not finding much of what we were looking for at the first place Seraph suggested, we hit the jackpot at the second. Second Glance had a number of older, but still-sturdy suitcases. It was just a matter of deciding which one was best for the job.

Dad’s decision was based strictly upon performance rather than looks, as the hardy-but-hideous 1970s-vintage brown tweed-like suitcase looked almost new, but set Pop back about eight bucks.
So we came, we, saw, we rubbed our eyes and bought. However it wasn’t until we were leaving the store that we realized how well-spent the $8 actually was.

A man we had seen in the store, wearing a broad smile and friendly disposition was walking out to the parking lot at about the same time as we were. Seeing three men in a thrift store to buy a single suitcase I’m sure tipped him off that there was an interesting story associated with it, so he stopped and thanked us for shopping at the store and asked why we had purchased — of all things — an old suitcase.

We thought it was kinda weird, but he seemed to be a regular guy so we talked to him for a few minutes, explaining the need for the suitcase. He introduced himself as ‘Cap’ Ellis (and yes, I’m using his actual name) and that he did volunteer work there at the store. Cap went on to talk about the work that stores like Second Glance does with Battered Women’s charities and we all kinda looked at each other like, “Hmmm, that’s pretty cool.”

The smalltalk continued, but when he learned that we were all originally from SoCal, his eyes lit up. He related that he used to live in the LA area as an actor/comedian and that he used to do voiceover work in Hollywood on animated shows like Fox’s King of the Hill. He then gave us a sample of that talent, delivering a killer impression of Bill Clinton. We were all in stitches.

Soon thereafter we parted company, but that little meeting stands out as one of the more unexpectedly enjoyable moments we had together. Seeing my Dad and brother nearly doubled over in laughter will always be one of the more prominent freeze-framed images I’ll carry in my mind from that memorable trip.


Next: The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Such a Deal(ey)