Sick Man, Child, Baby...

It doesn't happen often, but when it does it's usually a doozy, well at least it feels that way to me. I'm home, on the couch sick which means that I'm being a big giant baby. It started last night when I got home from work. I felt a bit off all day, and when I got home it was all over. I immediately got into my sick uniform which consisted of an over sized sweatshirt, over sized sweatpants, Zachary's old football socks and an old knit cap. I may as well be in feety pajamas.

So there I am on the couch in the fetal position making the occasional grunt and groan. Deb in her own maternal way checks on me but rolls her eyes as she leaves my side. I tell her to carry on without me if the end should present itself. It's been a good life and I have few regrets. Deb says, Please!"

I offer to sleep on the couch to mitigate the chance of spreading my infection and I spend the majority of the evening watching bad movie after bad movie while I fall in and out of consciousness. As a result of this I never really get to see what happens to Harold and Kumar.

About 2:30am I throw caution and Deb's health to the wind and head upstairs where it's more comfortable. Thankfully, I've never really had to sleep on the couch. It's a bit like camping isn't it? Once the novelty wears off, you want to be in your own bed. As I head upstairs I chuckle to myself as I find myself walking upstairs like a toddler who's being punished. I lift one foot on the step then the other before I proceed to the next one. It takes me ten minutes to go up 14 steps. When I finally reach the bedroom I promise Deb that I'll breath away from her. I build a wall of pillows between us, partly to keep the germs away and partly to keep her away from me, because I know in my state and attire, she finds me irresistible.

I finally fall asleep, but my rest doesn't last long. Deb's alarm goes of just before 5:00 and then every 8 minutes for the next 40. Doesn't she realize my condition? she offers a number of suggestions that will improve my being. I turn them all down preferring to wallow in my own whiny way.

So here I sit, trying not to work and watching even more bad television. I'm watching the Food Network where all of the dishes being cooked look disgusting. I'm feeling a bit better and it does appear that I may just pull through to return to the manly man that I am.

On the Road Again, Insisting Life Goes Our Way

There's no better way to get to know someone than to go on a good long road trip. As the different state license plates anonymously pass or get passed by and as the miles recede the more opportunities present themselves to reveal who we are. I looked forward to these moments as Zachary and I traveled to Toronto otherwise known by this writer as "Boronto" or "Generica" to see the legendary Pearl Jam. There wasn't anything particularly different about this performance or venue and we could have waited to see them if and when they come to New England. No, what I sought was not the destination, but the journey with my not so little traveling companion.

Before we hit the road we had to load up on provisions. You have to do these things when you're going to be sleeping outside of your own space. We loaded a small cooler with ice and mini cans of soda. We bought some candy and beef jerky for the road and a cribbage board and some Aviator playing cards for the quiet times where we could count cards and count on each other for a little simple entertainment and company. We didn't pack a tent or a hatchet and flint because the Marriott would provide adequate shelter from the harsh weather that presents itself when you're out in the wild.

I also made sure that I offered instruction and took advantage of those moments when a father can teach his son about how to take care of things that men are supposed to take care of on road trips. It's important to check the fluids in the car, make sure there's enough oil and ensure the tires have the appropriate manufacturers recommended PSI in each of the tires. I made sure I tipped the gas station attendant when he finished doing all of these things and I felt the masculinity that comes with doing something Deb told me to do.

We left Dover with excitement in our hearts and conversation on my mind. We cranked Pearl Jam and hooped and hollered like bachelors heading toward a wild weekend in Vegas. Zachary was asleep by the time we hit 495. For the next few hours I admired the scenery listened to talk radio and old blues and imagined what it must have been like to be Kerouac or Waits living on the road. Zach finally awoke and immediately responded to my static, romance filled road tunes. He immediately put on his ear buds and listened to his iPod.

After many miles the conversation started flowing. The upcoming school year and the excitement of high school, the family, girls and the classic father and son talk. I asked if Zach if he knew the mystery of the birds and the bees to which Zach responded, "Yes. Scientists are wondering where the bees are disappearing to."

We stopped in Syracuse and had dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue. Loud music, loud people and bold flavors. Zach stepped out of his shell and tried things I never thought this somewhat picky eater would try. Fried Green Tomatoes, Barbecued Beans, Cole Slaw and Portabello mushroom soup. He tried everything and really opened up to experience the different flavors that he road has to offer.

I won't bore you with all of the details because there wasn't any conflict, trouble or tragedy. Everything went as planned and we had an amazing time despite me questioning it from time to time. One example of this was during the concert. While I was fist pumping, singing and high-fiving the guys next to me, Zach stood quietly with his arms folded watching the show. He rarely displayed any highs or lows and truly lived up to his football nick name, "Breeze."

throughout the trip I realized that Zach isn't me. He's a laid back but very cool kid who does things in his own way and in his own time. He's really an amazing kid that is well on his way to travelling the road to manhood.

Empty Nesters? Watch Where You Sit!

The Hamilton House is an 18th century mansion that majestically sits along the banks of the Salmon Falls River just off the coast of Southern Maine. Deborah has wanted to tour the house since we discovered it while hiking in the nearby Vaughn Woods. For almost nine years she has been unsuccessful in visiting the house while during that same nine year time span, I have successfully avoided it much like someone would avoid the dentist for a mild toothache hoping that in time it would go away on its own. The truth however is regardless of the multiple doses of verbal Orajel I've applied, the pain didn't go away and Deb got her wish.

This past Saturday I woke with intentions of spending the day as a family, but my dream was quickly dashed when Deb informed me that both of our kids already had plans which did not, and would not include their questionably cool parents. Zachary had been invited to spend the the next few nights at a friend's family beach house to surf while Vanessa would be travelling to Six Flags amusement park with a car load of friends.

If you haven't seen them, Six Flags have commercials that feature this creepy old guy who dances and proclaims, "More flags, More fun!" In these commercials they'll show some goofy activity like watching cats play and the guy will say, "One flag!" Then they'll flash to a bunch of young kids on a roller coaster screaming and laughing and he'll shout, "Six flags! More Flags, More Fun!"



With no kids to consider, a long overdue beautiful sunny summer day, and an unspoken agreement to abandon our long list of house projects, I was excited by the prospect of doing something really fun with my best buddy Deb. My excitement quickly evaporated when Deb stated, "We're going to the Hamilton House!" Now, externally I showed interest, but internally I thought, "The Hamilton House? One Flag!"



We drove just a few miles north of us to South Berwick and travelled up a long dirt road that cut through soft rolling fields that were littered with wildflowers, their petals exploding with every bright color you can imagine and some you probably you couldn't.

We walked by the big Georgian estate that is the Hamilton house, but we weren't quite sure how to get inside to look around. We noticed an "open" sign on a small brown building that appeared to be the garden house. The small quaint building was appropriately located by the estate's formal garden. When we entered we found a large open room that was solely illuminated by the natural light pouring through the large multi paned picture window.

The sun cast a small shadow of a woman who was sitting silently and meticulously but contently working on her needle point. Without stopping or looking up she smiled and said, "Hello, are you here to take the tour?" I said, "Why yes, we've admired the house for quite some time and we're eager to explore the house." She said, "That's lovely, Our tours start on the hour?" "On the hour? We're the only people here how about just letting us take a look see for ourselves?" She continued to work her needlepoint, smiled and said," You can wait at the front of the house. The tour will start at 2:00."

