If you can’t play, coach… (topic 1 of 157)

 

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

If you read my previous post you know I’m embarking on a new venture, I’m writing about 157 topics, in the order I jotted them down in my phone.

I wrote the notes to myself over the last few years because, I guess, I had been a writer but currently was not one? Or didn’t think I was one? Or had reached a new level of laziness? Whatever the reason, I stopped writing, but at some level knew I still wanted to write, so compiled a tome of things to write about – someday.

Welcome to someday…

I’m an athlete, and at my age (54) I’m still fast. I’m hard to get the better of on a soccer field, I go to the gym, lift weights, ride a bike (and a skateboard) etc., etc. One thing I don’t do is play basketball. I can only remember one period in my life when I did, and that was as a kid living in Northern California. Dad nailed a hoop to the garage and me, my brother, and the neighborhood kids would play in our driveway.

But here’s something you’ve got to know: the game the rest of us were playing was nothing like the one my little brother Brian played. He was leaps and bounds ahead of us – figuratively and literally. If he wanted to take the ball from you, he could. If he wanted to score on you he could. It was weird – frustratingly weird – for me, an athletic kid, to be part of a game where, because of the far-above-average level of play by an opponent, I felt like ‘what’s the point?’

Unless I was on his team, then the drill was, get the ball to Brian and he’ll score.

After those afternoons on our driveway court, I stuck to sports I got more payoff from. Football? Great. Baseball? Sure. Soccer? You bet. But, whether I was aware of the reason or not, I began avoiding basketball.

Fast forward a few years to me in the Air Force – the unit I was in had a basketball team, as most units on base did, which I had no desire to be a part of. But here’s the funny thing about the military: they don’t really factor your desires into their plans for you. It was made clear to me that everybody tries out for the team – everybody. But I didn’t want to play basketball. I argued that I was already on the Base Soccer Team, but to no avail.

So here’s where I went with it: I asked if they had a coach? Well, no, not yet, but they were sure one (older, more experienced in basketball strategy and drills and nuances) would show up.

So I asked for the job.

And, I’m still not quite sure why, they gave it to me.

So on game night I’d dress up in a jacket and tie, stand on the sidelines with clipboard in hand, and “coach”. Which was really kind of funny ’cause these guys knew exactly how to play, and they were good (really good) and usually blew the other team out.

As I watched idly by.

I’m an athlete, but every now and then the better gig is spectating…

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Write, right?

I’m a writer.

There, I said it.

And why is it important that I say it? Because I forgot – forgot I was a writer. I don’t mean totally forgot, as in some sort of odd, one-particular-skill amnesia, I mean forgot as in I’ve forgotten to write.

I used to be a writer. Really, I did. I started out writing where most of us started, in school. And I wrote well. I typically got good marks on my papers (even the ones that were a little off topic, or demonstrated I hadn’t truly understood the assignment before putting words to paper). And when the teacher handed them back, I always read my words again – because I like words, and the words I like most are the ones I decided best express my thoughts.

The writing skills I learned in school led, eventually, to writing for a newspaper where I wrote under the moniker of “The Online Dating Coach” (long story, for another time perhaps) which then led to writing a book and more newspaper columns.

And then I stopped.

I stopped writing.

Wait, that’s not entirely true. I did write, just a little bit, about what I wanted to – someday – write about. What does that mean? In my phone I keep a list of topics that I want to write about… eventually. I jot down the topic as it occurs to me, so that I can remember it, when I make the time to write about it.

Every time I’d see something that made me think of what I’d like to say about that thing I just saw, or every time someone said something that struck a chord with me, and made me want to reveal to the world what that chord sounds like, I’d write it down in my little ‘phone list’. And there it stayed, for about 4 or 5 years now, hidden and dormant and undeveloped.

This morning I, for lots of reasons I guess, opened that list to look at it. And I counted how many topics I’d written down to ‘someday write about’.

157

157 topics. Some just a few words, others have a paragraph or two devoted to the subject or theme.

