Secure Our Borders!

This country has a real problem. A 2,000-mile unsecured border, where the inhabitants of the neighboring country can just waltz in unchecked. They can then assimilate into communities where they are absorbed and invisible. They are stealing our jobs.

Damn Canadians.

Oh, you forgot about that border? Then look at a map – I am shocked that the residents of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, New York, Michigan, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho & Washington aren’t outraged. The God-forsaken Canadians wither their ‘eh’ accents are milling ‘aboot’ with us born-here Americans. They can’t even speak English correctly!

Something has to be done about this.

I propose an electrified fence reinforced with a moat. In the winter the moat will freeze, so it has to be artificially heated. We have to keep these people out to uphold the integrity of our sovereignty. I also propose a ban on Canadian bacon and hockey. And Molson beer. Cost is no object – who cares what the fence and moat will cost? There are things far more important that money. National security, for example.

Wait, what? You’re telling it’s only the Mexican border you want fortified? You’re good with Ice Farmers infiltrating our country but not those dirty Beaners?

Why?

Is it because they don’t look like us? Is it because they speak a different language? Oh yeah, I forgot – it's because they’re taking our jobs. Good thing no Canadians are doing that. Right, Detroit? I'm sure no Canucks are coming over the bridge from Windsor to work in your factories.

Most likely the reason Mexicans are coming to the U.S. is because their country is such a shithole that they want to come to a better place? That’s probably it. Seems I recall that was the rationale of the Germans, Irish, and Italians who came here around the beginning of the twentieth century, and later, the Cubans and Haitians - the want for a better life.

“Ah, but those people came here legally! Mexicans didn’t!”

Well no shit. I don’t think anyone swam across the Atlantic. European immigrants had to come over on boats. Boats that just so happen delivered them to a processing center on Eliis Island or Key West. In contrast, Mexicans have to wade thru a waist-deep 100-foot wide river to get here.

My point in all this is, one, we are a nation of immigrants. The only “Native” Americans we forced onto reservations after we stole their land. And two, a Mexican wading across the Rio Grande is no less noble in his cause than an Italian taking a steamer to Ellis Island. Both left their homeland for a sight-unseen land and a tacit promise of a better life. Look at it this way – were those Italians all documented when they hit our shore? Uh, no. They crammed into the steerage compartments of whatever boat was sailing west - without papers. Which, by the way, is where the derogatory term "Wops" came from to refer to Italian immigrants. They were undocumented - With Out Papers. They were 'illegally' entering the country.

I know the next argument – “That was a different time! America needed that labor as part of the Industrial Revolution. Mexicans aren’t needed now.”

Tell that to the residents of Brownsville, El Paso and San Diego. And while we’re at it, I bet if you went to El Paso you would find fifth-generation Mexican-Americans whose great-great-great grandfathers, uh, swam across the Rio Grande. They are descendants of illegal immigrants.

So where am I going with all this? Couple of things. One, our history cannot be denied, and two, our country shouldn’t be denied to those who want to come here. While it would be nice to have an orderly, documented, ‘legal’ flow of immigrants to our country, geography simply does not make that possible. We got those two unsecured borders, ya know.

So for anyone who decries what is happening at our southern border while ignoring the northern one is either a racist or a hypocrite. You can’t ‘selectively’ secure only one border, which just happens to be the border with the country with people who don’t look like us or talk like us.

Unless you’re a xenophobe.

Which you are.

Holy Crap I’m Getting Old

I just finished a very interesting weekend. I drove two hours south of Orlando to meet with my 18-year old son and his mom to discuss college. College!

It wasn’t that long ago that I mastered how to change his diaper on a dresser top by holding him in place with my foot as I grabbed a Pampers with my right hand & a body wipe with the left.

And there’s the first slap of reality. It was that long ago. Seventeen years ago in fact. Somewhere in between I went from a wide-eyed new dad trying to understand the world of child-rearing to a mid-fifties aging geezer more concerned about how in the fuck I am going to retire in eleven years than which college my son is going to attend.

Yeah, I know, that last sentence seemed rather self-centered. More concerned about myself than my son? What kind of dad am I for thinking that way?

Well, a pretty good one, if you ask me. Elaboration – Nick is talented. He is at a magnet art school where 87 percent of the graduates receive scholarships. Nick is intelligent. He knows what he likes and what he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to be told what to do anymore…he just needs informed.

And that’s what my role as father has morphed to. I’m an informant.

And I’m good with that. That’s what I should be. I have to, and I do, respect that Nick is now an adult (legally at least), and we are now at a point where he has to make his own decisions. His choice of college is his decision. Of course, there are limitations; he’s not going to Harvard, and that’s where his mom and me enter the picture – a sobering dose of fiscal reality. But it is still his decision. And as he moves on from here, I look forward to a role of taking his phone calls, slipping him a twenty when he needs it, buying him a beer when he wants one, and imparting whatever the hell I have learned on him when he requests it…or even when he doesn’t.

His mom and I had long chats about Nick’s nature and whether he would be able to handle life at a college where he may not be near either one of us. She worries about that. I don’t. Because if that happens; if Nick goes to a school hundreds of miles from either of us, he will be handed daily doses of reality – his clothes won’t clean themselves. Nobody will cook his meals. He will have to do those himself.

