A Tradition Unlike Any Other

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who cherishes a crisp, clear autumn day almost as much as a fine bowl of steaming clam chow-dah. I'm that Tired Guy, thrilled the Autumn Confluence is finally upon us.

Oh yes, the Fall season heralds to the world some of humankind's greatest creations.

No, I'm not talking about cheerleaders, although they are a close second.

I'm talking about playoff baseball.

And football.

Basketball.

And hockey.

Oh my!

From an early age, I've been fascinated with sports. Growing up in Massachusetts I really didn't have a choice. Between the dynasty that had hoisted 16 banners, the black and blue bruisers on skates, the Minute Men wearing shoulder pads or the snake-bitten boys of summer I had a wealth of entertainments from which to choose.

I blame both my dad and grandfather.

For years my dad picked up Doug and me on a Sunday morning, drive an hour or so through fifteen different towns until we arrived just before lunch time at my grandparents' house in Sharon. After dispensing with the customary pleasantries and family traditions that included the obligatory "How are you doing in school?" interrogation from my grandmother, some really bad yet normally clean jokes provided by my grandfather and a gruff grunt of greetings from our ever loquacious uncle, my brother and I would descend like locusts upon my grandmother's pantry and refrigerator with murderous intent.

(Ah, how I love the run on sentence! And that's what's so funny! I just fell victim to one of the classic blunders - the most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia". But only slightly less well known is this: "Never go against proper grammar when food is on the line"!)

Armed with my grandmother's homemade iced tea that never quite tasted the same each time we drank it, Doug and I happily dove into the glorious feast set before us. Gorged upon cold cuts, egg or bulkie rolls, cheese, mustard, mayo, Pringles chips, the occasional pickle and, of course, a bowl of Lipton's ring noodle soup we then retired to the living room. The area was spartan at first impression, a long couch set against the equally long window separated by a coffee table and small love seat and anchored on one end by a squat color television and the other by my grandfather's recliner. Sprinkled throughout were small frames on mantles or end tables bearing fond memories of the past: young cheerful gap-toothed grins and curly-haired curmudgeons from days long gone.

And there we gathered, each taking our accustomed places as decreed by the unwritten Hartog Accords passed down through the ages since Sports began. Our attentions were focused upon the colored face of the wooden box from which sound and light issued forth bearing news of the heroic deeds performed by mighty Titans known as Bird and Grogan, Evans and McHale, Hasselbeck (will bring us back!) and Rice.

For hours we were transfixed by their adventures, hearts upon our sleeves as we all glared, cajoled, cried, shouted and cheered our heroes to victory. At some point my father would retire to his basement room for a nap, both my grandfather and I nodded off, he upon his chair and me stretched out on the couch with a novel loose in my hands leaving Doug the sole custodian of the television and the ultimate responsibility of pulling for the good guys.

Hours passed and we'd all awaken refreshed, ready to finish the final two acts of our Sunday.

The first would be the choice of dinner, ranging anywhere from D'Angelo subs to KFC buckets to Canton House chinese food to the ultimate delicacy: Town Spa pizza!

What a wicked game you play
To make me feel this way
What a wicked thing you do
To make me dream of you

Arguably the finest pizza I have ever tasted, small circular shells of finely crafted cheese and sauce, dough and love. Oh how I miss thee Town Spa! My grandfather would drive us to the old pizza joint, and we'd go to the bar next door to play some pinball while we waited for our order to be ready. After a few tries at the old pinball machine achieving scores in the high five to six hundreds, we'd scurry quickly back to Town Spa. In the small antechamber that housed the designated takeout area patrons would mill about all anxious to carry the cardboard treasures home to their respective families. When the name "Harry!" was brazenly announced from the kitchen like the clarion cry of a thousand trumpets my grandfather swept forward triumphantly and laid claim to our prize. Homeward bound, the car's interior was engulfed by the delicious blended aromas of italian spices, melted cheese, tomato sauce, hamburger and mushrooms.

(Editor's Note: The Town Spa pizza to which I refer is circa 1989 and earlier before they moved the restaurant to Washington Street. After that, the pizza was decent enough...but never quite captured the essence of the original.)