Weird, so weird, that 157 times I’ve written a topic down in my list because I felt it was important enough to write about. But not really important enough to write about, only important enough to write a reminder about.

So here’s how I correct the weirdness:

This blog will now be devoted to exploring each and every one of those 157 topics, in order, until they’re done.

There was a reason to write each of them down in the first place, so now I will validate those reasons and bring my ideas out in the open. Will some of them suck? Yeah, maybe, but each and every one will get its day in the sun, in order, as it should, until I reach and complete all 157. Only then will I go back to writing (or not writing) about anything else.

It’s time to write.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Runner…

Eddie and Me

I’ve been running for as long as I can remember.

My parents are from Ireland, as in everybody I am related to, who aren’t my parents, siblings or kids, still live there. So every other summer or so, Mom and Dad would put me on a plane in San Francisco headed for the homeland. And when I say me, I mean just 12, 10 or 8-year-old me, to fly for hours and hours, and then change planes at JFK in New York, and then fly a bunch more hours.

Personally, I loved it. I’ve always been, how do I say, a little on the solitary side. I like my own company and am totally cool being alone for long stretches of time, and distance, so the five thousand miles to Ireland was no big deal to me. It was to others (like Mom) so I was typically placed in the charge of some group of adults, I assume known to my parents, who were headed the same direction. Sometimes it was the Irish Club that Mom and Dad belonged to, one time it was an order of nuns, and this other time it was Sister Michelle (the principle of my parochial school, and boy was that a long trip) but whoever it was, I always made it there, to the landing strip at the little airport in Shannon.

Remember how in the old days they’d roll a set of steps up to the plane and you’d walk down to the tarmac like you were coming down the stairs of a two-story house? Well it was the old days in Ireland more recently than it was in most other places, so that was still a thing when I was there. And when I got to the bottom, there would be Grandma, and her husband, Eddie O’Hanlon. Eddie wasn’t my grandfather (that guy had passed away many years prior, after a life spent mostly on the lam) but had married my Grandma after one of those later-in-life romances.

And Eddie was a character.

“Eddie” was short for Redmond, his namesake. Redmond O’Hanlon had been a highway robber who, legend has it, took from the rich (English) and gave to the poor (Irish). Think a local version of Robin Hood and you’re probably pretty close. You’re also pretty close in guessing that such generosity origninated from trying to keep said poor from sharing one’s identity with said rich, but that doesn’t make for as good a story – and in Ireland, it’s all about the story. I liked Eddie from the time I met him because he didn’t treat me like a kid – in fact he’d let me do things my parents wouldn’t dream of (nor later be told of) like fetch his drink at the pub (blackberry brandy with a beer chaser) or run his bets down to the bookie. I think he had me run bets because I could always get there in time to place them, even if he’d spent a little too long picking his ponies.

After collecting me at the airport in Shannon. Eddie would drive us back up to the north of Ireland to Grandma’s house, just outside a little village called Poyntzpass. Ireland’s funny in that just about everywhere that’s anywhere has a name, so the plot of land where the old house was had a name too: Corcrum. I loved Corcrum, with its sloping green hills, it’s rabbit and fox populated fields, and the little stream the ran through the bottom of the small valley below the house.

It was that same small valley where Eddie would have his eight greyhounds run up the steep slopes of the fields. They were chasing the rag constructed ‘rabbit’ I was rapidly retrieving via the tire-less back wheel of an upturned old bicycle I was pedaling – by hand – as fast as a boy could. Of course, the rope being wound onto the wheel that was tied to the rag rabbit kept jumping off track, so that scheme didn’t pan out as planned. But that was okay, as Eddie was an idea man. When some connivance didn’t quite come together, he typically had the next one ready to go.

And the next one after ‘fast dogs’ was, apparently, ‘fast boy’.

As a boy I was always the fastest kid in my class, and usually the fastest in the whole school. My Mom was a runner too, of the caliber that took her as far as training for the Olympics at one point, and I got a good helping of those genes. Between Mom’s genetics and the small mountain in my home town I spent summers running up, I was fast. Really fast.

