Laughin' & a-Scratchin'

Every now and then I have a moment of duh. I’m sure we all do. It is that moment when you realize that you have totally overlooked something important and you need to rectify it as soon as you can.

Consider this my moment of duh.

Over a year ago I wrote a story about my mother, a heartfelt homage to a wonderful person. Since then I realized that I never did a similar tribute to my father. And this was a clear whiff on my part, because Charles Herald Bryan was one of a kind. To begin with, yes, that’s how his middle name is spelled, as in ‘Hark the Herald Angel sing’. This probably has to do with his West Virginia roots, but I cannot say for sure.

My dad went by Chuck, though he also answered to Charlie. He was a Chuck. He would greet you with a smile & a firm handshake as if you were his longtime friend. Chuck made friends easily. He had a knack at making you feel at ease within a few seconds of meeting him. How? With pithy phrases to mundane questions. For example, an innocuous, ‘How are you?’ was answered with any of a variety of colorful retorts: "I never had a bad day", or "Glad to be on this side of the earth", or my absolute favorite, "I’m just laughin’ & a-scratchin’." I have no earthly idea what "I’m just laughin’ & a-scratchin’" means. I just know it brought a smile to the other’s person’s face and made them feel comfortable. Chuck was very good at that.

Dad was quite a contradiction. He could be very self-centered, almost self-absorbed. But at the drop of a hat he would do anything for you. I know in my life he did that many times. If I was in any kind of situation that needed his assistance, he was there. Usually at 5:30 in the damn morning, but he was there. Because that was another of his traits - a very, VERY early riser. When I was still living at home & in my early 20’s, I would stagger home at 3 or 4 in the morning to find my dad just waking up, drinking coffee & smoking a Winston. In the dark. ‘Good morning son’. ..‘Goodnight Dad.’

Which brings me to another one of his lovable traits. He was not a judgmental person. Now I am sure my siblings may have a different take on that, but what I mean is that dad was not an intervener. Instead, I think he believed, at least for me, in allowing people to make their own mistakes. I married the wrong woman - he supported me. I got into a couple of jams in my younger years - he was there to bail me out of them. Never once did I hear from him, ‘If I were you I would…’ Instead, his typical line was, ‘Son, if you’re happy, I’m happy.’

And he was a happy guy. That’s the part of his personality I have tried to incorporate into mine. To this day, when people ask me how I am, I try to refrain from the bland ‘Fine’ answer but instead search my mind for WWCS - What Would Chuck Say. My latest favorite for that question is ‘I’m just living the dream.’

I will tell you what made me mad about Dad. He didn’t take care of himself. He was a lifetime smoker, two packs a day. He didn’t watch his diet (one of these days I will relate the custard pie story). He didn’t exercise. As a result, he had a number of health issues & heart bypass surgeries. In fact, that was the way he lived his life - do what you want, eat what you want, let the doctors fix you up when needed. And it was one of these surgeries that ended up taking his life. He had a heart bypass on April 2, 1997. He never came out of it. And on April 12, 1997, he passed away at the too-young age of 71.

But knowing Dad, even that wasn’t a bad day. Because he never had a bad day.

May 4, 1970

In two days, the 40th anniversary of the shootings at Kent State University will occur. Forty years.

In May 1970 I was a 12-year old boy growing up about ten minutes from Kent State. Six years later, I was student there. And now I am an alumnus, having earned both my Bachelors and Masters degrees there. That doesn't make me any kind of expert on what happened on 5/4/70, but it does, hopefully, point out that the venue has been a large part of my life.

I still remember riding with my mom on the weekend that preceded the shootings. We were passing the National Guard Armory in Akron, where a line of trucks, troops and equipment were rolling down the highway. I asked my mom what this was all about. She replied "Oh, there's something going on at Kent State and the governor called the National Guard." And as usual, when my mom said something, it had a certain logical finality to it that made me just think, oh, okay. And that was that.