We left the garden house in killed a little time by walking through the gardens exchanging different ideas that we may be able to incorporate into our, uh, estate? We strolled to the front of the house and were awed by the incredible view of the Salmon Falls River. It was spectacular. I sat on a large stone stoop and began to envision the two of us owning such a place where we would work or more appropriately, putter in the garden. But alas, the big real estate purchase will have to wait until the increased car insurance and college tuition begins and subsides. I sat and listened to Deb's vision while I took in the warmth of the early afternoon sun, finally enjoying the heat of this summer that never was.

I was startled by the loud and long creaking sound of the massive wooden door behind me which was being opened Dracula style to reveal the small pale woman who only moments ago was working in the garden house. "Good afternoon. Welcome to the Hamilton House. I'll be your guide for the 2:00 tour."

As I got up and stepped out of the sunlight and into the coolness of the house, I immediately noticed that one body part seemed significantly cooler than the rest of me. I reached behind me and felt the dampness caused by the weaved straw foot mat that was on the stoop. This mat, or more appropriately, sponge had been soaking up the rain for weeks only to relinquish a few storms worth to my behind. To say my backside was damp is an understatement. I was soaked. Jack an adult? Uh, I don't think so.

Our tour guide started to tell us about the house and her script was well rehearsed or well repeated from the many years she worked at the house. She told us that John Hamilton was a self made man who earned his fortune in the shipping business as well as owning many docks, warehouses and land. Then her voice trailed off as she added "...and slave trader." Now, I'd like to say that I was offended and demand that we immediately leave such an evil place, but the truth is that I was too busy plotting my strategy to get through the tour without the tour guide or Deb thinking that I had what most kindergarten teachers call, an accident.

Just then a man popped his head through the front doorway and announced that he had another two couples for the wildly popular 2:00 tour. He asked Madame Tour Guide if she was too far into her spiel or could these stragglers join us. She agreed and they stepped in. The first two were an average middle aged couple with the wife bright eyed and interested while the guy had the look we husbands get when we're sent to the store to purchase feminine products on our wive's behalf. The second couple consisted of a man in his early sixties and a woman who I assumed was his mother. She could of been his grandmother, as she couldn't have been younger than one hundred years old. I must say she looked very natural standing next to the 200+ year old antiques. This was great. Now I would have to hide my faux pee pee pants from a whole group of wild and wacky historical thrill seekers.

I stood listening and I began swaying to the gentle rhythm of my boredom when Madame Tour Guide broke character and lunged toward me gently but sternly scolding, "Please don't lean up against anything dear." Deb also lent a hand in moving me away from the door frame. The group, including Deb looked at me like I had intentionally desecrated sacred ground. The cold stare I was getting made me feel like I may have well have been carving the Van Halen logo into the wood work. I didn't touch anything and I felt wrongly accused and embarrassed. To rectify this, for the remainder of the tour every time Madam Tour Guide wasn't looking I lightly touched everything and anything I could like the bratty pee pee pants kid I had become. What does it say about your maturity if your wife is forced to slap your hand away from touching the drapes? Anyway, we hadn't even left the first room and I was already in trouble.

The tour moved on, but now with mother time in our group and Madame Tour Guide making sure I didn't steal anything, my plan of lagging behind to hide my wet spot was significantly more complicated. As much as I tried, I couldn't walk slower than Mother Ice Age. I ended up matching her pace and gait limping along like George Burns did in Oh God part II.

As we walked I heard the low murmur of a rolling creak that I assumed was the old wide pine floor boards beneath our feet, but this was not the case. It appeared that my new walking partner was in the latter stages of digesting her senior citizen lunch special. She was passing something and either did not know or did not care who heard. One bright side to this is that she occasionally moved quicker as her shuffle was now intermittently gas powered.

For the remainder of the tour Miss's "I Came Over on the Mayflower" and I limped along, lagged and were tagged, at least by me as Mr. and Mrs. potty pants. We both walked at a snails pace. Her stride and gait impacted by the affects of aging and mine affected by cold, wet, chaffing stupidity.

When the tour finally finished, my beautiful wife thanked me, knowing that I had taken one for the team. When I revealed my damp secret she laughed and said, "Let's go home. I'll change you into some nice dry jammies and give you some cookies and milk."

Is this a foreshadow of things to come? I certainly hope as we get older that depending upon each other doesn't actually include Depends. But if we're fortunate to grow old and spend time together, even if it's touring some boring old house. I say, "Six Flags!"

Nobody Walks in L.A. Swimming with the Paparazi

Growing up in and around Boston I'm still overwhelmed by the vast urban sprawl that is the city of lost angels. I lived out this way a while back but I resided in the suburbs some 35 miles north of LA and only a few times was I able to get into the city. On one occasion I had the displeasure of literally knocking Leonardo DiCaprio over while I was trying to get out of the rain. It never rains in California? Uh, yes it does. We lived there during El Nino' and saw more mud than a Woodstock hippie. Even after my encounter with the famous door rafting pro, I didn't realize who he was. A guy at the cigar counter said, "Do you know who you just knocked over? You just clobbered Leonardo DiCaprio." I guess you could score it, Jack one, King of the World zero.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to revisit the city. I had meetings early Monday so I sacrificed a small part of my weekend and got into town the day before. After yet another long flight of paperwork, nodding off and struggling through the Sunday crossword, I jumped in a cab and went to my hotel which was located in L.A.'s financial district. A not so interesting thing about the financial district of many cities is that once 5:00 hits and especially the weekends, these places are desolate mazes of concrete iron and marble. Unless I was intent and content to eat room service and hang out at the hotel lobby lounge I would have to venture out and explore.

The first order of business would be to find a place to dine. L.A. is world renowned for its culinary offerings and is host to a bevvy of celebrity filled restaurants and celebrity chefs. Would it be Wolfgang Pucks, Morimotos, Nobu, or maybe the Asian fusion restaurant Roy's? Would I feast on Kobe beef, Wild salmon ceviche' and Paparedelle with wild boar ragu? No, not this time. This time I will eat at one of L.A.'s oldest and well respected dining establishments. I jumped in a cab and headed to PINK's, as in PINK's hot dog stand established 1939.

As you can see, there is a constant line of people awaiting their turn to order. There are clear ordering instructions ala' the Soup Nazi although the people there were far nicer. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I waited in line for well over an hour and half just to order. There were numerous signs offering the different types of hot dogs. The classic chili, the 10 inch stretch chili, the Mullholland Avenue, the George Clooney and the All American which may or may not intentionally included Mexican Jalapenos. Remember, I was in L.A.

Just like L.A. itself, there was just too much and too much to choose from. I progressed through the line and mentally changed my order 9 or 10 times, and by the time I got to the front, I still hadn't decided and choked, spouting, "I'll have the Chicago Polish with everything." I have to tell you that after the ride, the wait and the carnival like atmosphere, this hot dog tasted, well, like a hot dog. Granted it was far better than the cold floaters you get at Fenway, but it was not much different than you get at a classic New England "Bah Ba Cue." On the bright side, my entire meal cost me $8.50, but my value meal also required a $23 cab fare, not too mention I was now stranded in the middle of nowhere. Genius!

With nowhere to be and plenty of places to go, me and the bowling ball that was now rolling in my stomach started walking. My new destination would be Hollywood Boulevard and the tourist traps that had eluded me when I lived out this way. I wanted to see Grumman's Chinese Theater and the Hollywood Walk of fame.

As I walked, the neighborhood and the nitrates running through my system both threatened my existence, but finally I found myself on the Walk of Fame which to be honest looks like something you'd see in front of any Hard Rock Cafe.

As Ray Davies of the Kinks once sang, "You can see all the stars as you walk down Hollywood Boulevard" and you can. It goes on forever and you can see some legendary names like Bogart, McQueen and Will Smith, but there are also a lot of questionable stars as well. Ansen Williams form Happy Days, The Original 5th Dimension, Jimmy JJ Walker? Really? I seem to recall that celebrities can actually buy their won star. I figure this is what Gary Coleman did with his cash instead of invest it.