And at some point Eddie O’Hanlon figured that out.

The little towns in Ireland typically held a fair in summer, and Poyntzpass was no exception. At the fair there’d be music, and baked goods, and prize animals and the like – and then there’d be stuff for the kids to do. One of which was a 50 yard dash. Which Eddie entered me in. And which I won.

After collecting that medal, just about every weekend to follow included Eddie driving me to another village’s fair, invariably in time for the 50 yard dash, which I invariably won. This went on until I had more medals than I could hold in one hand. It also had gone on to the point where it wasn’t really that fun anymore. I’m always up for a car ride, especially to somewhere I haven’t been, but the rides were getting longer, and then we’d just stay for the race.

And that’s how it went until one weekend Eddie took me to a big race in Belfast. This was no fair, this was a sanctioned sporting event. There were flag poles with the colors of different countries flying, and the kids I’d be racing against were accompanied by their trainers and were wearing track suits with their names on them – and the names of their sponsors.

And I was in my usual blue jeans and Keds sneakers.

I won a race or two but got eliminated pretty early on. I thought wow, these kids can really go, and I admired their athletic ability. I would have liked to stay and see some more races, and would have been interested to see how far the kid who beat me got. But we didn’t stay. We got back in the car for the long ride home, and that was the last time Eddie entered me in a race.

Which was fine by me.

After that it was back to fishing, which I adored, and playing in the fields chasing the rabbits, and riding the bike that Eddie and Grandma bought me. And on work days sometimes Eddie would take me with him, and then somedays we’d just ride around and find a little adventure or two. I loved that old man, and I know he loved me, though back then, back there, you didn’t really say stuff like that.

I feel silly admitting it now, but it didn’t occur to me until years later that Eddie likely bet on each and every one of those races. I hope he made a lot of money, and I hope he didn’t lose too much on that last one. I was older when I heard that Eddie died. I hadn’t been back there in quite some time, and it’s not like we wrote each other – still, that charming old rogue played a part in who I’d become.

When we got the call that Eddie was gone I went up to my room, to the top drawer of my desk where I still kept all those medals, opened it, looked at them, and smiled…

 

 

Keep your eye on the (base) ball…

Image result for baseball field

The first job I ever had – I mean genuine, real job, where they wrote you a paycheck and didn’t just give you the money they had in their pocket – was lining baseball fields.

And it taught me a lesson I remember until this day.

I got the job in the summer of ’78, when I was 14. Up until then I’d cut apricots, mowed lawns, washed cars and shined shoes (unshined them is more like it) but the summer of my 14th year I decided I was old enough to go find me a big boy job.

I don’t recall how I thought of it, but at some point in my search I went to the Parks & Rec Department in my little town to see if they had any jobs I could do. It turns out they did. The guy who’d painted the lines on the baseball fields in town had quit, and they needed someone to take his place. I filled out an application, talked to some lady with a title like “assistant director” and a few days later received a call saying I got the job. A little confession here: no small part of this lucky turn had to do with, to the question “have you ever lined baseball fields before?” I answered “Yes, of course I have.”

A more truthful answer would have been “No, no I have never done anything even remotely close to drawing thick, straight, chalk lines all over a baseball diamond”, but somehow I wasn’t quite able to write that one down on the application.

The fields were situated all over town, so on my first day, because I was a kid still 2 years away from getting his license, Dad drove me (every time after that he handed me the keys to the old truck and said “Keep to the backroads”). And that first day went pretty badly. The next few days after that weren’t much better. Turns out I was terrible at drawing lines on baseball fields.

The wheels on the ‘line chalking’ contraption that you used to do the job were out-of-round, and hard to push in a straight line. And the lines that were already there (that I thought I’d just follow to make new lines) were pretty much obliterated by previous games. It seemed like the harder I tried, the worse I did. I even started to go really slow, taking twice as long, in my effort to carefully create the thick, straight lines I’d need to keep my job.

I was getting angry with myself, and embarrassed too. I didn’t know what to do. And with no youtube how-to videos for help, and no one I knew who’d done this sort of thing to ask, I felt alone. Really alone.