Back at my grandparents' house the poor pizzas met their timely demise amidst discussions of the earlier games and the usual outcry of non-mushroom lovers (and you know who you are!) mercilessly castigating my grandfather and I for adoring such a delicacy adorning our pizza.

Once the last piece disappeared, it was time for the Final Act of our Sunday: cribbage.

Some would describe this merely as a card game.

But to us...ohhhhhhh this was all about blood, guts and glory!

We competed in earnest, I with my lucky pillow in my lap, Doug seated upon the coffee table, and my grandfather nestled in the corner of the couch. We kept a running tally of wins for posterity...and bragging rights. There would be the familiar jokes and jabs, clever plays and setups and from time to time the triumphant exclamation from my grandfather when the points in the crib exceeded those in his hand as he gleefully moved his peg around the cribbage board.

In the end Doug and I learned strategy, math, gamesmanship and sportsmanship.

And above all that, we simply enjoyed spending time with family.

Many years have passed since those halcyon days. There's a lot less hair on the dome, and thin silver threads have grown where none had been seen before. I now have two little boys whose adventures are just beginning, and don't think I won't be teaching them how to play cribbage when they're old enough to learn.

Those lost Sundays resonate within me still and while the longing for Town Spa pizza and a few rounds of cards may have diminished with distance and time, the cherished memories spending Sundays with my Dad and grandparents will never disappear.

With Apologies to Andy Rooney

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who hasn't written a darn thing in this space in over a month. I'm that Tired Guy whose creativity ebbs and flows with my mood and stress level.

In other words, I've been distracted.

Writers block is like a dam against which my creativity struggles and breaks. I can feel its energy, an unbridled enthusiasm coupled with an intense yearning to put to words my thoughts and feelings and ideas.

My writing is fractured at times, like a glass pane shattered into thousands of scintillating fragments. I can sew together a brilliant tapestry rife with color and sound one night, and barely string together two coherent sentences the next.

I guess that's why I don't do it for a living.

So tonight's piece is probably going to ramble in all kinds of directions. I've been focused on introspection lately, but that kind of exploration gets repetitive after awhile. Instead, I think I'll just make random comments on some random thoughts that I randomly thought about recently.

In other words, here comes a rant.

Sorry folks.

What ever happened to consideration? Is it so gauche to hold the door open for people? Better yet, why is it such a difficult act to allow an obviously pregnant lady through a door first rather than just bull your way forward?

I believe one of the worst things to happen to Western Civilization was when society and fashion decided men should no longer wear hats. I'm not talking baseball caps, but actual chapeau from the 20s. Maybe I'm not seeing it, but society seemed more inclined toward politeness when men wore hats.

We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
'Cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine

I've heard some women say they don't want men to hold doors open for them. Apparently it's emasculating...to a woman. Something about power, equality that sort of thing. I've got no problem with that. But I subscribe to the belief that chivalry isn't dead. It's simply been misplaced by the "me" culture. Fast food, in-your-face, it's all about the way I want it and you can kiss my finely sculpted Calvin Kleins if you don't like it.

How many times have you been locked in traffic, you let some car merge ahead of you and the driver doesn't even bother to acknowledge your gesture. Oh I bet they'd acknowledge some other signs though right? A strategically placed bird right where their rear view window can catch it usually does wonders for one's complexion. Apoplexy is totally out girlfriend. Road rage is the new red!

Signs, signs everywhere there's signs
Blockin' up the scenery, breakin' my mind
Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign

Wow, am I really that petty?

Nah. But it does piss me off more often than not.

Consideration people! Is it that hard to give?

Apparently so.

I was taught to treat people as I would like to be treated. Maybe I'm just too nice? Oddly enough, seeing this kind of negative behavior motivates me to be nicer, more considerate. If there's a cosmic balance then I better dump a whole lot of kindness, compassion and courtesy into the other bucket to offset the general stupidity I see on a daily basis.

Sadly I don't subscribe to the "me" network.

I'm an "us" kind of guy.

The further on I go, oh the less I know
I can find only us breathing
Only us sleeping
Only us dreaming
Only us

I'm not directing anyone to be anything. My blog is not a recipe for salvation, a road map of ideas or a commentary on the soul's weather vane. But I would point out that it's generally "ok" to be courteous, respectful, kind, sometimes generous, forgiving, considerate and even a little nice once in awhile.

