Farewell Old Friend...

It was a cold and damp afternoon standing graveside. The mourners were all bundled up, quiet and introspective. The color guard stood close to the family and I could see one of my best friends holding back his tears. His fourteen month old son was struggling and impatient. He began to cry. A soldier began to play Taps and a cool wind picked up out of nowhere. Now the little boy really started to cry. His mother could not comfort him and the boy was temporarily quieted when passed to his father, but he was not able to hold him long. The mother put the child down and he began to bellow. Sensing the frustration of the parents at this disruption during such an emotional time, I thought how I might be able to assist. I searched my deep pockets for some item that may feed the child's curiosity and calm him, but the only thing I could find were my car keys. I gave the keys to the boy who took them and immediately began to play with them. Relief was shared by all who were close. The boy then ran off and threw my keys into the newly dug hole. The family stood by in horror while I was in the grave digging by the casket trying to retrieve the keys.



No, this did not actually happen. Yes I was at a funeral and yes my friend was there and the Marines and the crying child, but the key thing happened only in the wide open spaces that are or is my mind. I can't explain why this passed through my head, but it just did. I actually envisioned it as a potentially hilarious scene in a movie. "Hello, could I speak to one of the Farrelly Brothers, please?" I admit, I'm a bit embarrassed by it, but maybe it's just a defense mechanism against the real emotions passing through me.



Just so you know, I asked my friend Bert for his permission to write about this experience as I'm fully aware that I'm skirting the line of good taste. He gave his blessing because his father who was an incredible man thrived on humor even though he endured more than his fair share of hardship in his life.





Bert Kline Sr. was a self made man who served in World War II and spent time in China, and the South Pacific. He put himself through school earning not one, but two degrees. He opened his own pharmacy and worked very hard to make it the success that it was. He lost his wife at a very early age and he took on the responsibility of raising his six children alone. He provided his guidance, loyalty, and his support, but he also held them accountable for their actions and some of the children learned or will learn the hard way. Bert was a man to be admired as he was classic in every sense.


I was given the honor of speaking at his funeral and I was told by Bert that my part would be to lighten things up a bit. I stood at the podium with the tiny Yarmulke covering just the tiniest part of my head and spoke for a few minutes. I struggle with hats as I think they make my head look big. the Yarmulke was just ridiculous on me. It was like I cut the ear parts off of my mickey Mouse Ears. Speaking of accessories, I once put on a pair of glasses and asked Deb if they made me look more intelligent. She said I'd need a full face mask for that. Lovely girl...

After I finished speaking they brought up Bert's aunt who was Bert Sr.'s sister-in-law for over forty years. Claire who is well into her eighties had a well prepared eulogy and she delivered it with great care and obvious affection. The trouble was that she is so small that she barely reached the top of the podium so all who attended were intently listening but seeing nothing but an empty podium.

Before we attended the service, both Deb and I were hungry, but could not find anyplace to eat aside from a mini mart located across from the funeral home. There we were sitting in the funeral home parking lot with our beef jerky and Pop Tarts. Yet another classy vision for you all to take in.

Probably not the perfect send off, but Mr. K would have approved. The man loved to laugh.

Ireland: Nice Place, But When Are They Going to Clean This Place Up???

So we've been here a few days now and I can say that Ireland is an incredible country for all of the reasons you already know. It's absolutely gorgeous with the rolling hills and the amazing coast line. We've been taking pictures fast and furious and thank God for digital photography as we would have wasted an awful lot of film on the ruins here.





The first time you come across an old and crumbling castle or church, you snap shots like crazy because you don't generally see such things in the states, but then two minutes down the road there's another one and another one. The whole damned country is littered with dilapidated homes of former lords and ladies. Maybe someone over here should invest a little time and fix some of this crap. Maybe a hammer instead of getting hammered???

To be honest I've only gotten a little taste of what this country has to offer as I've been working over the past few days, but I'm off and "off" at noon today (Wednesday) and I'll have the opportunity to explore a little more. I'm sure there'll be more adventures to report, but until then, here's a few quick hits and observations:

• The people are absolutely amazing here and I can assure you that "Irish Hospitality" is alive and well. They're all very friendly and almost too friendly. The biggest challenge is trying to understand what people are saying. They speak very quickly and their accents are as thick as a good pint of Guinness. It's even more difficult in the pubs. I find myself just nodding yes over and over. I've no doubt that someone if not multiple people have asked if I was a flaming arsehole. Nod, oh yes, Thanks!