So one evening, about a week in, I sat down on the side of a field and decided to spend some time thinking rather than working. I started it with toughts of quitting. I hate to admit it, but when I begin doubting myself an early instinct I have is, just cut and run. But then I felt even more embarrassed, like really, I can’t figure this out?

So I figured it out.

Here’s what I came up with: my solution to the wavering, crooked lines I was drawing had been to go slower – to be careful. And then I’d go slower yet, and be even more careful. I was watching the line as I drew it, trying to match what was there before. But the slower I went, and the more closely I watch the line in front of me, the worse I did and the more frustrated I got. So I thought “The hell with it – I’m not going look at what I’m doing, I’m going to look at where I’m going”. Instead of trying to match a blurry, messy, disappearing line I started looking at the bases I was drawing my lines to. And when I did a weird thing happened – I started to speed up. I would just look straight toward first base, and quickly walk to it. Then I’d do the same with second, and so on. All of a sudden the job was taking half the time it used to.

And the lines were almost dead straight.

After that I started hearing from the assistant director lady that the players loved how the fields looked. The lines had never been so straight. And I felt proud.

Lesson? Don’t worry too much about where you’re at, just keep your eye on where you’re going to…

 

 

 

 

 

Coffee for two?

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(I wrote this column for the Benicia Herald a few years ago – back when I was writing as ‘The Online Dating Coach – I’m reposting in honor of National Coffee Day…)

Today is National Coffee Day, so to do my part I got up first thing this morning and trudged over to my local Starbucks to grab a cup – which is pretty much what I do on the other 364 days of the year that are not National Coffee Day.

The coffee shop’s about a 5 minute walk from my place and my routine is to roll out of bed, into some clothes, and over to get my morning pick-me-up. On the way, while I was waiting for the light to change at the intersection, a lady in sweats came powerwalking up behind me. As the walk sign illuminated she announced “Be careful – they’d just as soon run us over as look at us!”

To her warning about the cars I replied “I don’t know – people are usually pretty good” at which point a car at the far end of the crosswalk poked its front bumper into our path. My powerwalking friend yelled “SEE?!” I pointed out to her that it hadn’t hit us. Her response was “Not yet…”

All depends on how you look at it I guess. Maybe it’s that whole glass half full thing – or, rather, coffee cup.

A couple of weeks back a woman I’ll call Maria emailed me about time with a man she felt had not been spent successfully – she wrote: “I met a guy on OKCupid and we dated for a while, about 3 months. We were very attracted to each other at first, I think we still are, but as time went on we seemed to drift and I don’t know why. If something starts so well, with so much promise, what causes it to fall apart?”

Without knowing more details Maria I’d be guessing, but maybe it’ll help if I share something that happened to me.

Over the last couple of months I had a summer romance too. She and I first met online after I saw her pictures (she’s quite beautiful) and then later we met in person. My initial attraction to her was immediate – not only was she very easy to look at, but she was strong willed and creative too, all things I like.

For the first couple of weeks we were in that crush phase where everything the other does seems cute or interesting. Where you’re learning all you can about the person and filling in the parts you don’t know with assumptions that work for you.

We found that we both liked running so we ran a 10K together. We both enjoyed hiking and did so up in the hills with her dog. She had a great sense of humor (so I say because she actually got many of my jokes – not a frequent occurrence) and this strong spirit inside of her that just made you want to be where she was.

Our walks to coffee in the morning were so cool – we’d sit and get bagels and read the paper and, well, just have somebody, you know? It’s such a nice feeling to just have somebody.

Things were going really good between us – until they weren’t.

Here’s what I think happens: Attraction is the easy part – it requires no work at all and explodes onto the scene to take two people racing forward with each other. It’s fun and makes your heart beat and causes you to think about each other every chance you get, but then something interesting happens: It becomes normal, almost commonplace. What I mean is that when you meet someone you’re newly attracted to that feeling of attraction, for this person, is a brand new phenomenon in your life. Sure you’ve felt attraction before, but not for this person whom you’ve just met and know very little about.