As I walked I found myself at the foot of Michael Jackson's star and make shift memorial. There were a bunch of flowers and tokens of affection placed around his star. I admired this showing of affection but not as much as I admired the industrious person who recognized the marketing opportunity knowing the site would be photographed by thousands and strategically placed a bottle of orange Gatorade to gain free advertising.

I walked on and photographed a bunch of concrete with people's hand prints and foot prints in it. Isn't this illegal? How do they expect to thwart the rampant vandalism in this town if they're letting every Tom, Dick and Marylin defile public property? I walked on.

Just past the theater and at the foot of the Nokia theater there were a bunch of people gathered and crammed together. Looking across the street there was a red carpet and a lot of lights. I worked my way into the crowd which was now restless and yelling. As I looked at the street I saw a bunch of well dressed people coming our way with people in dark glasses and ear pieces around them. I realized that I was now in the middle of a swarm of live paparazzi in their natural habitat.

As the elite came closer the swarm became more active with cameras and lights, Sharpie markers and 8X10's to be autographed. They all started lunging forward to get a better shot and I began to get pushed and shoved from every direction with my only defense being short and deadly belches of Pink's coming every minute or so. I was pushed out of the way and completely missed Nicholas Cage. A cop yelled at me to get back and one of the photographers looked at my camera and wondered why I had such an amateur rig. I was out of my element.

I recognized and called out to John Voight who looked my way with disdain pegging me for one of those who regularly hide in his bushes hoping to catch him in a compromising position. Jon Favreau, Zach Galifianakis also walked by as did some young kid who I didn't recognize. No matter. I snapped 10 shots of him anyway thinking my daughter or someone under the age of 20 would know who he was. By the way she didn't and I still don't.

As quickly as I stumbled upon this scene it ended. Once again I was left stranded alone, cold and thirsty on a busy street. Man, I wish I'd had a Gatorade.

Okay so I haven't and will probably never climb Mount Everest. I haven't been to the Great Wall of China and I'm not planning to run with the bulls of Pamplona, but how many people do you know swam with the paparazzi and lived to tell about it. My only regret is that Sean Penn wasn't there to punch me in the face and Leonardo wasn't there to get his revenge.

"Surfing Safari, Bruises Tamari"

Surfing is a sport that many embrace and claim a spirituality can be reached as you become "one with the ocean." This past Sunday Zachary was invited to go surfing and Deb and I tagged along as well. I didn't know then (or maybe I did) that I would end "up board" myself. Here's a few quick thoughts:

"Surfing allows you to be as one with the ocean." This is true as I was part of the ocean more than I was on top of it. I also drank enough salt water to fill up a small aquarium. I think I may have swallowed a lobster as well.

"Surfing is spiritual." Also true. I prayed more in the hour I was floundering than I have in many many years. There was a lot of "Oh God help me, and Oh God please don't let me drown."

"Surfing prompts a calm and laid back attitude." This was immediately apparent after my so called lesson. I was definitely outwardly mellow, but laid back? It was closer to complete exhaustion.

Surfing is a low impact sport that can be done from ages 8 to 80. Really? Come on by and let me show you the bruises I have on my arms and legs. By the way, when I was in the water I looked like I was 8 and the next morning I felt like I was 80.

"Surfing has inspired many songs." This is also true, but none of the Beach Boys really surfed except Dennis Wilson, and he drowned.

"Surfing makes you look cool." Probably, but only if you can surf. My wife watched me fall, slip, roll over, scream, slobber and spit up a good part of the Atlantic. Plus the classic surfer look is a lanky bleach headed blond dude. I look more like the guy from Sling Blade. There would be no romance on the shore. Maybe I could get her to make me some biscuits and mustard though.

The truth of the matter is that I really enjoyed it even though I had limited success. Our friends Neil and Rene were really patient and supportive and we all had a great day. Zach went back the next day and enjoyed far more success just as Neil and Nick predicted. I suspect that I'll end up back there as well. It'd be nice to "hang ten" at least once (insert your favorite joke here.)

The Old Man And The Sea (and Me)

There's a man that lives in my neighborhood that has been here many years. He's seen the neighborhood turn time and time again, and I imagine has gotten to know at least to some extent the families that have come and gone through the many years. The latest wave of Florence Street inhabitants, meaning us have had the opportunity to spend a little time and get to know the Day's, both Vicki better known as Miss Vicki and...and, uh, I can't believe it but as I write this I'm having trouble remembering his first name. I've always known him as Mr. Day. Honestly I don't know if not remembering his name is a lack of respect or is the fact that I refer to him as Mr. a sign of greater respect for a man who values such things.


Mr. Day and I went fishing this morning along the Maine coast. An appropriate place for this classic New England soul who once seemed to refuse a neighbor who asked to borrow a match. When the neighbor inquired why he couldn't borrow a match, the pipe smoking Mr Day turned and responded with the classic New England accent, "Nope, you can't borrow a match. You can have one, but I don't want it back."

We started out early. Early morning fishing to Mr. Day is very early. This means 4:00am to us or o four hundred to him. I grabbed my gear and headed outside to find he and his gear waiting outside of his house. I wondered if there would be anyplace to grab a coffee and a bagel on the way, to which he responded, "Miss Vicki already gave me my breakfast. Eggs, bacon, muffins, and fresh coffee." I expect If I inquired where my breakfast was at 3:30am all I'd get is Deb's finger. And I wouldn't blame her a bit for it.

As we made the short drive north to the Maine coast Mr. Day offered his direction and provided commentary and history of the different places we passed. He suggested both that I look to the field on my left for deer and also keep my eyes on the road. He told me a few details of the time that he served in Korea, but he he was more conservative with them when I inquired about his experience at Pork Chop Hill. All he offered was, "It was critical and strategic, and things got a little hairy when we ran out of ammunition. The Chinese weren't happy about it either as they feared Americans with bayonets and rifle butts. They preferred the comforts that come with engaging from afar with guns."

We arrived at Nubble Light House and set up our gear. I got a strange look from Mr Day when he saw me also setting up a tripod to hold my "Not Made In America" Camera. We made our first cast and in no time we were pulling in fish. Not keepers mind, you. It was mostly small Pollock, but we were getting bites and having a little fun. Two strapping lads out near the high seas bonding like men should. My masculinity took a bit of a breather when I asked Mr Day to help me get my first fish of the hook. I was delicately trying to unhook the fish from the three pronged (or is it barbed) contraption. He took it from my hands and forcefully ripped the hook out and tossed the fish back into the drink. It was also nice of Mr. Day to refrain from laughing when I slipped and fell on both the rocks and my backside. He simply turned toward me, removed the pipe from his mouth and said, "The rocks are slippery. Try not to hurt yourself."

Mr. Day continued to cast out, reel in and remove fish from his hook, while I continued to cast out and untangle the mess I made of my line. When my rod finally bent forward, I pulled in a good handful of sea kelp. Mr. Day said that I had a good start and that all I needed was something to go along with my sea salad." After an hour of fishing Mr. Day sat down on the rocks and took a quick cat nap as the surf crashed around the jetty. When he awoke, he took a good long look at the sea and sky and proclaimed, "Today's not our day. There won't be any mackerel or stripers." I agreed though I wasn't quite sure why. I had no choice but to concur as Mr. Day has been fishing this spot for sixty or more years. If he had told me that only the Swedish Fish would be biting today I probably would have agreed. We were back in our neighborhood before 7:00 am.