Maybe I need more sleep?

Just put me in a wheelchair
Get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry
Before I go loco
I can't control my fingers
I can't control my toes
Oh no no no no no

G'night folks.

Freeze This Moment A Little Bit Longer

I'm that Tired Guy, the one craving fried whole-bellied clams, fries, a chocolate shake (with heaping scoops of ice cream), mozzarella sticks and a clam chow-dah. I'm that Tired Guy who would sing off-key to nearly all the songs on the Indigo Girls' first album with his buddy Wayne while speeding along the back roads of Ashland and Westborough on the way to Harry's.

I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life after all
Yeah

I'm an autumn kind of guy, but there's one summer that remains indelibly etched upon my memory.

Twenty years ago was the summer of 1989, a time that saw the return of everyone's favorite fedora-wearing adventurer, the resurrection of the caped crusader and a farm transformed into a baseball heaven. The decade of decadence was crawling inexorably to a close, and I had just completed my first year at Brandeis University. There was D&D at Dave's house, volleyball at Mike's house, Axis & Allies at Bill's house and cards at Sean's house. There were the Holliston girls, a Spanish foreign exchange student living at my house, candlepin bowling by the incinerator and of course, the "Diner at the End of the Universe."

I had a job, a car, a beautiful girlfriend.

I had youth, energy, copious time.

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you
Even when I know you're wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance
Five hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me

But most importantly, I had my mother.

My mother loved all of my friends equally, treating them as if they were her own. She had a way about her that encouraged laughter, a sweet disposition that was beyond contagious.

Honestly, I think she could talk the paint off of walls.

My brother Doug would tell you how much she aggravated the crap out of him, constantly needling him with questions about his comings and goings, his erstwhile romances, of friends and destinations, classes,virtually anything. "Grouch" was my brother's nickname for her, and he even purchased a small green plush Oscar the Grouch toy for her, a small window into Doug's very subtle sense of humor. Yet there would always be a mischievous gleam in his eye when he'd respond to her questioning, recognizing the dance and never taking the lead.

And he wasn't alone. Somehow she'd manage to choose the one part of the day when Doug and I were battling it out on Sega hockey or soccer to come downstairs and want to chat. As if we cared? Couldn't she see we were engaged in a massive conflict of epic proportions? Bragging rights were at stake, and she wanted to play the 20 Questions game?

Years later I understand and appreciate it more clearly. The substance of those questions were irrelevant. So too was the inquisitive barrage, nothing more than a feint, a calculated ruse to mask her true intentions. In truth, she was trying to impart to her sons a meaningful lesson about life one that encompassed an emotional connection, of togetherness, and of family.

Whether we recognized it then or not, my mother was teaching us the vital importance of just being there.

Let me fill your heart with joy and laughter
Togetherness, well that's all I'm after
Whenever you need me, I'll be there
I'll be there to protect you
With an unselfish love that respects you
Just call my name
And I'll be there

I credit my mother for encouraging my penchant toward creativity and writing. She was the one who'd drag me to Lauriat's Bookstore at Shoppers World and instruct me to pick out a book or three. And there I'd stand, enthralled by the wondrous shelves brimming with unexplored worlds ripe for conquest. From Tolkien to Moorcock, Anthony to Brooks, Alexander to Donaldson my mother made certain I would storm out of that magical store with bag in hand anxious to go home. Once there I would fly down the wooden steps two at a time to the basement bedroom Doug and I shared intent upon tearing through page upon page soaking up the far flung adventures of Frodo and Elric, Bink and Allanon, Taran and Thomas Covenant.

I recall a specific day (and there were many of these) long before the summer of '89 when I was grounded for doing something stupid, forgetful, ungrateful, disrespectful...whatever my illustrious step father deigned to dub me. Downtrodden and beaten emotionally, I loitered about the living room aimless, like a leaf caught in a soft breeze. My step father was away on business, but I wasn't allowed to leave the house.

She had smiled at me.

"I have an errand to run," she had said winking conspiratorially. "And I need you to come with me."