And he should. Dude needs to learn – just like I did – that they ain’t shitting when they say to wash white separately. Wearing pink underwear that was white before washing teaches a better lesson than anything him mom or I could impart on him. In short, he has to grow up on his own. I will always love him. I will always be there for him.

But he has to do his own laundry.

On Sunday I met up with some old friends in West Palm Beach to watch the Cleveland Browns lose a football game. The President of the fan club just got married with a baby on the way. The vice president of the club showed up with his wife and two toddlers in tow. They are thirtysomethings with that wide-eyed look of ‘OMG I hope I know what I’m doing here’ on their faces.

That makes me smile. Been there, done that, got the Diaper Merit Badge.

Just don’t blink, guys. They grow up fast.

And the undeniable fact of life is, they grow up exactly when they need to.

A Letter to a Coward

Dear Thief:

Yes, I saw what you did.

When I got back to my car today after my round of golf in Fort Myers, I saw it missing.

And  yes, I am pissed off.

First off, who in the hell gave you the right to take anything off of my car? Keep your fucking hands off my property. Secondly, the magnetic Obama bumper sticker is also my property. You stole it. 

Now I am sure the bumper sticker had no value to you – it’s not like you took it so you could sport it on your car –it’s likely in a trash can somewhere. What is obvious is you didn’t appreciate me exercising my freedom of speech and expression, which is a right in this country, even for those who disagree with you. Especially, in fact, for those who disagree with you.

You are a thief. But moreso, you are a coward. And while I’m at it, you are a nutless, gutless piece of crap unworthy of the freedoms granted to our citizens. Thieves lose those freedoms. You're obviously a Republican, so you cherish those freedoms, remember? It's your party who is railing against Obama because, among other lies your party is purporting, he is taking away our freedoms.

You took away mine. The correct term is irony. Or hypocrite. Both fit.

Now, I am sure you are likely thinking I am overreacting. Perhaps. But it bears repeating – my car and what is on it is none of your fucking business. If you don’t like what I have on it, too fucking bad. Just consider yourself lucky I didn’t witness you taking it. Not that I would have picked a fight. I just would have slashed your fucking tires. We call that frontier justice – you deface my property, I deface yours.

My buddy Mike said to me, when I noticed it missing, ‘Hey, you’re in Republican Country here in Southwest Florida, Jer.’

No. I am apparently in intolerant douchebag country.

Anyway, I hope you got a few seconds of some kind of vicarious thrill out of sticking it to someone who doesn’t share your political views. Enjoy it while you can, because once this country speaks on November 4, your frustration will return when the president in reelected in a landslide.

But you will always be a nutless, gutless thief. 

Remembrance?

I was driving to work the other day. In front of me was a car that had one of those stenciled sayings on the back window. Due to my obsessive habit of tailgating, I got close enough to see the message – “In Memory of (name here), July 12, 1983 – August 27, 2008.”

Now. I have never (thank God) had to bury a child. I cannot comprehend the grief a parent must live with on a daily basis as a result. It has to be a constant, consistent burden that never really ends. My heart goes out to these people for having the fortitude to even get out of bed each morning and face a life that seems so grossly unfair.

But stenciling a reminder of their sorrow the window of their car?

I don’t get that, for a couple of reasons. For one, it just doesn’t seem appropriate. Again, I am not trying to tell anyone how to grieve, but is that a proper method of doing so? I mean, the parent obviously is already ‘in memory of’ the deceased – they sure do not need reminding. Which brings me to the second reason – what are they going after – reminding the rest of the world they lost a child? Is it their intent to let total strangers, like me, know of their unfathomable burden that will beset them the rest of their life?

Why would you even care what I think? I’m just a guy following you too closely on the highway.

Sure, when I saw that message, my first thought was, ‘That poor person,’ but just a couple of seconds later my thought shifted to, what are trying to accomplish with this message?

I am going to try to inject myself into their shoes for a moment. Let’s say my son died tragically. I go through the grieving process – denial, hating God, anger, compromise, then finally acceptance. Now, where would my mind be at after all that? I honestly do not know, but really, about the last thing I would think on doing is stenciling a reminder (to who?) of my loss.

My son’s mother lost her other child tragically to a drug overdose. He was 17. She channeled her grief into action – she took autopsy photos of him to schools and spoke to other 17-year olds on what would happen to them should they follow the same path her son did. I am sure she, by doing so, saved lives. She kept other mothers from the incomprehensible sorrow of having to bury their son or daughter. To me, that was a perfect way of her to express, process, channel…and help.

What does stenciling an epitaph on a window do, other than remind? Isn’t that what gravestones are designed to do? If you want a tangible reminder, why wouldn’t you visit the cemetery or look at the urn on the shelf? Why do you want it sitting there whenever you take the car to Publix to get some milk?

I just don’t understand.

Define Yourself

This is something I’ve been cogitating on for a while.

Who am I? And I don’t mean that on some kind of existential plane; I’m not floating out there on some kind of ether looking for enlightenment. I am on more solid footing with my query. What I mean is, how would you define yourself?