It's a good thing to have a guy like Mr. Day and his so called, "Catch of His Life" lady Miss Vicki in the neighborhood. They're a welcome fixture that represent the values and lifestyle of days gone by, yet they tolerate and even welcome the chaos that is Florence Street. The early morning Rebel Yells, the late night scrabble games, The Margarita porch nights, not to mention the summer ritual that Kick the Can has become. If our kids running through their yard is a problem, they've never said a word. I think that they appreciate the fact that we are neighbors and we're interested in having them around. It will be interesting to see if many years from now that one of us will be the couple that link the new and old. If Deb and I are lucky enough to be in the running, I'll make sure I finally learn to properly bait a hook.

Live Post From The Barley Pub

A good friend of mine just drove his camper, Winnebego, or RV into Dover and promptly jumped into another vehicle to head to the local pub. I was contacted and immediately proceeded to meet he and a few of my neighbors. My good friend Mott handed me a laptop and insisted I post something, "Live From The Barley Pub!" This could end up like the sketches that they tag onto the end of Saturday Night Live that have no merit, no business at the beginning of the show and no sign of comedy.

The Barley Pub is a great little place that features small batch brews. Their biggest claim to fame is that when it rains or snows, the Guinness or Snowblower stouts are 99 cents. This is when every UNH student comes out of the wood works clutching handfuls of change for beer within their price range but with some real color and flavor.

(Mott takes control of the keyboard) This post is dedicated to all the teachers and students out there who just started their summer vacations. We're drinking a few stouts here with our friend MHS who is a middle school language arts teacher. He's going to need severe therapy this summer to correct the damage that YOUR CHILDREN have done to his self esteem. If you are the parent of a middle school age child then you owe Jack twelve dollars to cover the tequila shots it took to get MHS to like himself again! MHS doesn't need this crap. He could be dusting off barbells at The Works where he'd make more money and get a free gym membership.

And on behalf Jack's wife Deb who is a teacher during the day and student in the evening --- Any kid who gets Deb for a teacher better pay attention because you only get a teacher like this ONCE. You're lucky little kids. And to Deb's professors - Debbie could run circles around you in the classroom - piss off!!

Alright I've wrestled both this laptop and Mott's car keys. Sorry about that all. Anyway the Barley Pub is a bit of a throwback. If you like dark walls, dark humor and dark beer, this is the place for you. They even allow dogs. Many a night I've told Deb that I'm taking the dog for a walk and came back four hours later. It's a much longer walk home than it is to get here. Gotta go. Cheers, y'all.

Farewell Childhood Friends

Early yesterday I heard the news that Farrah Fawcett had passed on. It was no surprise to know and feel a little sad about it. She was an iconic figure and a part of my childhood and her image helped facilitate a transformation from Hot Wheels, Evil Knieval dolls, and GI Joe to an interest in the opposite sex. Unfortunately for me any return interest would have to wait until I grew out of my awkward stage and began bathing on a regular basis. I think I'm almost there.

Yesterday afternoon I was waiting for Zachary to finish a music theory class. I was sitting outside of a local coffee shop reading the newspaper when two young girls walked by. One of them was on her cell phone and said to the other, "Oh my God. Michael Jackson just died!" At first I didn't quite believe it, first because of the source from which I heard it, but also because there was and always will be so much misinformation and controversy surrounding the former King of Pop. Zach finally made an appearance and we went home. Along the way I told him what I heard. We scanned the radio but there didn't seem to be any confirmation. No news reports, no tributes, and no Michael Jackson songs which is not an easy fete.

OF course when we got home and turned the television on, the news of his death was starting to spread. There wasn't the outpouring that I would have expected, but it was still relatively early and I believe the networks and outlets were just not expecting to report on this tragedy.

This one hit harder. Like him or not, hero or villain, Genius or tragic figure, he was and will be an icon. I still recall the day that my mother and father taking me to the Singing Cricket in Winthrop Massachusetts where I picked out the "Ben" album which would be my very first of many hundreds of records I would buy. I actually think that the first 45 I owned was "Rockin Robin" by the Jackson 5. I can still recall holding it with the dark blue and white Mowtown label with the small map of Detroit and the location of Mowtown. I played both of those records a lot, as I would with many of his records, cassettes and CDs.

I was also one of the many millions of people who watched stunned as he "moonwalked" his way on Mowtown's 25th. Do you remember where you were when Reagan was shot, or when the Challenger exploded? This was one of those moments albeit and obviously much less tragic. I was with a bunch of friends in John Farmer's basement playing darts and drinking beer. He had a little television with lousy reception and when Michael did his thing. We were awestruck. "Holy crap, did you see that?" I never got to see the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show. For my generation, this was its equal.

I was back at the gym last night and I heard a lot of the guys in and around the weight area making jokes about how all the kids in the world are now safer now that the plastic, monkey toting, Elephant Man buying, Beatles music stealing freak was gone. True, the man was surrounded by controversy and if he did the things he was alleged to have done, then I'm equally disgusted, but there was a time when he ranked among the heroes of the day. Celebrity passings also make me think that if such larger than life individuals are susceptible to their own mortality, then we'd better make the most of our own time.


Not the greatest or funniest post, but it was a strange and heavy day.

No Pain No Gain? I'll Take Two Helpings!

How's this for a double threat? After work I went to the Dentist then hit the gym.

A few weeks ago I had my routine 6 month cleaning and heard something I never thought I would hear. After the usual probing and picking my dentist said, "Your teeth look pretty good, but you have a couple of really old fillings that are leaking." Leaking? what the Hell is that supposed to mean? What are they leaking? Is it Mercury? Am I going to get Alzheimer's? Holy Moses! (For those of you who didn't catch that, that was Charlton Heston joke. Poor taste? Yes, but if I ever get sponsors for this blog I doubt it will be the NRA.) He went on to say that one of the old leaking fillings was pretty big and would probably require a crown. A crown is appropriately named as they cost a king's ransom.

Today was the day that I had to get prepped for the crown. It would be a fun filled hour and a half of Novocaine shots, drilling, fitting and probably more drilling. I'm happy to report that my dentist did not let me down. Allow me to digress for a few seconds and attempt to make all of the usual jokes that you hear about the dentist office. It was all there; the funky reclining chair, The little squirty guns, both air and water that even after 44 years, I still would like to play with. I had the bib on, and I'm not sure if my dentist is cheap or big into recycling because mine had a lobster on it. There was also the big overhead lamp that has always reminded me of the martian periscope on the War of the World space crafts. The lamp seems to have a personality all its own staring down as if to say, "holy crap, look at those choppers! Big fan of rock candy when you were a kid?"

It's never a good idea to piss off someone who is going to be working on you. I should have paid heed to this, but the truth is I was late for the appointment. If that wasn't enough, while the hygienist was setting up some of his tools, I asked, Is he any good with those things?" She thought he would be amused if she shared that with him, but the truth is, he wasn't. He immediately called for his precision tools that had medieval looks and medieval names such as, the probe, the scraper, and the explorer. Thank God this wasn't a proctology exam!

As my dentist (who is a really a great guy and a good technician) did his thing with the hygienist and the martians looking on. He would drill, stop, ask me a questions then fire up the drill before I could answer. Occasionally I would have to rinse. The little shot glass of liquid and my immediate drooling brought back fond memories of my clubbing days at the Palace.

After an hour and a half of this I finally got to follow the Dr. who left me stranded at the check out counter where the receptionists scheduled my follow up. As they always do, the gave me my choice of new tooth brushes as if to say, "Maybe you'll use this one." I responded with my Novocained paralytic mouth and sounded like that guy on Fat Albert when I said, "Iba Abpreciate ut, seeba ya laber!"