And then I remember leaving my confinement and arriving at that magical of bookstores. Soon enough we returned home flushed and triumphant, the blue Dungeons & Dragons Expert (tm) boxed set clutched in my little hands. Oh such treasure!

"It'll be our secret," she had whispered as she hugged me close.

I still have that boxed set on my bookshelf in the basement downstairs and every time I glance at it a sly smile crinkles my lips.

Little things like that can make all the difference in the world to a young, impressionable child.

The summer of 1989 saw many things: a duet that lip-synched their songs, the start of a Bush administration, an ecological nightmare in Alaska, bloodshed at Tiananmen Square, an earthquake at the World Series and the beginnings of the end of the Cold War.

But I'll never forget how alive I felt that year.

And yet...it's bittersweet.

As the summer of '09 slowly wanes, I recall fondly that other time 20 years ago, of friends now grown and gone their separate ways, and of how I was once on top of the world. Yet most of all I remember my mother, hale and whole, proud of her two sons and eager to see where their own adventures would take them in the days to come.

Kirk was right, as usual. "Of all the souls I have met in my travels, [hers] was the most...human."

Of the depth and breadth of my love for her, these poor words scrawled here cannot properly describe. My mother let my brother and I be ourselves, a gift beyond measure. She never asked for anything in return other than our love and affection. And while I clumsily make my own attempt to bring color and depth to her memory, suffice it to say a bright light left this world the day her music died in the autumn of 1994.

Hold The Pickles

I'm that Tired Guy, the one who admires both sunrise and sunset and never grows weary of Nature's beautiful wash of violet, crimson and gold. I'm that Tired Guy who was once afloat in a clear ocean as the undulating waves gently rolled away the cares of the world.

Our honeymoon to Aruba will forever remain with me. As Traci lay upon her chair reading her book, I had entrusted to her my glasses and then trudged wearily toward the water. 2006 had been a very trying year and 2007 hadn't started off all that well either. Other than the upcoming wedding in April the burdens of my past, both financially and emotionally, had taken their toll and we had needed relief. So there we were, Traci nestled comfortably beneath a tiki umbrella curled up with her novel, and me floating aimlessly in the blue.

Looking down on empty streets
All she can see
Are the dreams all made solid
Are the dreams all made real
All of the buildings
All of those cars
Were once just a dream
In somebody's head

Oh, I'm not much of a swimmer. And without my glasses, I'm as blind as can be.

But I wasn't interested in seeing.

I needed something more subtle.

More intangible.

More elusive.

I needed hope.

By that point of time I had lived in Georgia for nearly 13 years. Prior to April 14th, I had been married twice, held three jobs, dug my way out of debt only to foolishly fall right back in, and watched my mother wither and die at an intolerable distance. I was exhausted. No, that's not accurate. I was tired, bone weary and empty.

And I hurt.

When the day is long
And the night, the night is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of this life
Well hang on.
Don't let yourself go
Everybody cries
And everybody hurts sometimes.

There had been plenty of moments when I could have given up, packed the camels and trudged back north.

But I hadn't.

I had stayed on, kept the house, paid the bills, accepted my mistakes but wallowed in guilt nonetheless. You'd think a boy living in Ashland and growing up in an angry household where you and your brother were constantly told you weren't any good, you weren't smart, you were nothing might throw in the towel.

Maybe I just didn't want to give someone the satisfaction that they had beaten me. After all, Khan gave Kirk a mere 60 seconds. But we all saw what a resourceful man can do with a little bit of time and a prefix code.

Sadly no. I'm no hero.

In retrospect, it was an admixture of fear and a stubborn refusal to quit.

The prospect of packing it all in, selling the house, finding a new job, turning my back upon the last decade and then some to head home, worn out and defeated was not appealing. But even more so, the reality of doing all that deeply frightened me. I'm a creature who craves consistency, in life, at work, with my friends and family. I can handle change, albeit not very well, but I muddle through nonetheless.

Yet somehow I knew there had to be more, that I hadn't made all those choices just to end up a burned out husk wondering why and how and the unfairness of it all.

I was right.

And then I run til the breath tears my throat
Til the pain hits my side
As if I run fast enough
I can leave all the pain and the sadness behind
I love to feel the rain in the summertime

Despite everything, even my predilection toward worrying about situations over which I have absolutely no control, my time in exile had finally witnessed deliverance.