• Driving on the wrong or right side of the road ( depending upon your perspective) is a challenge. I've never been the most coordinated guy (ever seen me run?), but this is a whole new level. Driving on the right is difficult on many different levels but for me it's remembering there's a whole bunch more car on your left side to think about. I've come way too close to all types of immovable objects including but not limited to cars, pedestrians, signs, sheep, castles, and everything else they've got here. I have hit at least one curb where I was convinced I blew out a tire. Deb was smitten...

• I have to be honest in as good as the Guinness is here the food is equally bland. It's not bad per se, but they don't season their food here. Everything needs salt and pepper, and I don't think they know what garlic is. Have you ever heard of anyone coming to Ireland for the food? How many famous Irish restaurants are there in the states? C'mon Ireland let's get going! A little little Turmeric wouldn't kill you and Tarragon actually sounds a little Irish, doesn't it?

• Belfast is a tough city that's gone through some difficult times. All seems pretty cool now, but you don't want to mess about as you don;t know who's who. Deb and I were a bit lost coming into the city and we were probably travelling slower than we should have been. An obviously frustrated driver honked his horn behind which brought out the Sommerville in Deb. She responded and yelled, but quited down once we saw that it was a police cruiser. Nice...

• Everything closes crazy early and it's difficult to find something to eat after 8:00. A lot of the pubs and restaurants stop serving food at 7:00. Of course, the McDonalds, Burger King and Subway were still open. I'd love to punch that Subway Jared kid right in his Terryaki Chicken Sub filled belly.

• When you drive through the country you see sheep and lamb everywhere. After a long tour through the North Coast we finally found a place to sit and eat. While I was reading the menu I reflected on the cute little animals and thought about the cruelty in slaughtering them for my nourishment and enjoyment. I actually felt a little remorseful. In any event the roast leg of lamb was delicious, albeit a bit bland (see point 2.)

• We toured the Bushmills factory which is the oldest licensed distillery in the world. The tour was cool and the tasting was even better. I tried their Anniversary Whisky and was surprised as I usually don't enjoy Irish Whisky, but it was very tasty. There is definitely an aspect of enjoyment that comes form the surroundings you're in. I tried the Anniversary Whisky when I got back to the hotel last night and it was terrible. It tasted like fermented barley, water and yeast...Gross!

I'm off to work, but we're heading south toward Dublin and Galloway today. More to come...

Home at Last, Home at Last. Thank God Almighty, I'm Home at Last!

I'm finally home, but not before a marathon of a day consisting of meetings and a demo just before noon. Some of the Brits took a colleague and I to a pub for a few laughs, farewells and follies. This is never a good idea because it's very easy to drown a few pints in a matter of forty minutes or so. Not that this is a problem as it was a pleasant time, but far more pleasant than the ride to Heathrow with a bladder full of once proper English ale, now transformed through the digestive process into Miller Lite. I was in traffic, teary eyed, uncomfortable and dancing in my seat. I actually thought of putting my iPod to justify my "pee pee" dance to the driver.

I had a bit of a dilemma as I was on the same flight home with the CIO of my company. I knew she was sitting in business class, but somehow through mileage point status, I had been upgraded to first class. How should I deal with this? Should I be gracious and insist switching places , or should I wish her well in the lower class seats and politely ask her and the ruffians in her section to keep it down? My fears cooled when I discovered that American Airlines eliminated First class on their transatlantic flights, but a new problem emerged. I now was blessed with a seat next to my very senior, very intelligent, and very important mentor. What if I fell asleep and drooled all over her? would I be able to watch Sponge Bob on the in-flight entertainment, or worse, what if I watched a movie and they showed a booby or something? If I had to relieve myself in any way, would I have to sit in discomfort until we travelled the 3,000 plus miles home? What if she was behind me in customs and what if they checked my bags? This is exactly why mom insisted I keep my underwear clean.

In all seriousness, it ended up being a very enjoyable. We got a little work done and discussed my career aspirations. I had a couple of cocktails and relaxed. It was a long flight made short by a developing friendship. I also had the benefit of piggy backing on her status and had a limo ride back to my house, which was, as my luck would have it, was witnessed by absolutely no one. Remember that scene in Aurthur where Liza Minnelli had the chauffeur wait until Ms. Litman, her neighbor could see her come out of the Rolls Royce?

I had a great welcome home by the family, and received many kisses, especially from the dogs which seemed appropriate because after such a long day we shared similar breath. After the hellos and dispensing the gifts Deb and started toward bed and I got my first taste of being home. For the first time in two weeks I had to wait for the bathroom and ended up "conking" out on the bed, half dressed, teeth un-brushed and without relieving myself of the technically imported liquid again holed up in the aforementioned bladder.

I slept deeply, but dreamed about being back in the car to the airport until I forced myself to get up and wander into the bathroom. peeing the bed on the first night home would not have impressed the missus.