What are you proud of?

What do you want written on your gravestone?

How do want to be remembered?

Give this some thought, and while you do, I am going to give you the list of things I am very proud of with hopes that perhaps it will spur you to think likewise about yourself:

I absolutely, completely love golf. This love affair started when I was ten years old, and it torridly continues 43 years later. And I’m pretty good at it, presently sporting a 5 handicap. I shot a 72 two weeks ago.

Okay, enough bragging. My point for this inclusion is I found my passion early in my life, which, I feel, puts me ahead of the majority of the planet. Having an avenue to pursue your passion is essential in life and many find it in their career. And for those people, great. They probably make a lot more money than I do. But for those people I ask this – what do you do for fun? If work is your passion, doesn’t anything else seem, well, passionless? My point is I am extremely grateful that I found my passion young, and it was in something that I will be able to do for the rest of my life.

I am a yogi! This one is recent; I just started doing yoga less than a year ago, and what an eye-opener it was. I went into it trying to find something to do that involved moving muscles. I needed some kind of exercise in my routine, and the ‘gentleness’ of yoga appealed to me. A Groupon coupon later, and I had ten yoga sessions for thirty bucks. Ten months later and I do it twice a week without fail.

Yoga has changed my life. For many it is a way of life. I’m not to that level, but I am definitely hooked. It is an experience that you always, without fail, come out of feeling better than when you went in. Namaste.

I am a writer. This has also been fairly recent, having started this blog about four years ago. I have one book published, which if I had a do-over, I would pull. I re-read parts of it the other day and it’s really kinda crappy. But I have evolved! I just finished a second book, this one a real book with a real story. And it’s real good. When this gets published you will agree.

I also don’t lack for confidence. But that doesn’t make my list here.

My point is that I found something I was good at and that I enjoy, somewhat late in life. Not that 53 is old, mind you, but it is a mirror-image to the golf thing – I found that young. This I found later, and it provides that same level of passion I feel when it hit a six iron on the screws.

Why am I proud to be a writer? Well, aside from the vicarious thrill of having people like what I write, it is this – it will outlive me. It will be my legacy. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, this blog will still be here, as will my books.

And, finally, perhaps the most important thing I am proud of:

I am a good father. My son is now an adult, having turned 18 this past March, which is the ‘unofficial’ end of my main fatherhood duties. Yes I know it will be a lifetime job, and one that I regret not a single bit – I look forward to the coming years of helping him through college and to, hopefully, babysit grandkids. Helping to raise Nick has been the most satisfying thing I have ever done, and the results speak for themselves – he is a fine young man. Now the majority of the credit goes to his mother, and she deserves ten times more of it than I do. But I had a role, and I see it every time I am with Nick. He is me.

You will note nowhere on that list did I mention my job. I made a reference earlier to people who find passion in their work. Great. I truly am envious of those people, since they spend a large chunk of their time doing something they’re passionate about…and get paid for it. My job is not something I have a passion for. It’s something I’m good at.

But this is not supposed to be a list of things I’m good at. It’s a list of things that excite me.

What’s on your list?

Metamorphosis In Four Minutes

So I am back to musing about rock and roll again.

What brought this about? Well, per usual, an inspirative spark. In this case it was my drive home from work Friday afternoon when I was wrung out from eight hours of meetings and dysfunction. My brain was done; there was no more for it to give, and my only thoughts were how to negotiate nine miles of I-4 and what I was going to buy at the grocery store…and even those thoughts were hard to cull.

So I plugged my mp3 player into my car’s stereo and hit shuffle. Here was the first thing that came up –

Fuck yeah.

Where two miles earlier I was trying to not fall asleep behind the wheel, I was transformed into a head-banging, energy-overloaded pool of Angst DNA. Instead of gently trying to maneuver my car through the morass of Orlando traffic, I became an urban warrior in an up-plated Humvee, daring people to take me on.

Don’t tell my insurance company.

This is the power of music, and specifically rock and rock. Sure, all genres of music have that power and I am not trying to dis them, but rock is my drug. Case in point – my dear friend is going through a break-up, and her way of dealing with it was an evening of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, Blake Shelton and Lady Antebellum. If she was sad before, she was damn near suicidal afterwards. So in this instance her choice of country music (I’m sure the alcohol had nothing to do with it, heh) enhanced the mood she was already in.

And hey, if that’s how she wants to roll, roll with your bad self. But speaking only for myself, if I am sad the last thing I want is something that enhances the sadness. And if I am happy, I want something that makes me continue to feel happy.

Now, I can hear your fingers typing – “Ministry, Jer? Really? That makes you happy?”

Yes. Yes it does.

Why? Because it – and rock music in general – demands you to be happy. Sure, there are exceptions to this; one that comes to mind is Mumford and Sons, as they tend to get me thinking too introspectively about opportunities lost and of better times. My son played M&S as we were driving the Niagara Falls last month, on the same day we decided to call in Hospice for my mom, and halfway through the second song I demanded my son to change it to Green Day. I was not having a real good day, and Little Lion Man kept reminding me about the traumatic decision my siblings and me had to make earlier that day.