Thank you Traci. I love you more than soup.

Floating in the healing waters surrounding Aruba, I had found myself again. My body enveloped by a warm cocoon of soothing calm, I had stared off toward the horizon and can honestly say I had never been more relaxed. The wreckage of my mind had slowly cleared, like midnight's veil lifting to reveal the dawn of a new day. Hope restored, I had made a vow to overcome the many travails before me, before us. Armored with the strength of love and conviction I could finally release the accumulated years of frustration and pain that had been crippling me. It was time to move on, face the challenges both old and new, and take them on one by one. Invigorated, I left the cleansing ocean a new man full of purpose.

These are days
These are the days you might fill
With laughter until you break
These days you might feel
A shaft of light
Make its way across your face
And when you do
Then you'll know how it was meant to be
See the signs and know their meaning
It's true
Then you'll know how it was meant to be
Hear the signs and know they're speaking
To you, to you

Of course, our honeymoon eventually ended and in rode reality on a pale horse. We returned home to face the problems we refused to pack, and only ourselves to rely upon. But as Jon Bon once said, we had each other and that's a lot.

Heck, that's more than enough most days.

Now some of you might be saying you've heard my sorry song before. I submit I'm no philosophical savant breaking new ground with powerful introspective visions. Perhaps I'm trolling through another rendition of "Woe is me" and "See how I'm better off now" and all that rot.

And you'd be right.

However that's the point of this space. I'm really just a regular guy trying to understand an irregular world. Am I out to solve the mysteries of the universe?

Maybe so, because everyone knows by now it's all about the sandwich.

Ultimately, my next sandwich might use the same bread, the same condiments (ribbed for her pleasure!), the same deli meat.

Except pickles.

My brother once ate an entire plate of pickles at a bar mitzvah because he was bored. No sandwich. Just the pickles.

He's a very wise man.

Life According To Billy

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who would listen to _Songs In The Attic_ in its entirety every night freshman year just to make certain I didn't miss a single lyric.

Ahhhh Billy. Standard issue at Brandeis back in the day. I owe my entire fan-dom to three very dear friends: Sean, who took me to see one of his shows at the Centrum in '89 where we sat waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay in the back; Andy, who I am certain knows every lyric to every Billy Joel song and could probably recite them backward or forward; Bruce, who put up with me visiting his dorm room every night around midnight so I could play a round or two of Arkanoid...and enjoy that very album.

(Ok, so it was a CD. But saying "album" makes me feel cooler, like I grew up in the '80s or something.)

(Which I did.)

Anyway.

What can Billy tell us about life? For one thing, don't marry a super model. Uptown girls got nothing I want.

For another...well let's just take a stroll through some of the music. I might even hum a few bars so cover your ears.

You know those lights
Go bright on Broadway
But that was so many years ago
Before we all lived here in Florida
Before the mafia
Took over Mexico
There are not many who remember
They say a handful still survive
To tell the world about
The way the lights went out
And keep the memory alive

Florida doesn't count as the South, leastwise not to me. So many New Yorkers relocated down there, the state is merely an extension of the Bronx and parts of Long Island. Go visit any restaurant between West Palm Beach and Miami and tell me how many northerners you run into. It's like a freakin' traffic jam I tell youz. Fuggedaboutit!

Ironically in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, my wife is from South Florida...but was born in Philadelphia. I'm not sure which is worse. I'm kidding sweetie! Love you!

Regardless, the 21st Century scoreboard looks like this: Red Sox World Series Wins - 2, Yankees World Series Wins - 0. Keep the memory alive Bambino!

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known
And I believe there is a time
For meditation in cathedrals of our own
Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes
I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us
It's either sadness or euphoria

Some very sobering lyrics there William! Has anyone ever seen their best of times? Have they already passed us by and we didn't realize it? Maybe you've been in a relationship that started out fine, eventually unraveling as you took the left turn at Albuquerque...and she didn't. Well, life isn't black or white but there are times when taking a stand on one side or the other does give you hope for what could happen next. Ultimately, I can only live my life within my own context. The good news is, I don't have to live it alone. If you're fortunate enough to have someone - a friend, a husband or wife, a dog or cat - who understands the real you, then your best times, and your worst times, well it's all part of your own ever-evolving tapestry.