After a few weeks or a month the feelings aren’t new anymore – and even more importantly, the things you have to add to them to continue to grow the relationship, like respect and compassion and communication, require work. But sometimes even all the work you do cannot bridge the differences between you.

I think that the romantic experiences we have when we were younger, the ones that led to marriage and kids and such, play a huge part in shaping who we are as people – and teaching us what will and won’t work for us later in life. When we are young we’re both optimistic and naïve – and that can be a dangerous combination. It can take us down very long roads with the absolute wrong person – which is much of the reason we have a 50% divorce rate today.

But I think as we age – as we grow more aware of who we are and what we do and don’t want in our lives – it becomes harder to find someone who fits the way we want them to.

Here are some telling statistics: The 50% divorce rate is for first marriages. For second marriages it’s 67%. Third marriages? 74%.

Now doesn’t that seem to go against the conventional wisdom that practice makes perfect? Wouldn’t one think that someone getting married for the second or even third time would be wise enough to avoid the pitfalls of the first go ‘round? Or do the numbers mean that as we get older, as we know ourselves better, we become more willing to enjoy and savor the good and then move on at the appropriate time? And who says that a higher divorce rate is necessarily bad news? After all doesn’t it mean we now get to go find the one who fits our life better?

Maria I think that as we grow more seasoned we start to move away from the idea that a relationship, in order to be considered successful, has to last for years – or even for the rest of one’s life. The two months I had over the summer were really good. I was lucky enough to get to know a smart and creative woman – and I learned things from her that I will know for a very long time.

I don’t see that as failure.

So here’s a thought: What do you say we both get online, pick someone who strikes our fancy and set up coffee dates at Starbucks – I hear they serve ‘em way over half full.

Cycles of Attraction

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I taught myself how to ride a bike – at least that’s how I remember it.

I think it was the summer of 1968, when I was about four years old. Dad was in the Army and stationed at Fort McPherson in Atlanta, Georgia. We lived on post in a home that faced a large rolling green. Between that green and our house was a sidewalk that led out to the street in one direction and further into post housing in the other.

The first mode of transportation I recall using to traverse the long sidewalk was a little red fire engine. You remember the one – it had pedals on the inside of it and a bell on the hood that you’d ring with a pull of the string.

Those were safe and comfortable times inside my steel fire engine with wheels at all four corners and no real way to tip over. I’d pedal up and down the sidewalk as Mom watched from the front porch. I’d ring the bell and she’d smile – and all was right with the world.

Sometimes I’d still be out there as Dad walked home after he got off duty. I’d see him coming and pedal just a little faster, and ring the bell a little louder. And he’d smile – and all was right with the world.

But one day, as dad walked home, I could see he had something in tow – it was big and blue and had handlebars and naked pedals hanging off either side.

It was a bike.

I knew what bikes were – I had friends who rode them. They were typically complicated contraptions that wobbled at first until the rider got going pretty good – at which point they seemed to become a magical sort of thing that would then take its owner anywhere he wanted to go.

The bike Dad was bringing with him seemed better than most. It was a full sized bike – like a grown-up would ride – so at first I guess I thought it wasn’t for me. But when he got to where I was in my little red fire engine he said that the bike would be mine. He’d got it on post, from the wife of a friend who was shipping out and didn’t have room to bring it along.

I was excited by the idea of riding this bike. It was beautiful and it glistened in the sun. It had long, curvy handlebars with white grips, and its frame stretched up from the pedals to meet the handlebars in a long, rounded arch that resembled a slender gas tank. It was one of those bikes from the fifties that were built to resemble motorcycles – a gracefully curved and slender motorcycle.

The only reason I had any chance of riding this bike is because it was a ladies model – and as such you could step into it rather than having to throw your leg over it. But there remained the issue of how to get the whole affair started.

Dad said something about putting me on the seat and giving me a push – but in standing next to the bike I could tell that if I sat down on the seat I wouldn’t be able to touch the pedals.