After leaving the dentist I figured I would kill two birds with one stone and hit the gym for a little strength training. You know, most guys walk around the gym with this strut which is supposed to show the other guys how tough and intimidating they are. I'm not immune to this and today I was particularly effective until I noticed that I was still wearing my blood soaked lobster bib (just kidding.)

The combination of the Novocaine and my lack of food did not make for a good work out. The Novocaine inspired stroke face and drooling kept my usual female admirers at bay. The weights seemed particularly heavy, and I definitely have to work on my endurance and my motivation. The whole time I was lifting I was looking forward to the crunches. Not that I like crutches mind you, I just wanted to lay down.

All in all it was a fun filled afternoon. Maybe tomorrow I'll have a colonoscopy and scrape some wallpaper.

And IRAN, Iran So Far Away

I'm watching the news and they're showing the Iranian protests and violence that's occurring as a result of the latest controversial election. The newscaster offered his opinion and stated, "This is why America is so great. We enjoy a peaceful transference of power." I suppose to a certain degree the newscaster was correct. We have demonstrated to the world that even with controversial election results, even with our highest elected office we can maintain a certain amount of civility. But wait a wait a minute, weren't we just burning cars and fighting with the police when the Lakers won the Championship? I guess we're just passionate about other transfers of power.

Can you imagine the riots that would ensue if there were a controversial American Idol ending?

Memory Lane Is Just a Click Away

Facebook is one of the all time great electronic time wasters, but I can't argue with the results. I, like many others have reconnected with some great old friends who are now, well...great old friends. Recently I got together with my buddies Sammy, Eddie, and Eddie and it was an amazing experience that has left me nostalgic for the old days but content that we're all where we're at.

We met as we have many times before but unlike the old days we were able to pay for our Guinness' with actual $20 bills instead of the singles and handfuls of change and no one ordered Tequila, Sambuca shots or "Woo woo's. Like the old days none of us approached any of the women in the bar which means not much has changed over the years. I recall the days of having to have a few drinks in order to build up enough courage to talk to girls then wondering why they showed no interest. I clearly recall thinking these women were stuck up or worse as I slurred my pick up line then staggered and swayed away to face the humiliation and heckling that would soon ensue from the peanut gallery.

Our reunion marked the first time that all of us have been in the same place in 16 years, and it was amazing to see that despite the marriages, children, distance and years that not much had changed. A few more pounds here or there and a few less hairs where they should be. Notice I said where they should be. None of us has lost any, it just relocated from the city that used to be our heads and migrated to the remote suburbs of our anatomy, living quietly in the ears, nose, backs and the other nether regions that will not be mentioned here, but I digress.

We picked up right where we left off and we continued. There's nothing that melts the years away like a good get together with old friends. The stories were many and the details and accuracy were definitely softened and mellowed with time. It was a great afternoon.

Will our next meeting be 16 years from now? I hope not and I don't think so. But the fact we did reconnect demonstrates that it doesn't have to be a wedding or funeral to get together. It's amazing how difficult it can be to go and have a beer. Regardless, I'm hopeful we'll continue to make the effort. I look forward to the day years from now when we'll we'll be able to gather in the same or a similar place and take another legendary stroll. The Guinness will flow and we'll be able to chat without interruptions as the Depends will eliminate the bathroom breaks.

Dave Matthews Band Poster Art

It's a well known fact in my neighborhood that I'm a big fan of the Dave Matthews Band. The fact that I like a particular band should prompt no need for words and shouldn't constitute enough interest to warrant a posting, but I have to tell you that it perplexes me to know that almost no one else in the "hood" digs these guys. My good buddy Geoff is convinced that both Dave Matthews music and the night time sleep aid Ambien are created in the same factory. It confuses me because they're absolutely huge and have an enormous following.

This fact was recently demonstrated when the DMB played two sold out shows at Fenway Park. Yes, I attended both nights and was lucky enough to sit in the front row for night two. It wasn't your normal front row seat as somehow I ended up with a "companion ticket" which is intended for those who accompany an impaired individual in the handicapped section. Regardless it was right up front. True, no one around me was up and dancing too much but I don't think it was because of a lack of danceable beats and rhythms.

I'm almost embarrassed to let you all know that aside form the CD's and concerts, I've also shown my support by being an active member of the DMB fan association known as "The Warehouse." Membership has its benefits. I do get to purchase tickets before the general public and there are other amenities that are offered. The Warehouse is an electronic gathering place for the legion of DMB fans who trade tickets, live recordings and stories. To say that people are dedicated is an understatement. they all have DMB influenced vanity license plates, tattoos and children named after their hero.

A recent Message Board thread showed various members Concert Poster collections. The DMB, like many newer bands create interesting and sometimes beautiful silk screened prints that are produced in very limited quantities. They're all hand made (or at least I think they are) and are signed and numbered. All of the pictures of the framed posters appear to be hanging in the basements of these 35 and 40 year old members parent's houses. How cool it must be for them to proudly show them off when they're sneaking a girl in.

For the record, mine are hanging in my office. Men will be men and boys will be boys. What that means, I have no idea, but let's face it. We guys just aren't that bright.

Finally, My Blog is Educational! Yard Sales 101

I'm sure there are those who would disagree with me but I feel comfortable in stating that New Hampshire is the Yard Sale capitol of the world. Each week as the days progress the signs start going up. Some are big and bright while others are created with less care and less information. They litter the trees and street signs advertising their pre-owned baby clothes, furniture and tools.

Now, I am not opposed to "Yard Sailing" and have actually done my fair share. I've found a few treasures in my time and I've also seen a lot of trash. It's like these people are not interested in selling quality products, it's like they're just trying to get rid of the crap they don't want. I don't get it.

There's a real art form and a whole culture associated with the Yard Sales. If you're Yard Sailing in your own town it's always a good idea to dress down. Wearing a business suit or high price outfit will make your bargaining and bartering far more difficult. Get some old beat up stuff. You can pick them up...well...at a yard sale.


Bring plenty of cash but make sure it's divided into two separate piles with one consisting of only one dollar bills. This is your bargaining roll. Telling someone that you only have $4 for that top hat then pulling out a wad of $20's is bad form. Make sure you bring some change as well. People will be happy to sell books for a nickel but they get really pissed if you try to pay for it with a $20.

As stated there is usually a whole culture dedicated to yard sailing who drive very quickly from one yard to another seeking bargains. these little ladies will not hesitate to elbow their way past you or to push you out of the way. You have to pay close attention to what you're doing. If you're pondering a purchase and put it down, the veteran yard sailor will grab it faster than David Carridine grabbing a pea from an old marble eyed Chinese man. There's a bad joke in there somewhere but it's too recent and too easy.

Be prepared to see a lot of junk. It had to have happened somewhere and at sometime, but someone intentionally purchased that microwave cook book, Simpson's margarita glass set or George Foreman grill brand new. Now they're nickel. What a bargain. The box with all the free stuff is not actually free as it will you cost you money to throw it out later.


If you're looking at records, you really need to know what you are looking for. You'll see alot of easy listening albums, and you'll definitely see copies of Michael Jackson's Thriller, Billy Joel's The Stranger, and Fleetwood Mac's Rumors. Be careful when opening any double album from the 60's or 70's as the seeds that will roll out may get you into legal and financial trouble, especially if you're going near any drug sniffing dogs. Open a Frampton Comes Alive album? Those aren't tomato seeds buddy.