Oh how I wish I learned the piano when I was younger! The music is in my soul, but I can only give voice to it through words. And while at times I might be eloquent, there is nothing more moving than the right chords played the right way at the right time.

Onward...

She comes to me when I'm feeling down
Inspires me without a sound
She touches me and I get turned around

Love is not enough no matter what the poets say. The bonds of friendship are what keep things going. Who do you want at your side when things are bleak? If more than one face comes to mind, count yourself fortunate.

My brother Doug is at the top of my short list. He is arguably the nicest soul I have ever known. Still waters run deep, and there's not a shallow thing about him.

Especially his nose. But that's an entire blog topic by itself.

And Traci. She is my best friend. She cares about me more than I deserve, and quite honestly I cannot imagine life without her.

If friends were currency, I'd be a wealthy man.

We're almost done.

Well I'll never be a stranger
And I'll never be alone
Wherever we're together
That's my home

Our wedding song. 'Nuff said there.

From a town known as Oyster Bay, Long Island
Rode a boy with a six-pack in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west
Of the Rio Grande

Our dreams were a lot bigger when we were younger. As we age, that childish innocence sometimes gets lost along the way. But you know what? It's still there, lurking behind every tasty sip of a Friendly's chocolate Fribble and in every delicious greasy slice of Papa Ginos pizza. There's no reason to lose it. Oh sure, we're all tempered by the days in between. Hell, I've been married three times, lost my mother at an early age and seen my fair share of heart ache and pain.

Despite all that I won't let go of my dreams. I may yet become a published author. And when Noah is brought into the world this October, another one of my most precious dreams will be realized. Noah and Benjamin, their laughter will be the sweetest music my ears will ever hear.

So before we end, and then begin
We'll drink a toast to how it's been
A few more hours to be complete
A few more nights on satin sheets
A few more times that I can say
I've loved these days

Me too Billy. Me too.

G'night folks.

You Want Fries With That?

I'm that Tired Guy.

I wonder where the time flew and how I could miss it, yet refuse to wear a watch. If philosophy were a hamburger, then make mine a double mushroom swiss with a dash of ketchup and a big ole chocolate shake. Cholesterol simply reminds us we're human. So do taxes, late charges and the occasional speeding ticket.

And the smile of my son.

It's indescribable, the feelings engendered by the simplest of expressions. I adore my child. He is the best boy in the world. He's better than yours.

He could kick the snot out of your honor student.

Twice.

He doesn't swear. He has perfect manners. He employs proper grammar and punctuation with every scribble and scrawl of the crayon.

In a word, my son is perfect.

Of course my son is also seventeen months old, began walking three weeks ago, and drools about as much as I do. Oh, and I'm his dad so I'm biased.

He's a clean slate in nearly every sense of the word. Each new experience is like the dawning of a new age for him. His happiness is genuine, contagious, pristine like the fall of fresh snow on a winter's eve.

And who hasn't dreamed of innocence lost, when we too were that age, so pure, so free?

We spotted the ocean
At the head of the trail
Where are we going
So far away?
Somebody told me
This is the place
Where everything's better
And everything's safe

Suddenly you wake up one day, gaze at the mirror and realize the enormous distance between now and then. Maybe it's the streaks of gray? Perhaps the receding hairline? After all, grass doesn't grow on a busy street! How about those extra pounds? Or the care lines at the corners of your eyes each one a distinct reminder of some critical event that shaped and molded your tangled skein like clay on the potter's wheel?

How did we get here?

Well we know where we're goin'
But we don't know where we've been
And we know what we're knowin'
But we can't say what we've seen
And we're not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain
Give us time to work it out

Some say we're a "been there / done that" society. If it isn't the latest, greatest, gaudiest, priciest, biggest, baddest or best...est...then who really cares? You can thank Reagan for that. Oh, and some guys named Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Barbarino, George Lucas, the Fonz, Jell-O Pudding, CD players, the microchip, Madonna, Bush, Clinton, the grunge movement, promiscuous 30-somethings living in New York with no real job or source of income, a show about nothing, the Internet, George Lucas again. On and on.