I did my duty and finally brushed transforming my Johnny Rotten choppers into minty pearly off white teeth. Unfortunately, I was now wide awake and it was only 3:30 in the morning. I thought reading would relax me enough to go back to sleep but decided TV would be much easier. Much to my disappointment, I couldn't find Cricket, Rugby, Darts, Sheep Herding or any of the other English television favorites. I returned to bed only to be awoken by an alarm clock at about 6:30 with Deb asking if I wanted to wake Vanessa up and take her to the chorus field trip she was travelling to at 7:30. Now here's where the whole perspective thing comes into play. From my perspective, I should be given a pass because I have been travelling and I was obviously tired. From Deb's perspective, she has been carrying all of the weight of the house, kids, work, and her schooling and she deserved a break. Recognizing this and the fact it is Valentine's day I did what I thought would be an example for myself and all men. I faked being asleep until she kicked the blankets over, got up, and drove Vanessa to her thing.

I now get to enjoy the trappings of all things home, at least until Friday when I jump back on a plane and head to Ireland for a week. The great thing is that Deb will be coming along. If anyone deserves the break and the trip, it's her. I imagine Ireland will present itself as a very beautiful place that will inspire much romance. Then will it be her turn to fake it...

Images of London

Westminster Abbey is an awe inspiring place. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get in on Sunday which I found odd, but there's much to see outside with it's incredible architecture, history, and art. One interesting is pictured here. Above one of the entrances there are a number of saints commemorated in sculpture. I was surprised and proud to see an American among the many other historical and religious figures. There in the middle was Martin Luther King Jr. As I looked closer at the statue I couldn't help notice that the pose the artist used to capture him seemed to have him dancing, or it at least appeared that way to me. Never the less, I was impressed just the same.

Later the same day I was walking through Leicester Square when I noticed in front of the National Gallery a bust of George Washington. Again, I thought it strange to see this embodiment of American history and the father of our country in such a spectacularly English location. I did notice, however an apparently English bird, a loyalist if you will, paying his own tribute to old wooden teeth. Uh, George, you've got a little something on your face...

I couldn't help but laugh when I saw this family of four driving through the city. I appreciate people wanting to save on petrol, but seriously folks, what time are you do back at the circus?

Subterranean Homesick Blues

I've been on the road for almost two weeks and I'm dying to get home. Although this has been a very successful trip, admittedly, I'm a little homesick. For eleven days I've had a relationship with my wife by dialing the phone and typing on email.

When I get home I'll mistakenly think "it's all about me" and I'll expect all to smother me with affection. Undoubtedly I'll get hugs and kisses but it won't be long before Deb threatens to douse me with cold water.

Travelling is fun and eating out is cool, but I want a peanut butter sandwich and milk with real hormones and yummy chemicals in it. Is the Salmonella thing still happening back home?

I realize my days of leaving the bed unmade and throwing my clothes on the floor only to come back to the room to find everything neat and tidy are over. Deb has informed me on many occasions that there aren't any house maids at our estate. (Is this a comment about my laziness, or the fact that we can't afford a maid...actually it's all the same, isn't it?)

I want to have a bottle of water that doesn't cost seven dollars American.

I'm tired of flipping through only six channels on the television. I want to be able to not find anything to watch on three hundred channels like we do in America.

I'm eager to get back into my workout routine. I have been getting up to go to the gym in the morning but it's so difficult to pass up "Saved By the Bell The College Years." That Screech kid is a riot.

The people here are great but entertaining is actually work. You always have to be "on" when you're travelling. It's more fun hanging out with friends at home where I can call someone a d*psh*t without fear of repercussions outside of a retaliatory bald joke.

I like and miss the fact that I can just walk into anyone of my neighbors' houses without knocking. I tried that here but it didn't go over well. By the way, the security guys are really gentle here at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The pepper spray is more Pablano than Habanero. It's actually quite refreshing.

I hear myself picking up some of the local dialect. Yeah, I know it's English, but there's a different way of speaking here. I even hear a touch of an English accent although I'm mangling it to death and sound like a "Bloody Wanker. "

The economic situation is very precarious here. I can't wait to get to the financial stability of the U.S.A.

We've done 22 training classes in 10 days and have received good feedback. I wonder if I'll inadvertently give Deb an evaluation form after our date night Saturday?

London weather is London weather. I wan to see the sun, even if the temperature is two degrees.

See you all soon.

Pappy Van Winkle or Sappy Scam Stinkle?