I mentioned Green Day. Virtually all their songs make me happy. The only one that doesn’t is Wake Me Up When September Ends, which is as melancholy as Billy Joe Armstrong gets. My son told me he wanted that played at his funeral; well that pretty much killed that song for me. I can’t hear it now without thinking of the awful possibility that I may have to one day bury my son.

Sorry dude, that’s not going to be my job, it will be your job to bury me.

So back to being happy (Please!). If it’s Green Day, give me Holiday (“The representative from California has the floor” – awesome interlude).

“I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies!”

Fuck yeah. Again.

Last point. I get this sometimes – “Doesn’t angry music, like N.W.O. or Holiday, make you angry, Jer?”

Nope. It makes me move. It instills an anthemic to-the-core beat deep in my bones that manifests itself in purposeful striding and increased blood pressure. It makes me feel alive.

So take that, Lady Antebellum. And take a little Helmet with ya -

Fuck. Yeah.

What We Have Sown

It happened again. This time it was a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. The toll this time – 12 dead, 59 wounded.

Was the shooter disturbed, possibly deranged? Probably.

Was it tragic? Absolutely.

Was it shocking?

No.

If this shocks you, then my only question is, how many more incidents will it take for you to get over your shock? This is just the latest on a sad series of incidents, a series that is not going to stop, not any time soon.

This country is armed to the teeth. Many consider the Second Amendment sacrosanct. Any politician that even hints at proposing to limit access to guns is a targeted (pun intended) person. The NRA has a stranglehold-lock on our political process. Guns are as American as mom and apple pie.

Well, this is the result.

I know. Guns don’t kill people; people kill people…if guns are outlawed only outlaws will have guns…the vast majority of gun owners are responsible…

And on and on the excuses and rationalizations go. Do me a favor. Save them. I don’t need to hear them. I’ve heard them.

This is a lost cause. As much as I abhor guns, and, just for clarification, I have lived 53 years in this country, in large cities like Miami, Houston and Orlando without ever having to fire a gun, I can’t do anything about it. Except to express how much this sickens me. It sickens me that this is our value system – being armed to the teeth is an American value.

And I know this paints me as some kind of tree-hugging Liberal. What-fucking-ever. Label me however you want. I don’t care anymore.

Columbine. Virginia Tech. Gabby Giffords. George Zimmerman. Aurora. And those are just the more notable incidents. People have been shot down in churches, on playgrounds, in malls, in schools…and in movie theaters.

The defense is, these people are unstable!

Gee, you think?

But you have to understand something. In this country, unstable people have easy access to guns. That is the price we pay to pack heat. Now, I’m sure you, reading this, are a very responsible gun owner. Just understand something – this gives me no solace whatsoever. It is not you I am worried about.

It’s the next person who will spray bullets into a crowd that I may be a part of.

It will happen again.

And again. And do not tell me you’re shocked when this happens. That’s bullshit.

It’s inevitable.

My hope is one day enough people will have had enough of the slaughter in the name of ‘Rights.’ Remember, you have no rights. You have privileges granted to you by the people in power.

I only pray the privilege of owning a gun one day is relegated to the history books.

This latest incident in Aurora is not shocking. It’s collateral damage.

Get used to it.

Jack and Me

In my opinion, the fortunate people in this world are those who, a) have a hero, and b) have had the chance to meet them.

Consider me very fortunate.

I grew up in Ohio and at a very young age got addicted to golf. My first round was when I was ten years old, and my last round was, uh, two days ago. In between have been thousands of rounds, hundreds of golf books read, scores of golf vacations, three holes in ones, and one hero.

Jack Nicklaus.

When I was growing up, Jack was the king of the golf world, and he still holds the record for most major championships won – 18. Tiger was making a nice run at that record until he backed into a fire hydrant in 2009 and got a bit sidetracked. He may yet break Jack’s record, but as of right now, it’s Jack 18, Tiger 14. And should Tiger one day pass Jack’s record, sorry Eldrick, but Jack will still be the man, at least to me.

I have had three separate occasions to actually meet and converse with Jack, and not surprisingly, two of them were on the golf course -

1983 Ryder Cup, PGA National Golf Club, Palm Beach Gardens, FL – This was a watershed Ryder Cup; as the U.S. squad barely hung on to defeat the upstart European team, 14.5 points to 13.5 points. The outcome was not settled until Lanny Wadkins hit a pitching wedge to three feet from the hole on the eighteenth hole in his match. That shot halved the match and gave the Cup to the U.S. Jack was the captain of the U.S. team.

I was in the gallery along the eighteenth fairway when Lanny hit his shot. There was jubilation in the gallery as we knew his shot clinched the Cup. I then looked out in the fairway, and there was Jack in his Captain-mode, walkie-talkie in hand, shaking hands with well wishers offering their congratulations. The gallery ropes were down, so I took advantage of the opportunity and ran out to congratulate Jack. This was our exchange –

Me: “Jack, we sure could have used you out there today.”

Jack, in his too-high squeaky voice – “Oh I don’t know about that. I don’t think my nerves could have handled it.”

Me: “Yeah RIGHT!”