It's a matter of debate in the way you approach the people running the yard sale. When walking up you may feel a bit awkward and will say something to break the ice. this makes it harder to leave when you realize that you don't want any of their crap. If you buy something just to leave without feeling awkward, what your doing is basically stating, "I'll throw this out for you."

You should never but clothes at a yard sale especially if you are in your own town. Nothing would be more embarrassing to come into work on Monday with that suit you picked up on Fisher Street and having someone from work ask you, "Hey, where did you get that suit?" "I don't remember" you say. "Well I do. You bought it at my ex wife's yard sale Saturday. That's the suit I wore to my father's funeral." "No, you say I got it at the Men's Warehouse." Uhh, buddy, the $.25 price sticker is still on your lapel. This could and will limit your professional upward mobility.

A good tip to remember is that if you're yard sailing and you run into someone you work with, Tell them that you are looking for old Jazz 78's and ask them if they've seen any Thelonious Monk or Coltrane discs around. They'll think you are cool and eccentric. Just make sure they don't see the Chinese throwing stars you're going to buy.

All in all the phenomenon that is the yard sale will continue especially in these tough economic times. Best of luck to you all. I'd write more but I'm driving to the big Bernie Madoff, AIG, Citi Bank rummage sale. Hope they have that Fondue set I've been looking for.

"Boronto" and the Joys of Business Travel

Toronto is a great city with beautiful and friendly people. Ask anyone that has ever been here and they'll tell you that it's really nice and very clean and it has all of the trappings of any major metropolitan area. But for some reason and I'll concede that it must be me, the largest city in Canada has yet to touch my heart or move my soul. Yeah, it's nice, but to date I've found it uninspiring. Maybe it's too clean, maybe the people are too nice. I have formed some good friendships here and undoubtedly they will not be happy if and when they read this, but I'm hoping this current trip will convert me.

I flew here yesterday which forced me to leave the family on a Sunday so I know I'm already in trouble. The only thing that curbed this was the fact that the weather was absolutely dreadful. We spent the morning as a family piling a chord of wood. Deb thought it would be a good bonding experience for the kids to log off and pile logs on. The kids weren't amused but they stuck it out and we put a good dent in it.

Like me previous trips to Toronto, my drive to the airport and my flight were uneventful. When I got my luggage I realized I had to get some colorful and playfully named money, but the not one, but three ATM's were either out of order or out of cash. I started to question whether my card privileges had been terminated. Would I be stuck here?

I stood on a curb and hailed a taxi. "Where to?" asked the cabby.

"I'm going to the Marriott Renaissance."

Where?" he asked.

"The Renaissance, downtown. You know, it's connected to the stadium."

"I don't know where that is sir."

I thought he must be kidding. I said, "You know where the Blue Jays play? MLB? Baseball? You know next to the CNN Tower?"

"I don't Know that place, sir."

"Listen, you have two tourist places in this city and they're right freaking next to each other. Look. See that big tall thing? Take me there. "

He was actually a very pleasant man, and after he intentionally took me to the Residence Inn, and I corrected him. he kindly corrected me in saying that I shouldn't have incorrectly stated that Marriott because the hotel at Rogers Stadium was a Renaissance Hotel.

When I finally got the the MARRIOTT RENAISSANCE I was greeted by a very pleasant woman who checked me in. She informed me that the Blue Jays were out of town so the rates were a little lower. I already knew this but having even an empty baseball stadium as my view would still be pretty cool. When I got to my room the blinds were closed. When I pulled them open, this, and I'm not kidding here, was and is my view:

Laughing out loud, I left my room and headed out in search of food. Once again I spoke with the nice lady at the counter who told me that I wouldn't find much on a Sunday night but I should head to the harbour to a place called Pier 4. I found my way there and saw a festival happening with a lot of interesting food choices, none of which I could take advantage of because all I had was Uncle Sam's Green Currency of Evil. I passed by the West African and Indian Cuisine and went into the Pier 4. I then immediately walked out of the dreary cheap, establishment which should have been named Pier 70 thus reflecting the decor and the average age of their patrons.

At long last and after wandering through the city I finally stumbled toward my hotel which, again is conveniently seated just below the cabby elusive CNN Tower. That's where the remainder of my evening was spent. A little food, A cold beer. A good bartender. The NBA Finals and a local music rag. Maybe this place isn't so bad after all...

By the way, the shot glass wasn't mine.

Sales Is All About Getting People to Like You!

Ever wonder how your kids view you?

I used to train sales people on the many disciplines that are selling skills. During training sessions I used to coach people by providing them with real life situations and giving feedback. I would tell my sales reps that the feedback they received was a gift and would help them improve their skills their opportunities for success and ultimately their wallet or purse. This past Sunday I had the opportunity to assess a sales person and in the process I received candid, honest and direct feedback.

I was enjoying my day of rest by working in the back yard with my favorite nemesis the weed whacker when Deb let me know that we had to pick up Zachary from yet another sleep over. We both jumped in the car and headed off as we were going to grab some vegetable plants for the garden. We were also going to buy a new "old style" porch swing. After grabbing Zach we headed up to the furniture place which was not and would not open until noon. We had some time to kill. Deb suggested we swing back by a car dealership that we passed. There was a car that caught Deb's eye.

We were barely out of our car when the young salesman appeared. He started off with the used car salesspeak without hesitation and without stopping. He gave me the, "If I can make the numbers work for you, can I put you in this beauty today?" He said, "This car is cleaner than a baby's bottom." This guy obviously never had kids.

We took the car for a ride and then we were led into the interrogation area where the battle of wits would ensue. Without going into all of the details, I can tell you that I held my ground and didn't an inch of ground. He threw everything he had at me and resorted to insulting me in front of my wife and son, but ultimately I escaped without a new car and without a new monthly obligation. I wanted so badly to tell him my profession, but I didn't want to embarrass him. I really wanted to say, "look kid, I know what you're doing..." Regardless, I escaped.

A few nights later we were having dinner and when we were finished with the school and work discussion I asked Zachary what he thought of the experience. He said, "You mean the car? It was really nice!" I said, "No. What did you think of the exchange between the salesman and I?" Zach replied, "It was kind of wierd, but I always know when you want to leave or get out of something. You act smart and start making those faces with that goofy smile, and you act like a dick!" The rest of the family erupted with laughter!

"Dustin" the Wind or "Urned" Run Average

Forgive me readers for I have sinned. It's been one month since my last post. There's no question that I've been crazy busy, but the blog thing hasn't been far from the forefront of my mind. I honestly believe I've been suffering from a slight case of writer's block. This isn't to imply that I think I'm a writer, but I have been struggling to put something together. Over the next few days, I'll try to get caught up on a few of the recent adventures in an average guy's life.

About a month ago I had the opportunity to see the Sox play. Now I don't usually need a reason to hit Friendly Fenway other than to pay the $7.25 for a watered down and warm Miller Lite but this trip actually did have a purpose. My buddy Geoff's grandfather passed and their close relationship inspired Geoff to distribute his ashes at some of his favorite landmarks including the House that Ruth rented. Now I envisioned Geoff casually and quietly releasing the ashes as we walked around the park, or maybe even by his grandfather's favorite seats in the boxes or bleachers. Geoff had another idea in mind. The ashes had to go on the field and no other place would do. There were a few problems with this idea: First, our seats were in the roof boxes. Any attempt from this spot would result in the people below and their Fenway Franks being covered with a fine coating of grandpa. The second and probably more important thing is that unbeknown to either of us, spreading ashes in a privately owned property is a big no no and is actually a crime in some states. Geoff and I plotted like Ralph Malph and Potsie and came up with a plan. He would sneak down and distract whoever he had to and lean right over the field, and I would remain above and document the event with my camera for the court case or to show the doctors how Geoff got all of his injuries. I'm sorry to report that I have nothing to report. The whole thing went without a hitch. He snuck down and was only held up by one usher. He went to a different section and told he usher that there was a friend that he wanted to say hello to. He went down, sat next to a total stranger and told him what he was about to do. He made his move and in front of 33,000 plus, leaned out over the small wall and shook the little baggie onto the field. There was no fuss and no muss.