We really did start the fire.

Face it people, Elvis is dead along with Morrisson, Dillinger, Ed McMahon and Michael Jackson. All that's left are the memories.

And their music.

Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house we're born
Into this world we're thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out of role
Riders on the storm

But then there is my son. And despite the gray of the world, war in the Middle East, swine flu, economic upheaval and whether Paula will stay on American Idol next season, he's my McDonald's french fries.

Who says fast food is bad for you?

G'night folks.

I Said Lunch Not Launch

I'm that Tired Guy, the square peg in the round hole confined to an office surrounded by round pegs. I'm that Tired Guy who stares sightlessly from his fourth floor office window daydreaming about the past.

The past.

Every day we're standing in a time capsule
Racing down a river from the past
Every day we're standing in a wind tunnel
Facing down the future coming fast

Time is inexorable, a companion to some, a predator to others (thanks for the pearls Professor Soran and Captain Picard) and omnipresent. The clock starts ticking the moment we draw our first breath. Life is the greatest measure of Time. If you're constantly looking ahead, the past will forever remain behind. But it's always there, right at the edge of your vision, like a false dawn.

Ironic that the past can be present eh?

But what about the future? What's there?

"Only what you take with you," Yoda replied cryptically.

Oh yes, ultimate zen from the master himself.

If we are the sum total of our experiences, then carry lots of spare cash 'cause airlines will have a field day when you check your bags.

Now forward-thinkers, these are people who carefully craft their vision, stay focused upon it, never letting it dip or dim or dither. They chase after it like a thirsty man seeking water in a trackless desert. A voracious desire to challenge, strive, achieve, succeed.

Wish I could say I was one of them. If that were the case, I wouldn't work for an insurance company. I'd be something else. Somewhere else. Someone else.

Truth is after all a moving target
Hairs to split, and pieces that don't fit
How can anybody be enlightened?
Truth is after all so poorly lit

Geddy Lee makes a good point. Reality is perception, not the other way around. Regardless, I'm supposed to be the master of my domain (and the king of the castle!). Only I possess the ability to see through my eyes. That's my brain working back there, at least most days it is. Yet I wear glasses because my vision is faulty. I'm near-sighted with an astigmatism. My glasses enable me to avoid walls and driving off the nearest cliff, but the only eyewear powerful enough to prevent bad decisions is experience.

How Aristotlean of me, n'est ce pas?

It's just the age
It's just a stage
We disengage
We turn the page.

Wisdom comes from bad experience. Still if you constantly make the right choices, do you ever really become smarter? Besides, no one likes perfection unless it's in baseball (fraggin' Super Bowl XLII). And even in baseball, variety is key.

"Don't try to strike everybody out," Crash declared emphatically. "Strikeouts are boring! Besides that, they're fascist. Throw some ground balls - it's more democratic."

As for truth, well there are always three sides to every story - yours, hers and somewhere in between lies the actual truth. Yet who can see it? Can you? Can I?

And another irony. The truth lies...somewhere.

But I digress.

We may be faulty creations. Our vision at times, clouded. But therein lies our individual greatness. Are the vast majority of us destined to remain lemmings as Sting once said, trapped in shiny metal boxes? Who wants to be like that?

Everyone possesses the ability to be greater than they are. To be exceptional, go beyond the truth, shed light upon a darkened world, rise above mediocrity. Look to the future, plan ahead, be smart, conquer your fear. Stick to your guns, because not everyone will agree with you. Gather allies, as there's no such thing as having too many friends. When you get knocked down, dust yourself off, pick yourself up and get back on that damn horse with no name.

Don't settle.

And when all else fails, turn the page.

G'night folks.

Begin At The Beginning

I'm that Tired Guy. You know, the one who thinks he's older than he really is after Life runs him over repeatedly. Kinda like the proverbial grape from Mr. Miyagi's dose of wisdom to Daniel-san: "Walk on left side of road, ok. Walk on right side of road, ok. Walk in middle...[guttural gurgling sound]...squish, just like grape."

Oh but I muddle onward.

Three marriages, one son and another on the way, and I muddle onward. I may be that grape, but apparently I don't know how to quit. My name is a Greek word meaning "Rock." Stubborn as, more like it than not. And I'm a Capricorn to boot!