I'm in London at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The hotel and accompanying bar is the type of trendy place that literally has the whole velvet rope thing, keeping the poor and uncool at bay while the beautiful people of London's hip scene dance and Crystal the night away. I have to admit that it's a fun place to stay, and even though I am a guest here, it's quite obvious that I'm a casual observer and not a member of the "in crowd." But that's not what this posting is about and it's not what I'm about.

What I am about is friendship. Long enduring friendships that are meant to last a lifetime. I keep in contact with my old buddy Eddie Nowick who's father and mine went to high school together. My friend Bert and I speak to each other at least a couple of times a week, poking fun at each other, almost brutally, but with enough love to not take offense. If you recall the disgusting childish conversations you had with your buddies when you were in junior high school you'll understand what I mean. Although we've accumulated much in our lives, it's nothing compared to the accumulated and dispensed height, bald, fat, short, fart, poop and pee pee jokes.

I've been blessed once again with an incredible neighborhood that mocks the notion that only old friends endure. Mark and Michelle, Tim and Margaret, Dave & Christine are more than anyone could ask. And when I thought the neighborhood wouldn't or couldn't get better, along came Matt and Jess and of course Jen and Geoff. But this isn't what this post is about.

What this post is about is whisky and a mystery, at least it's a mystery to some. You see our neighborhood seems to go through trends. First it was beer. I recall a certain someone walking down the street with a stainless steel bucket filled with Coronas so cold that the condensation from the bucket would drip as he "tip toed" down the street. Drinking beer, making beer, and trotting through the falling snow to catch some of the 99 cent Guinesses at the Barley Pub, we enjoyed the brew and enjoyed each other. Then it was Martinis; Gin, Vodka, cappuccino flavored, it didn't matter. For months we had half filled jars of olives filled with pimentos, almonds, horseradish and anything else that would allow us to experiment with different flavors. You have to understand that it's less about the alcohol and more about the excuse, and I mean any excuse to hang out together. It's the neighborhood you see in old movies. Classic, and the classics never die.

Over the past number of years it has been bourbon. One family is "Sieked" about Knob Creek, another "Debellowed" about the merits of Wild Turkey, while another always seemed to be "Holting" a Jim Beam (Sorry about the lame attempt at humor, I realize it's not "punny.") This trend seems to have lasted, but I'm sure Scotch is not far away.

One day I was driving back from the airport and stopped at Kappy's on Route 1. I looked at the bourbon selection and noted a particularly interesting bottle with an old dude with a cigar that looked like what I suppose I'll end up looking like later, or sooner in life. It was more expensive than I would offer and I politely passed, but I was intrigued and had non buyers remorse. A few months later I found myself in Singapore at a cigar bar that featured this rare amber libation, and I tasted and I experienced it with a fine Cuban cigar.

Upon returning home, I told my buddies about Pappy's and I was told that the distillery apparently stopped producing it and that it had become rare, expensive and coveted. Being the easy sale I am, and always loving a challenge, I jumped online the next day found a website, and called the distillery. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they still make the bourbon, but only in very small batches. After calling a few places the distillery recommended and visiting a few more, I decided to go to the source of all bourbon. For those of you who do not know, it's Kentucky. This is where, and only where bourbon is produced. Did I call another distributor, liquor store or bar? No. I called my favorite, non swearing, non R rated movie viewing, and non drinking Christian friend Byron. Another most excellent friend, he enthusiastically did the leg, found our friend and asked his beautiful wife to do the purchasing, towel and bubble wrapping of not one, but two bottles of the amber treasure.

The anticipation grew on the street, which was made worse by the "Pappy Van Winkle Song" sung in high falsetto at every given moment. I'm embarrassed to say that even the kids got the goofy jingle stuck in their heads. With much debate and discussion, one wonders if we have over thought and over heightened our expectations. Will it be the best bourbon? Will we be let down? I got a glimmer this evening as the trendy place I'm staying at offers the very whisky you're reading about. I have to tell you that I was stunned to see it and taste it. It was unbelievable. Does that mean good, bad, average? I'm not saying.

In the coming weeks or months, the boys and hopefully girls and members of the "Friends of Florence Street will gather, eat, drink, and taste. Only then will the mystery of this posting's title be revealed. So stay tuned kids; Same Pappy time, same Pappy channel. Cheers!

Tony Bennett's Smarter Than He Looks

I indeed left my heart and maybe a small portion of my liver (kidding) in San Francisco. What a fantastic city! I can't wait for the opportunity to get back and explore a little more. Here's a few general comments and observations from a weary traveller who enjoyed the 2.5 days in The City By The Bay:First, speaking of the Bay, I never really saw it, and apparently there's some famous bridge in San Francisco, but again it eluded me. No worries, I'll pay attention to the Tobin when I get home. How much different could it be?