So the next time you're watching Pedroia, Big Papi, or Veritek up at the plate and they're tapping the bat against their cleats, that little dust that comes off may just be someone somebody loved. And for the record, when I die, I'd like to be cremated and I'd like my ashes to be spread all around my house so Debbie can clean up after me one more time.

Virginia Is For Lovers, But We Went There Anyway...

Deb and I let ourselves be lovers and we've certainly married our fortunes together. And, yes, we did count the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike and did come to look for America. This is a reference to a Simon and Garfunkel song which to my great disappointment, in our relationship, I'm Garfunkel.

The kids and Deb had spring break a couple of weeks ago so we packed up a car and headed south for what was our first real family road trip. Not to say that we haven't traveled as a family, but this was our first real classic family road trip complete with an over-packed vehicle, zero rear view mirror visibility and all of the "Are We There Yet" inquiries to last a lifetime.

I have to say that I had mixed feelings. We were looking at a 16 to 18 hour road trip in total with a stop over in Colonial Williamsburg. I've never driven that long or that far and I wasn't sure how our 15 and 14 year old kids would tolerate being on the road through a good part of the east coast. Would Zachary and Vanessa kill each other? Who would strike first? Would there be collateral damage? When would I lose my patience with Deb's driving instructions and constant directions? Speaking of my own personal driving instructor, for those of you who don't know, Deb has bestowed a Yiddish name upon me. In the Car I'm called, "Shoulda." She says, "Shoulda taken a left, Shoulda slowed down, Shoulda gone the other way, Shoulda gotten gas." To keep things equal, I've given Deb her own special road name. When she refers to me as "Shoulda", I respond with her nick name of "Frey-Cue. " We're so cute.


The first leg of our trip would take us through New England, New York, and New Jersey with our final destination of Williamsburg Virginia. Why Williamsburg you ask? The very first week and maybe our first date, Deb told me that she'd always wanted to go to Colonial Williamsburg. For nineteen years I was able to avoid this but now it was time. Speaking of timing, ours stinks. We waited until our kids became an unamused 15 and 14 before we stole them away from their friends to take them to a town where people lived through hard times and little comfort. "You mean they didn't have wireless, and Hot Pockets?"





Colonial Williamsburg is a special place that offers a glimpse of colonial times and all things revolutionary. You just don't get to see things like that here in New England. You know, places like Strawberry Bank in Portsmouth, Salem Massachusetts, Plimouth Plantation, Sturbridge Village, Lexington, Concord, or that nothing of historical significance town Boston. Don't get me wrong, Colonial Williamsburg is nice, but how many freaking candle stick makers, blacksmiths, and silver smiths can one see in a lifetime? "They used cinnamon, creme of Tartar and licorice root to brush their teeth? Whoa, You're kidding me? You wouldn't happen to have a small pox story in you, would ya buddy?"

Speaking of the blacksmith. I watched in awe as this artisan worked his craft. I took picture after picture as he kept the fire hot and hammered the metal until it started to take its final shape. Intrigued, I begged his pardon and asked what type of treasure he was making. "Nails", he said. Nice.

We walked around the grounds for a while admiring the reconstructed architecture and the authentically dressed reenactors complete with period dress and Ozzy Osbourne tattoos. We eventually got hungry. We stopped by one of the many taverns which didn't seem to sell tavern type drinks, and I was disappointed that I couldn't get a meal of authentic colonial fare. There would be no mutton, and no roast venison, but I could relive ye days of old with an authentic Colonial corn dog and a Puritan Pepsi. No wonder George Washington's teeth were in such rough shape.

Much to the kids' disappointment we left Colonial Williamsburg and headed out for a decent meal. We passed many fine looking establishments because of our desire to keep our family spirit and reach some type of consensus. This strategy led us to not speak to each other, and exasperated I eventually pulled into a decent looking non chain or franchise restaurant. The place was called Jefferson's steak house which was designed to give diners a taste of the past. No, the decor had nothing to do with the 18th century and there were no real references to Jefferson. The connection seemed to be with the diners as most of them had obviously been there at Thomas Jefferson's inauguration ball. I should have went with my instincts and turned us all around, but then I wouldn't have gotten to enjoy the blended sirloin steak which was so good that I was tempted to use a fork, but instead I used a spoon so I could get every drop. We were there for what seemed an eternity each of us watching the Titanic survivors eat their rice pudding and drinking their Manhattans. When our Eugene Levy looking waiter finally brought the bill, we scooted out of there and headed for our hotel. It was only 4:30.

Stay tuned for part two...

Please note that I am embellishing the Hell out of this story but not as much as you'd think. We really did have a great time together. Also, I let Deb read this before I published it. She laughed at a lot of it but mostly at the Garfunkel comment. Maybe I should have brought her to Scarborough Fair...

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Leg O My Ego

Last week a friend of mine sent me a link to a community 5k road race organized to raise money for a local children's museum. I've never run in a road race, but made the mistake of expressing interest. I thought, "What the Hell, it's only 3.1 miles, I can definitely swing that." I went out and bought new running shoes and special no friction, non binding, heat resistant, no moisture, extra cushioned running socks. I've never paid $14 for a single pair of socks before and I suspect I'll lose my mind when I see Zachary wearing them without shoes outside in the yard.

All of us runners gathered near the starting line yesterday to check in and get our numbers and timing chips. The participants varied in every way you can imagine: young, old, male and female, skinny, fit and those who are gravitationally challenged. I sized up the group and wished only to complete the course not finish last, and not look like a goof. This last wish was quickly dashed as I noticed people who were listening to iPods with arm bands and ear pods, while I was standing with my full size iPod and Jimmy JJ Walker coconut half headphones.

We all lined up at the starting line awaiting the signal, and with a blast of a starting pistol the race began, well it at least began for the people up front. I was well in the back of the pack and began bouncing up and down because everyone else was bouncing up and down. I had no idea why any of us were doing this but I suspect it's part of some ancient running ritual. So there we were "pogoing" while the more seasoned and competitive runners sprinted away. As the crowd thinned I finally found myself with enough room to move forward. For those of you who have never experienced a road race, the beginning is kind of like a travelling WHO concert with a thick crowd bouncing then collectively rushing a stage that is some 3.2 miles away.

The course began with a steady incline toward the center of town and I immediately knew I was in trouble. First I was already breathing heavier than expected, but to make matters worse, I felt a pop on my left heel and was experiencing a bit of pain. I figured I could run through it, but I felt every step as if someone was repeatedly taking a bat to the bottom of my foot. Boy what a fun experience. Is this the runner's high everyone talks about? I guess my body is like Nancy Reagan's 1980's wish about highs. My body "just Said No!"

Believe it or not even with the pain, I was running at a pretty good clip for me, but here's the thing I learned about running in a road race. There are a lot of people around you. I was frustrated by the slower people in front of me and the congestion of people that prevented me from getting around them, probably as much as I was frustrating the people behind me. The freedom of running was stifled by being aware of the crowd around me. I felt the need to spit and almost let it fly until I realized that the folks around me would probably catch some of it. Not a good thing to do especially in this time of all things swine.

I should mention that my beautiful wife came down to the race with our good friend Jennifer and cheered me on with a home made sign and a few blown kisses. the limits and length of their eyesight would be the quickest I would run.