Jack: “Ha!”

Three years later those nerves were good enough for him to win his sixth Masters. 

1994 World Golf Championship, Doral Country Club, Miami – Greg Norman won this tournament in a runaway, but at one point in the third round, Jack was tied for the lead. I was, of course, in his gallery. Jack got to the tenth hole, a dogleg-left par 5 around a lake. The long hitters would try to cut the corner, but Jack was too tactical (and also 54 years old) to try that. I was standing right behind him and his caddy as they discussed the shot.

Jack, to his Caddy: “How far to the bunker on the right?”

Caddy: “258.”

Jack: Two fifty eight? You sure?”

Caddy, double-checking his notes: “Yep. 258.”

Jack: “Gimme the one-iron.”

Jack then proceeded to hit his one-iron directly at that bunker, purposely away from the water. The ball landed about ten yards short of the bunker, took a hop forward towards it, and then stopped on a dime, two yards short of it. Jack gave the club back to his caddy, and walked over to where I was standing.

Me: “One-iron, Jack?”

Jack: “Yeah, one-iron.”

Me: “Can’t hit it 258 anymore?”

He turned around and shot me a look, as if to say ‘I’d like to see you try, asshole,’ but then smiled at me. I just said “You’re the man, Jack.”

The final time I talked to him was by far the most rewarding. My good friend Chuck got me an invitation to the Boy Scouts annual banquet at the PGA National Resort (same location as the 1983 Ryder Cup). It was a suit-and-tie affair. I showed up, found Chuck, and said okay where is he? Chuck pointed over to Jack, and I shot over to just be near him. I asked someone if he could ask Jack if it would be okay to have a picture of the two of us. The man walked over to Jack, Jack looked at me and said, sure, c’mon over!

I turned into a star-struck goober.

As I walked up to him, all I could say was, “I named my son after you!”

Jack: “You named him Jack?”

Me: “No, Nicklaus!” (His name is actually Nicholas, but pronounced the same)

Jack: “How old is he?”

Me: “He’s 13 years old Mister Nicklaus sir…he’s in seventh grade and on the honor roll.”

Jack patted me on the back, said “Good job,” and shook my hand.

And that’s when the picture on this story was taken.

Jack’s the man. Always was, always will be.

My Brain on Yoga

So I have written a couple of stories over the past few months regarding my newest obsession – yoga. What I have found out is there are a number of misconceptions about it, the first of which is that it’s some kind of incense-burning, chanting, group meditation communal get in touch with your inner child lovefest.

Uh, no.

It’s exercise. Somewhat strenuous exercise at that. No, it doesn’t involve bench-pressing compact vehicles or swimming across large bodies of water, but make no mistake. It is exercise. You will discover muscles and tendons you did not know you had. And once you discover them, you will rue their very existence as they are contorted in ways you thought were only the purview of ladies who make their living spinning on vertical poles with dollar bills jammed in their G-strings.

Then again, I bet they do yoga.

Anyway. I now do yoga twice a week, Monday and Thursday nights, the 5:30pm ‘Hatha All Levels’ class led by my Yoga Hero, Lee. She’s beautiful…

ANYway, for those that have not experienced what a typical yoga class is like, I am going to walk you through one from the point of view of my mind:

5:15pm: I arrive at the yoga studio with my mat, towel and bottled water. I am excited for the upcoming hour, as the stress of work has manifested itself usually in my neck and shoulders. I walk into the studio, shuck my shoes, roll out the mat, silence the phone, and get into some semblance of a lotus position on the mat.

5:20pm: Others arrive, mostly women. I am usually the only guy in the class. And I’m good with that.

5:25pm: In comes Lee. She’s beautiful…ANYway, she greets everyone with her empathic, warm, gentle soul greeting. It’s all a mirage. She’s about to go Drill Sergeant on our asses.

5:30pm: Class starts. Lee takes us through a few minutes of breathing in order to attune our mind and body. We are usually in Child’s pose or some other restful position. I call this my last respite before hell.

5:35pm: Into our first Downward Dog of the night. DD is a staple yoga move, where you basically shape yourself like an upside-down letter V. I’ve gotten better at DD & can hold it for upwards of ten seconds now.

5:40pm: First Vinyasa. A Vinyasa is a movement through various yoga poses, usually from a low lunge position, to a plank (think push-ups) position, to body on floor to raise your front torso up (Cobra), to plank to Downward Dog. “Meditatively move” is Lee’s entreat to us. “Don’t pass out” is how I translate this instruction.

5:45pm: Time for twists! With one knee on the mat & the other bent (picture Tebowing), Lee instructs us to place our hands in Namaste (picture praying hands), and then to take the left elbow and place it on the outside of the right knee. It hurts to even type this, let alone to do it. I get there, and my spine is now wondering what it did to get punished. This gets repeated for the other side (right arm over left knee), but not before another…you guessed it…Downward Dog.

5:50pm: I am now cursing myself for showing up. The thought enters my mind to ditch class early, feigning some kind of lame injury. All it takes to snap me out of this is to look around the room & see all the women gracefully moving through the poses. The Alpha Male in me kicks in. I stay.