And I knew from my little red engine that pedals equaled progress.

Dad was just off work and was eager to go inside, so our conversation was short. He walked the rest of the way to the house with the bike in hand and leaned it up against the porch – where I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I wanted to ride the bike – because that’s what boys do – but was afraid it wouldn’t work out.

Finally my desire overcame me. I climbed out of my fire engine and walked over and laid my hands on my new partner and decided I’d just figure out how to make this relationship work. I guided the sleek bike out to the sidewalk and started running, still holding onto the handlebars. When I reached a certain speed I jumped up onto the closest pedal. This action pulled the bike sharply to the left. To counter this imbalance I pushed the handlebars to the right and fought the bike back to the middle of the sidewalk.

In my memory we battled like that for the rest of the evening. Up and down the sidewalk I’d run her and then jump on – and she’d test my balance and try to throw me back off. It wasn’t until I realized that her imbalance was in direct reaction to mine that I started to make any progress at all.

And then on one pass it all sort of fell together.

I ran my run, jumped my jump and then… then I stepped fully into my new bike. I stepped in and stopped worrying – worrying about how to reach the seat, or fearing that I’d fall and fail. Before I knew it we were both gliding smoothly up and down the sidewalk –neither of us were wholly in control – yet somehow we both were.

That bike taught me a lesson I’d get to relearn some 40 odd years later.

I’ve written in this space over the last year and a half about things like baseball and motorcycles – soccer, cars and basketball. And I’ve used those illustrations to communicate my feelings for, and my journey with, the woman in my life. Maybe speaking directly isn’t my strong suit, but let me be very direct in what I’m about to say:

I love you Loretta Sayers, and the ride is just getting started.

 

Brian

Brothers

In honor of National Brothers Day I thought I’d write about my little brother, Brian.

Brian is two years younger than me, and two inches taller (which doesn’t seem right, but whatever) and is really one of the best guys I know. He’s always ready to help, and is cool under pressure which – if you had a childhood like ours – was a vital skill.

And by “childhood like ours” I don’t mean to imply our childhood wasn’t good, or healthy or loving. It was those things. But it was also dangerous, and daring, and exciting – mostly because we made it that way.

Here’s the sort of stuff I’m talking about:

Our parents were born in Ireland – and because they were they liked to go to Irish events to comingle with other Irish immigrants and do Irishy stuff.

One Saturday when I was about 12 and Brian 10, they piled us in the station wagon and took us to an Irish dancing competition at a local middle school (think Riverdance for 7th graders) so that we could watch the children of other Irish immigrants bounce up and down to really fast Celtic music.

Whatever.

Brian and I pretty much hated that stuff because, well, I guess because we wanted to be American, and outside, and running wild, and – you get the point.

So the minute our folks looked in one direction, we beat feet in the other. And to make sure we executed a clean – and dance spectating free – getaway we ran flat out. Right around a corner and into the parking lot. Where a car was coming. Pretty fast too. That Brian ran right in front of. And which hit him.

Really hard.

I was right behind my little brother and saw the whole thing. I saw him run in front of the big sedan – I saw him fly up into the air after it slammed into him, and I saw him land on its hood and then roll off one side as the terrified driver stomped on the brakes.

And then I watched Brian fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

At which point he sprang to his feet, shot me an “oh crap” look, and took off running as fast as he could. I took off running too. After all he’d just been hit by a car – which we were pretty sure we’d get in trouble for – so there was no time to waste.

It was that sort of danger and excitement we were always on the lookout for.

On that day we’d got lucky and it fell in our laps – but most times we had to actually create the peril. Like the time we ran down a herd of deer in the field behind our house with homemade spears (kitchen knives lashed to broom sticks in case you were wondering).

Just a heads-up here to Greenpeace: Despite our best throws, no animals were harmed in the making of that adventure.

From there it pretty much ramped up to include stuff like BB gun battles, forest fires, and cliff climbing. But in consideration of those of you with weaker constitutions (and Mom, who sometimes reads my column) I’ll leave the more daring stuff to the imagination.