As I continued running my mind started to wander: "How far have we run so far, would I make it all the way through and what the hell was I doing here?" I came back to reality when I noticed a lot of movement, people falling behind me and certainly many passing in front of me. These people consisted of fit looking athletic types, men, women, the very young and old, the infirm, and the occasional mother pushing kids in a stroller.


At mile two in my head I came up upon a sign that broke my heart. It said, mile one. Holy Crap! I kept going but contemplated stopping at the yard sale that I passed by. Maybe they would have an old oxygen tank I could try out. If I had had the foresight of carrying a few bucks, I may have dropped out of the race and relaxed looking through the family's old microwave cookbooks and Frampton Comes Alive album.

Now, I don't know who the sick b*st*rd was who created the course, but he or she had both a wide sadistic streak and a penchant for hills, and I mean hills. Every time we took a turn we seemed to be on an incline. One steep grade after another. I half expected we'd be collectively planting a flag to claim a new uncharted peak for all mankind.

At one point I came upon the classic marathon scene where volunteers held out small cups of water. I swung over and successfully grabbed a cup and drank while still maintaining my pace. I was unsuccessful in dispensing of the cup. Instead of throwing it on the ground, there was a young kid holding a large green trash bag. My throw was off and I hit the kid in the neck, dousing him with the half filled cup of cold water. He seemed really appreciative.

I had to stop once or twice to temporarily relieve the pain in my foot, but by this time I was well away from the starting or finish line and knew that I had to press on. Any desire to clock in at a decent pace had now waived bye bye. I was however inspired by the guy who I spoke to before the race who came up to me while I was walking, seeing that I needed a lift and inspired me to keep going and offered to run with me. It wasn't long before I waived him bye bye.

There was one part of the course that had us running through a cul-de-sac which seemed all up hill of course, and had a island that turned us back toward the finish line. Long before I reached it, I saw runners who had already made the turn. "Great", I said, the turn is just up ahead. To my disappointment I could not and did not find this point for another mile or so. I had these visions of finishing the last mile while the seasoned runners relaxed in their homes having already finished the run, the cool down, the award ceremony and the first two discs of the Godfather trilogy.

As I approached the last half mile of the course, I was inspired by the local supporters who were rooting us all on, especially the few who said, "C'mon buddy you can do it." These folks apparently inspired by my gate, pace, tears and drool, and must have thought I was a highly functioning, yet impaired individual.

The finish line finally came into view which didn't have me pick up my pace nearly as much as the sight of Debbie, Jennifer, my buddy Geoffrey and their daughter LuLu. I crossed the finish line and walked over to them asking, "Hey, you guys thirsty?"

A 5K is nowhere near a marathon and at this stage or maybe any stage I will not be venturing near the other 23.1 miles, but I did manage to finish and complete my goal, this despite the injury and the mental challenge that goes along with these types of events. People run races to push themselves, to validate themselves and to learn about themselves. I guess I'm no exception, as I did have to dig deep and push to finish. I was and am proud that I completed the course, but prouder that I actually decided to do it, then followed through.

As far as learning, I've learned much. Training for races is probably a smart idea. Proper stretching would be tremendously helpful, and proper sleep and hydration would be nice. Now I'm learning something else. The fatigue and pain of a running injury warrant no excuse and no dismissal from household chores. Man, I wish I had a riding mower.

There's No "I" in team, but there is in IRON

Personal achievement is measured in many different ways, especially when you are a little older. Long gone are the days of little league trophies and ribbons for the paper mache' volcano we made for the school science fair.

For the guys in my neighborhood, recognition for personal accomplishment hasn't come in the form of a golf trophy or being part of a winning softball team. We don't do triathlons and none of us has been nominated for a Grammy, Tony, or the Nobel Peace Prize. Yours truly has not and probably will not be receiving Pulitzer for the mindless rambling of the blog you are reading. We haven't received notoriety or accolades from the wives for our ability to swing a hammer or build home made furniture. Quite honestly I'm not sure there's a complete set of tools on the street, and the tools we do own have been borrowed and forgotten, left unused in one basement or another. As I write this I realize that I'm generalizing and neglecting to note the one or two gentlemen who have rebuilt their front steps. They look okay but don't put too much weight on them.

Last month we had our one real competitive neighborhood event. It's called Iron Chef, Florence Street. It's a concept borrowed from the Food Network. The competition basically pits one chef against another. Each chef is required to create 5 dishes using a secret ingredient that is not revealed until the competition begins. They then have one hour to create the five dishes. Once time has run out, the dishes are judged by a panel of three notable foodies.

Our version of this competition is a little more simplistic as none of us are chefs. We're meatball cooks with no real formal training other than some experience in restaurants washing dishes or putting cheese on a griddle full of Big Macs. Our version has the women in the neighborhood gathering to select a secret ingredient. This is a painstaking ordeal that apparently requires a few nights worth of mulling, motions and martinis. In the past three years they've come up with challenging ingredients such as Bourbon, Cinnamon, and Coffee. None of these were easy, but the ingredients forced us to push the boundaries of our creativity.

This year we gathered for breakfast at our house, had a little something to eat and waited for the reveal. The girls narrowed the secret ingredient to three options and had them placed in a hat. The first selection, Maple, was met with a collective groan and put aside. A second slip was selected and the secret ingredient was finally revealed. It was....beef. Oh, but wait. There was a twist. Each of the ladies then presented us with a $20 bill and stated that we had to create our one dish for under $20. These women are sick sadistic individuals who deserved some form of retribution, but my mind was already wondering how I could manage 14 servings of surf and turf for under twenty bucks. Would I be violating the rules if I went lobstering and slaughtered my own heifer?

It was amusing to see each of the guys head out to the various markets scouring the aisles for the right ingredients. We passed each other in the aisles and protected our ideas from the curiosity of our former friends and current culinary nemesis'. We stayed in our own kitchens working on our dishes which had to be completed and presented for judging at 6:00. We were able to use any available spices or condiments from our kitchens without having to deduct it from the allotted cash. Lobster tails are a condiment, right?

for those of you who care to know, here is a listing of the dishes. My apologies to the chefs as I'm doing this from memory:

Contestant #1 and the current Iron Chef for three years running prepared marinated flank or skirt steaks that were skewered with leeks. Very yummy.

Contestant #2 made home made meatball sliders with sauce and I believe micro greens. Also very tasty

Contestant #3 made a massive pile of meatballs with a few dipping sauces. Delectable, and not to take anything away from their immediate appeal, but these were even better as the night wore on and the drinks were flowing. I think I was eating them by the handful by the end of the evening.

Contestant #4 made marinated teriyaki steak skewers that were wrapped around mushrooms. A simple, but solid approach.

Contestant #5 made the classic Reuben sandwich (Corned beef is still beef, kids...) with a home made American Slaw and hand cut fries. Oy, was it delicious.

Contestant #6 made seared tenderloin and crimini mushroom appetizers placed on garlic crostini with a a horse radish Creme Fraiche and capers.

The dishes were completed and the judging took place. There were three awards given. the Iron Chef, The Meathead award (second place) and The Chef's Choie award which as the name implies was decided by the chefs. In the end My good man Mark HS took the title and Iron Chef platter for his Corned Beef Sandwich. Meathead and Chef's choice went to yours truly for the tenderloin and crostini thing.

The whole event is a blast and it seems to get better every year. This summer we plan to add a second event called Florence Street's Best Burger Bash. As you can see we are fiercely competitive bunch, but if you want to keep up with the Jones' on Florence Street, all you need is a good chef's knife and $20.