San Francisco is a very crowded city and has some very interesting buildings like the Transamerica building pictured here. It seems like a nice place, but architecturally I don't get the point of it...

San Francisco has a huge Asian population that is the largest in the U.S. I believe, but to be honest with you if you've seen one Chinatown you've seen them all. The weird thing was an hour after I visited this one I felt like I hadn't and wanted to visit it again. One other thing; we were referred to this supposedly great Chinese restaurant, and yes, it was good, but to be honest it looked and tasted no different than the stuff you get at the old August Moon, Kowloon's, or Lucky Garden.

Speaking of food, San Francisco has a great Italian section in North Beach. It's your usual parade of restaurants, bakeries and coffee bars. If you ever come here, you absolutely need to go to Molinari's Deli. This place has been in business for a hundred years and probably doesn't look that different from the day they opened. They have great meats, breads and they even make their own Buffalo Mozzarella. Yesterday I had a sandwich ( Parma Prosciutto, Copa, Sun Dried Tomatoes, Buffalo Mozzarella, and Olive Oil) that if I weren't already married I would have dropped to my knee and proposed immediately. As you can see by the picture, I was simply awestruck by it's sheer yumminess.

Another must see and stop is the Vesuvio Cafe. A classic old bar opened in the 40's and played host to Jack Karouac and much of the Beats. Great decor, great classic drinks, and great people. I was in San Fran for three evenings and I managed to get to the Vesuvio each night.

San Francisco being the eclectic place it is, you can be sure that you'll meet some interesting characters, and I certainly did.

I have have to catch a plane. the next post will be coming from London, and I have a growing list of things to write about pertaining to travelling in First or Business class. I have to tell you that these are the most uninspiring, nasty, needy, lecherous, and entitled people ever.

Coolness? Fade To Black

It appears to this writer that my status and days as the "Cool Dad" are numbered and dwindling, much like the follicles of my life. Like many of you I have tried to maintain a close relationship with my kids, but I've always tried to do things that moved us beyond the father son/daughter thing. This has been increasingly difficult. The harsh reality is that the once regarded funny guy that the kids lived with is now corny, goofy and quite embarrassing. Qualities Deb has endured for quite some time. I just don't think they get the complexities of my sophisticated comical stylings. "Pull my finger."

Recently, I took Zachary and a few of his buddies to see a triple bill of The Sword, Machine Head, and Metallica. Now, I'd like to be able to tell you that this altruistic gesture was purely for the benefit and development of Zach and his friends, but the truth is, which Deb was quick to point out, that I wanted to go. Me wanting to go to a concert? Not much of a stretch.

When we hit the road Zach plugged in his iPod and said, "Dad, you don't mind if we play some of our music?" This referring to the music they like, not their own original work. I laughed when the next few selections came on which included Zeppelin, PearlJam, Van Halen and of course, Metallica. I couldn't help myself and turned down the music to ask, "Why do you think this stuff is your music and not mine?" They responded by telling me that the music they hear around the house isn't "Crunchy." My cool dad status immediately soared when I informed them that I had seen everyone of these bands including Led Zeppelin. They asked where I had seen Zeppelin to which I told them that they played at Live Aid in 1985. Cool dad crash! "Whoa! How old are you anyway?" 1985? They made it sound more like 1885.

Once we got to the show I was quickly reminded of what a Metallica crowd looks like. Picture the largest shop class ever assembled. A sea of faded blue jeans and black T shirts. The whole place smelled like stale beer, dope, and B.O. As we walked on, all of us in faded blue jeans and black shirts and hit our seats. You should have seen the looks I got from the boys when I handed out the ear plugs I purchased. "What are these for?" "They're ear plugs. They're for your ears!" "They look like suppositories, dude!" Apparently it's difficult to be cool with fluorescent yellow marshmallows sticking out of your ears. "Hey, it beats hair sticking out." Uh, dad, you've got that too."

Metallica finally came on and played a blistering set. The four silver coffins suspended from the ceiling were a little silly ala' Spinal Tap, but they can still shred. During the song "One", I found myself really getting into it and started a little fist pumping and I actually yelled out. this caught Zach's attention as he peered at me with a look that said, "Take it down a few notched big guy. We don't want you breaking a hip."

The ride home was long and all of the kids were crashed, sprawled out all over the back seat. Finally I had the iPod to myself and played the music of my generation, you know, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, and Otis Redding. I drove home feeling pretty cool. The Fonz of father hood, but I have no doubt Zach will, at least temporarily look at me as "Potsie.'

"Potsie, what the hell is a Postie? How old are you, dude?"