5:55pm: I am hyperventilating

6:00pm: I am hyperventilating.

6:05pm. Still hyperventilating.

6:10pm: Time for inversions! When I was a kid we called this standing on your head. And when I was a kid I could do it instinctively. At 53, it requires an act of Congress. I place my head on the mat with my hands, palms down, on either side for support. Every brain cell is screaming ‘Do this and you will be in traction the rest of your life’. Alpha Male says ‘Don’t be a wuss, you…wuss.’ I inch my feet towards my hands, raising my torso in the process. Body weight shifts from my hands to the crown of my head. I am picturing my neck snapping like a dried out twig. Lee is imploring, “Keep the weight balanced between the head and the hands, lift up!” For a nanosecond my feet actually leave the floor. Two seconds later my brain realizes this and defense mechanisms kick in, which means I fall over like a Jenga tower.

6:20pm: More Downward Dogs.

6:25pm: More hyperventilating. But the end is now in sight, as the best part of the practice is only five minutes away. It’s called Savasina, and I probably misspelled that. What it means is, rest.

6:30pm: Rest begins. I am prostrate on my mat, arms and legs splayed out like someone who just landed on the pavement after dropping from the twentieth floor. Just draw a chalk line around me.

6:35pm: Lee comes by and places a peppermint-scented cold washcloth over my eyes. It is at this point I want to marry her.

6:40pm: Rest ends by Lee slowly bringing us out of our reclined positions and up into a seated position. A couple of light stretches of the arms, and then we put our hands together at our chest, turn to one another, bow, and say Namaste. We are done.

6:45pm: I leave, but on the way out I tell Lee I cannot wait until the next session and to keep up the peppermint-scented cold washcloths.

I love yoga. But not before I go through hating it each time I am there.

Keep It Simple

What makes a great rock song?

Wow. That can be answered any of a number of ways. Memorable lyrics, power chords, anthemic feel…hard to answer, right?

Not for me. To me, the most memorable rock songs have had one key component. Simplicity. A catchy riff that anyone with a used six—string can pick up and copy.

Rock history is loaded with them. Bob Diddley gave us the Bo Diddley beat – that bomp-a-chong-a-chon…bomp bomp beat. The Kinks gave use the five notes the beginning of You Really Got Me – ba-DADA-duh-DAH, that has been copied by every aspiring garage band out there.

Now sure. Some great rock songs are more complex, and they’re equally great. But I was never a big fan of ‘Art Rock’ such as bands like Yes. I think they’re great, just not my cuppa tea. To this day I still can’t figure out the beat to Roundabout. Every time I think I got it I don’t. So while those complex songs are enjoyable to listen to, and to appreciate the innate complexity entailed in their construction, they are not the types of songs that aspiring rockers look to in order to copy. They are not memorable, or at least, memorizable.

So. Back to simplicity. There was a song that came out a couple of years back that caught my ear. Because it had that innate simplicity to it. So I started researching, which these days means I went to You Tube. It was there I discovered this –

THAT is a great rock song.

Seven notes. So memorable that the audience knows them & sings the notes.

Now, don’t confuse simple with easy. Jack White showed in that video why. You will note he played that entire song with one guitar. Tell me the first time you heard that song on the radio that you thought that was a bass guitar opening. I know I did. Jack then does ‘standard’ guitar for the verses, then amps it to slide guitar lead in the chorus. The same seven notes (with a G-A bridge). The crowd goes wild, he pauses, then repeats.

And that’s the catch. Simple to learn, hard to master. How many kids do you think heard that song & immediately went to their guitars to try to mimic? Well, Jack showed some old masters how he did it –

So add Jimmy Page and The Edge to the growing group that includes me (and thank you Dawn for turning me on to Jack) that think Jack White is on his way to Rock Legend status.

And they both owe him five bucks.

The Big Myth

I have a question.

What are your rights?

I have another question.

Who granted you those rights?

This is an interesting discussion. Luckily for me I have a blog in which I can expand upon the topic. And luckily for you, you can comment on. So let’s see how this goes.

To the first question. In this country we have a Bill of Rights, consisting of amendments to the U.S. Constitution. They spell out such rights as freedom of speech, the right to bear arms, to avoid false imprisonment, and so on. And they are to reflect the intent of the founding fathers.

But read that last paragraph again, specifically the sentence that the Bill of Rights were amendments to the Constitution. In other words, our founding fathers determined that clarification was needed as to what our rights as Americans were.

Which leads to the second question. And that answer is pretty simple – our founding fathers, though ratification and subsequent amendments, granted we Americans those rights. In other words, they came from those in power. From men.

This is a key point; because many believe our rights are ‘God-given’. They are not. They are Government-given. Look at it this way – if they were God-Given, then what does God have against North Koreans, since they have virtually no rights? Does God really believe that Americans should have the right of freedom of speech but North Koreans shouldn’t?

Bottom line – stop invoking God as it regards your rights. He has no part in it.

So hooray for America, right? We have been granted certain freedoms by our government, so what a wonderful place to live and be a citizen of, right?

Well sure. Compared to North Korea.