I like to think of myself as an optimistic realist: I hope for the best, am quite positive about it, but know in my heart of hearts that my expectations are far more hopeful than the actual results. No matter how often I've been stomped into goo because I placed my trust in someone, attempted to solve a financial problem, met a girl and fell in like (love is so overrated sometimes...unless it's with the right one...like Traci, for example...), oh the list goes on.

Oh yes, I'm babbling now. Remember, I'm that Tired Guy. The fellow who will undoubtedly toss as many 80s and 90s music and movie references into his future posts as often as possible...whether they apply to the ramblings or not.

What's playing in the background you ask? Why it's k.d. lang's "Constant Craving". She has such a tremendous set of pipes too. At times the melody is haunting, the kind that carries you along the peaks and valleys of her emotions and all you can do is hang on tight and hope you don't fall away. It's good stuff, and my description is hardly doing it justice.

Maybe a great magnet pulls
All souls toward truth
Or maybe it is life itself
That feeds wisdom
To its youth

Or maybe it's a little sprinkle of both with a touch of emotion, a dash of experience and a pot full of irony?

Isn't it the purpose of blogging to merely type what's on your mind? After all, who is really going to read my drivel anyway?

Ok, I'll probably read it. I'm such a narcissist when it comes to my own writing. I love the ebb and flow of how I craft a passage or paragraph. It's my own form of musical composition, and it can be addictive when I hit the right groove. There's a rhythm, a weft and weave only I can hear and it's probably why I prefer music blathering in the background to help motivate and inspire me.

Another musical nugget that NONE of you will ever get:

Standing in the middle of nowhere
Wondering how to begin
Lost between tomorrow and yesterday
Between now and then
And now we're back where we started
Here we go 'round again
Day after day I get up and I say
I better do it again!

Go ahead and Google that one. You probably don't remember the song, but I do. My uncle bought me a t-shirt from that concert too. Oh how I miss the 80s...like a dog missing a fire hydrant, as a dear friend reminds me from time to time.

Full circle is a part of Life, right? I mean, Elton sang about it in one of my least favorite Disney movies. But I'm more interested in the irony...or the other message...the presence of experiences when combined in one long memory remind us that no matter how dumb the choices we've made...dammit those were OUR choices! And would we do it again differently?

Maybe.

If you had a time machine and could travel back to a period of time along your own lifeline, would you do it? Would you repair a wrong? Would you say the things to a loved one now long gone that you've always regretted you never got to say? Would you ask that girl to the prom rather than the other one (Believe me, this one used to haunt me for a long time)?

If we live our lives swamped by our own regrets, then I think the answer is a simple one.

But honestly, it's never that simple.

Do I regret my life?

I used to...before I met the love of my life...and well before the light of my life came to us in February of 2008. Boy how I regretted my choices. Marrying young, ignoring the signs, letting my dreams wander away through laziness, fear, inaction. Marrying again, more fear, a useless desire to eradicate years of inadequacy only to discover it was all still there.

And finally, redemption in the form of an innocent email from a woman whose capacity for compassion is only surpassed by her love of a little guy curled up in his crib surrounded by stuffed sentinels and the security of a soft blanket.

I no longer regret my life. How could I?

Looking at my son I realize that every scar my soul bears, real or imagined, I would inflict upon myself again and again if I knew that Benjamin (and soon Noah) was at the end of it all.

(Remember, my wife warned all of you reading this that I'm long-winded. If you've survived this long...well let's just say I have a lot more music left to play in the CD changer...kidding!!!)

I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to post in this blog space. Tonight, I'm contemplative. A few nights from now?

You can all blame my wife for hooking me into this blogging thing. If I actually keep up with it, toss out my pennies of wisdom...well that would be a first. You never know though...this could be contagious...and I'm sure there's an ointment for the rash too but consult your doctor first just in case because, well, you never know...

Why a sandwich? Why not? If life were like a box of chocolates, we'd all be diabetics. A sandwich? A bit healthier at the end of the day...and maybe more satisfying.

Each post is like the next sandwich. I should've included some soup here...because...well...it's soup...and...

Some of you get that. The rest of you will figure it out.

G'night folks.