I will tell you this: You know how your memory of you from childhood seems sort of average, but there’s always one whose exploits seem larger than life? Well that was Brian.

And remember – he was my little brother.

But at a point he just seemed to get, well, bigger. I don’t mean in stature – he actually didn’t get tall until later – I mean the stuff he was doing started seeming bigger than the stuff the rest of us kids were doing.

Even though still kind of short, in about the 9th grade he started dunking basketballs during our neighborhood games.  On regulation height baskets.

Up until that time he’d been my cohort, my partner in crime (I wish that was just a figure of speech, but one escapade actually landed us in a holding cell). He was my brother. He was the copilot on our go cart runs down ridiculously steep hills, the second to jump the bicycle ramp behind me, and Tonto to my Lone Ranger.

But then he got strong. And fast. And big.

And pretty soon we weren’t so much partners as independent contractors. We started going our own ways when stuff like girls and cars began to happen. Although there was that time I threw him the keys to my hot rod and told him to drive it home because I was gonna ride uptown with some friends.

He might have been 14 at the time.

But our paths started to diverge. As the little brother I used to sometimes look down on got harder to live up to I think I created distance between us.

It got to the point where I wouldn’t get on a basketball court with him anymore. And on a skateboard – which was not only transportation in our neighborhood, but a lifestyle – he started doing things I’d only seen in the skateboard magazines.

It wasn’t too much later that, following a chat with Uncle Sam, I headed off for a series of Air Force bases. After that I heard Brian got a basketball scholarship. And then broke some kind of state high jumping record. I think I heard he was lead singer for a punk band too. And one day I opened a magazine and saw him in an ad.

After I got out of the service I think Brian was living the life of a SoCal surfer. I went to college, got married, had some kids and got a mortgage. But Brian was always somewhere like Hawaii, or Bali – in my mind he was always still doing those things that seemed just a little larger than what others did. And what I did.

And for a long time there was more than just a physical distance between us.

Every couple of years we’d hook up at Christmas or Thanksgiving, and catch each other up on the latest. I’d tell him what my kids were doing and he’d tell me about some amazing adventure he’d had. And then we’d head off in our own direction again – until next Christmas. Or the one after that.

My little brother is now 51 – which makes me 53.

And while I can’t quite put my finger on when, something happened, quite a few years back now, that let me get back closer to the only brother I have. I’m not sure how it happened, or why, and don’t really care at this point, but somewhere along the line I got over myself.

I got over my perceived shortcomings, and whatever else it was that was causing me to do that crazy habit I have sometimes of being aloof – and I found my little brother again.

You know today is not really National Brothers Day – but it would be stupid to wait for a contrivance like that to say the things a brother needs to hear.

And what I want to tell Brian is I’m always right behind him – no matter what’s around the corner.

Never mind Edward Snowden, where’s Terry the Toad?

Terry the Toad

Have you seen American Graffiti?

I bet I’ve seen that movie twenty times, maybe more. It came out when I was young so the first few times I saw it I wasn’t able to consider the story with any real insight or savvy. I probably just liked all the hotrods and music and such.

But as I grew older and saw the movie again and again I developed a real affinity for this low budget coming of age story. It’s the tale of four young men just out of high school, on the last night they’ll be together before their plans for the future will carry some of them away from the town in which they live.

And on that last night they sort of struggle with the seeming finality of leaving – which is fitting because that’s how us guys think. You know, sort of like “If I leave I’m never coming back”. And since the movie was made by a guy – a fellow by the name of George Lucas – that zeitgeist clearly shows through. Continue reading →

Social Media is Make Believe…

make believe

I think Social Media is about 90% make believe.

Facebook pages and Pinterest pages and dating site profiles are fun to read, and read them we do, over and over and over – but how often are they true? I mean really, fully true?

They certainly don’t have to be true, do they? I mean it doesn’t really say in the rules anywhere that you can’t write your own interpretation of the events, thoughts, etc. that you’re posting, right?

So if it’s all mostly make believe and, as such, fiction – is that a bad thing? Continue reading →