But American history is loaded with tinkering and downright ignoring of our supposed ‘rights’. Couple of cases in point – Google ‘Japanese Internment 1942’ and see what comes up. Our government imprisoned Americans who only had the misfortune of having Japanese parents. And since it was a time of war against Japan, our government felt an apparent – but never proven – issue of national security was an overriding ideal than false imprisonment.

So the protection against false imprisonment isn’t a “right”. It’s conditional.

Next. Google ‘Patriot Act’. You will find, that in the aftermath of 9/11 our government felt the threat of terrorism overrode the citizen’s right to privacy. They could – and can – wiretap your phone calls without your knowledge. And, like the Japanese Americans in 1942, you can be put in jail over what those wiretaps uncover. Indefinitely, by they way, since they can label you a 'Enemy Combatant' (you gotta love these labels), which through the Patriot Act rescinds your right to a speedy trial, or even any trial. You can sit and rot in jail for as long as the government feels you should be there. There's still a bunch of them at Guantanamo Bay.

So the right to privacy is conditional. As is a right to justice or a speedy trial.

The right to dissent? Google ‘Kent State University.’

And I haven’t even mentioned slavery, which was legal in this country for its first 90 years and which took a Civil War and a proclamation of emancipation by Abraham Lincoln. So our revered founding fathers thought that you had rights – if you were white. If you were a black slave, you were property. Subhuman. 

So spare me how wonderful our founding fathers were. They were a group of politicians that, through majority vote (not God), decreed us some privileges that needed amending, and, as our history has shown, can be revoked. And their ilk throughout our nation’s history have repeatedly brought our so-called ‘rights’ into play, and have decided, at times, we should not have some of them.

Therefore I offer this: We have no rights. 

Instead we have a malleable collection of privileges that are fluid, negotiable, and change based on whatever is happening at the moment, given to us by people in power who can change their minds when they see fit.

Now. Let’s get back to “God-given” rights. What exactly are those? And do not say life liberty and the pursuit of happiness, because I will invoke North Korea again – they are every bit as human as us but do not enjoy those rights.

No, the apparent ‘God-given’ rights have to be something more basic. The right to food? Nope. People are starving. The right to shelter? Nope. Homeless people. The right to live? Well, that’s closer, but millions have been killed in wars in ‘the name of God.’ So apparently God, or more accurately, those that invoke his wisdom sometimes believe we do not even have the right to live. The 9/11 terrorists certainly believed that.

So I would now offer this. There are no God-given rights.

There is, as I see only one right we have. Only one inalienable truth that cannot be rescinded by law or man or nature.

The right to die.

It is the only thing I can think of that will happen to everyone, and no amount of government fiat can change it.

Try and revoke that, politicians. 

Nicknames

I was walking down the hallway at work yesterday, when Reggie, the spiffily-dressed planner in my department saw me & said “J-To-The-B, wassup?”

J-To-The-B is Reggie’s nickname for me.

Which got me thinking. I have had a ton of nicknames throughout my life. Some people only have a couple, or maybe just one. Some poor souls never get one. Fortunately, I am not one of those people. If you are, drop me an email and I’ll give you one.

We like nicknames. It personalizes someone, makes them feel closer. I’m sure Reggie thinks ‘J-To-The-B’ gives us a secret little kinship. And he’s right. It does. But that’s because I like J-To-The B. It sounds cool, kinda hip. As I mentioned, I have had a lot of nicknames through the years. Some good, others, well…

My brother called me Nimrod.

My sister called me Ricky Retardo.

My dad called me Bud.

My new planner calls me Sir.

When I was a kid I wore a train engineer cap, and I got the nickname Chooch, as in Choo-Choo Charlie.

My ex-wife called me Jurr.

My yoga instructor calls me Writing Yogi

My son calls me Padre.

Guys on my high school golf team called me Hack Hack Plunk.

In middle school I was called Eddie Munster.

Some nicknames are contradictory, like calling a 350-pound guy ‘Tiny’. Others make no sense whatever, like, say, Weegie Thompson. I have no idea what a Weegie is. It’s not a Wedgie, as that’s something entirely different.

But nicknames are like jargon. It’s ‘Mystery Language’ that we embrace since it serves as a form of bonding, of familiarity. It’s a good thing.

Except that Ricky Retardo thing. Ugh.

Things I Used To Do

I was just sitting here musing about this fun trip I have been a part of for over 53 years now. You know, life.

And specifically, the wildly varied things I have done to keep from starving. Now, I went to college. Got two degrees, including an MBA. Just that alone would make some people conclude that my path has been a smooth upward climb to some cushy gig on Mahogany Row.

Uh, no.

Starts and stops. Interruptions for various personal reasons. Realizations that what I was trained to do I really didn’t want to do.

A not-complete list of my varied vocations includes the following:

·         Working in the produce department at a grocery store

·         Valet parking cars in Palm Beach

·         Raking traps at a golf course

·         Hosting a radio talk show on fantasy football

·         Pressure-cleaning roofs of houses

·         Texas Hold-‘Em poker dealer

·         Audio-visual technician

·         Running a sporting goods store

·         Professional golfer

·         Professional golf hustler

·         Transportation consultant

·         Computer trainee

·         Ran a transportation project that provided free trips Cuban refugees in Miami

·         Selling college alumni directories over the phone

·         Running a miniature golf course

·         Investment broker trainee

·         Insurance salesman trainee

…and those are the legal ones. All I can say to that is, a man has to pay the bills.

Now for the kicker. I do none of those things now. My career is in the mega-glamorous field of public transportation management. I design bus routes. I know…control yourselves. But it is a nice career, one I have been at for over 25 years now. And it is weird to think more of my career is behind me than in front of me. If things go according to plan (which they never do), I should retire in 12 years. Wow.

But my point in this little exercise is to show how unpredictable life can be. And since most of my story’s been written, I am thinking about my 18-year old, very talented son. He is an artist. Next year he will be accepting a scholarship somewhere and will be off to college in preparation for his career. Now, he seems extremely focused and appears to have a clear idea on what he wants to do. And I think that is wonderful.

I also think it is unrealistic.

Why? Because that’s life. You never know what’s around the corner.

And, really, ain’t that great?

I mean look. I think it’s wonderful that there are people who know at a very early age what they want to do with their lives, and further, have the means to achieve it. And for my son’s sake I hope he is one of those fortunate souls. I hope he takes that awesome talent of his and is able to transform it into a rewarding, enriching career that he loves every minute of. Nothing would make me prouder as a father.

But also, I will feel a little sad for him.

Why?

Because he will never get to experience the joy of pressure-cleaning a roof.

Truth In Advertising

Pop quiz: If someone mentions Seattle, what do you think of? Rainy days? Natural beauty? Coffee? Fish tossing? Grunge music?

It’s all true.

I can vouch, as I just returned from a business trip to The Emerald City (the city’s nickname, as voted on by the residents in 2007). Except something odd happened – it was sunny all three days I was there. The locals assured me that was an anomaly. A quick check of Wikipedia seemed to confirm, as Seattle is said to average only 79 sunny days a year.

Weather aside, it was a fantastic trip. Just to get the business out of the way, I was there to meet with their public transit executives on a technological project they implemented a few years back. However, that’s a great segue into one of the great positives of the city: Awesome mass transit. Unlike its west coast brethren Los Angeles and San Francisco, a car is not a necessity in Seattle. 1,500 local buses, 225 routes, express routes, a light rail line, streetcars, ferries…even a monorail that runs from the Space Needle to the light rail station in the heart of downtown. That was a remnant from the 1962 World’s Fair, but it is far from a tourist thing to do – it is a vital link from the north end of downtown. This network sets the framework for an urban/urbane environment the locals love.

Seattle sits between two large bodies of water – Lake Washington to the east and Puget Sound to the west. Beyond the water are snow-capped mountain ranges. The city itself is rather hilly as the shin splits I am nursing can attest. The downtown area is quite compact, which makes getting around convenient. Getting in and out of downtown? Different story. You got I-5 and I-90, and they’re packed.

So…ride the bus. Everyone else does.

Pike’s Market is the focal point of downtown. Down by the water (meaning downhill from the city – wear good walking shoes), Pike’s seems to be the social gathering spot, a great place to pick up some fresh flowers, crabs or fish. And yes. They do toss the fish there. Gladly. The locals revel in the attention they get and like to put on a show. In fact,  I asked Brandon, one of the tossers, if he would throw one for me while I filmed it. He asked, ‘Are you ready for it?’ Now, I’ve been in a lot of cities. When I hear a phrase like that, I reach for my wallet, as being ‘ready for it’ is code for, ‘Slip me a twenty and I’ll toss fish all day, Tourist.’

But that’s not what Brandon meant. He meant ‘Is your camera ready?’ It was, and he was. There went the fish. And back at him. Fun stuff.

We took the ferry ride from downtown to Bremerton, a bucolic hamlet on the other side of the Sound. And again, this isn’t a tourist thing – the ferry is a mode of transportation, as many downtown workers live on the other side of the Sound. Eight bucks round trip. Twenty minute ride. And awesome views the whole way.

Most everyone knows Starbucks started in Seattle. It also seems to end there as well, as there is a coffee shop on damn near every corner- - many of them Starbucks, but also upstarts like Seattle’s Best, have infiltrated the market. Without a doubt, the drink of choice in Seattle is a double latte.

I mentioned the Space Needle earlier. If you go, you must do the Space Needle. The only thing better than seeing the city from the water or Pike’s Market is from 520 feet in the air. On a clear day you can see Mount St. Helens over 200 miles away…so said Jay, the bartender at the restaurant at the top. But as it is you cannot beat the view. I planned to hang up there for a half hour. I stayed four hours.

Seattle is a heavily taxed city. Gas was $4.39 a gallon when I was there, in comparison to the $3.59 back here in Orlando. Sales taxes are high as well. Funny…I didn’t hear a lot of grumbling about that while I was there. Maybe it is because the locals know what they’re getting for their money.

Or maybe it’s because they know they are living in a beautiful city with wonderful urban amenities. This is reflected in their attitude, as they, or at least the ones I came in contact with, are a happy, contented, caffeinated bunch.

I could so live there.