But then Monday May 4th came. And the tragedy of that day, as we know, ended up having far-reaching ramifications that vastly changed geopolitics, and, as many historians concluded, aided in ending the Vietnam War. As a black student colleague of The Washington Post writer Clarence Page stated, "Man, they're killing white kids now." Anti-war protests up to that point were considered communal sit-ins where the far-left fringes smoked dope & sang Joan Baez songs. After Kent, this stuff became serious. Now it was clear that your life could be in danger if you dared speak up...or show up. Which, given American's penchant for thumbing their noses at authority, had the effect of exponentialism. It made people angrier. And louder. And eventually, no longer at war in a far away jungle.

But in my community it had a very different effect. Thi
s happened in our backyard, and many families had both Kent State students and National Guard members in them. Picture that dinner conversation. In neighborhoods and bars across the area, you would have violent arguments between people who had a child in college there, and another who had a Guardsmen as a son. Those Guardsmen were local kids too. It was, in effect, a Civil War scenario in northeast Ohio. And up until that point we were just middle-class middle-America. We weren't overly concerned with worldly matters. But what we became gravely concerned with was how our community was being torn apart - Kent State was not some kind of activist hotbed - it just happened to be the intersection point of history. And we had a real hard time accepting that.

Through the years, the University has had difficulties in adequately commemorating this event. For the first ten years, it was a head-in-sand mentality, almost as if the University refused to believe it occurred. Case in point - the parking lot where three of the four students died remained unchanged for years. It was as if the University was saying that having places for cars to park took precedence. They even tried to officially change the name of the University from 'Kent State' to just 'Kent'.

But as the years went on, and the historians wrote the accounts of the Vietnam War, Kent State was increasingly recognized as a pivotal point. It was when the war came home. It was then that the University realized that history occurred here, and it could not be denied. Today, the efforts put forth to recognize the events are, in my opinion, perfect. That Prentice Hall parking lot now had cordoned-off areas where Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer & Allison Krause died (see the picture to the right - that's Jeffrey Miller's spot where the 6 lanterns are under the pagoda roof). William Schroeder's felled spot is also cordoned off. There is a memorial to the east of Taylor Hall with four granite monoliths, and to put it in context, 58,226 flowers were planted around them - the number of U.S. deaths in Vietnam. The pagoda where the Guard fired still stands. As does the metal sculpture next to Taylor Hall with a bullet hole in it.

 

What were the lessons of Kent State? Oh my goodness. Volumes have been written on that subject. Who was to blame? Ditto. And I am not going to get into that here. But I do have to say how it affected me. This is, after all, my blog. I spent a lot of time reading about this event. I have walked the site of the shootings countless times. I have even talked to some of the wounded students - and some of the Guardsmen. And in the final analysis I cannot fathom a situation that necessitated armed troops firing on unarmed students, killing four, wounding nine.

So my lesson was a pretty simple one. Just two words:

Question authority.

That One Summer

Everybody has had one. And if you're fortunate, more than one.

That glorious, sun-splashed, neverending days coupled with enchanting nights three-month experience, usually in your late teens, where the girls were beautiful, the world was shimmeringly bright & the potential was limitless. You were young. You were bulletproof. Laws were just a laughable inconvenience dealt with by breaking where you saw fit & calling dad if the cops caught you.

Mine was the summer of 1978. I was 19. Gerry Rafferty's 'Baker Street' was the soundtrack of that summer, and to this day whenever I hear that saxophone break out with that 'dah-DAHDAH-dudda-dadada...' beginning, I am instantly transported back to Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, rolling through town in my lime green 1973 Plymouth Duster when I went to college in the mornings & worked at a grocery store in the evenings. And once I got off work, it was a 12-pack of beer (I had friends who were 21), pick up my girlfriend, and head to our rendezvous spot where we would organize our nightly hijinxs. Those nightly sorties may have involved the aforementioned breaking of laws, like climbing the fence at Silver Lake Country Club to take a midnight skinny dip in their swimming pool. Or the, ahem, 'borrowing' of certain signs that held some kind of goofy significance to us. Case in point - Virginia Kendall Park had a sign for one of their picnic areas that was called Cherry Knob. And for whatever reasons (actually I know the reasons, but just use your imagination), me & my cohorts thought that sign was hilarious. So we took it.

I am really hoping the Statute of Limitations has expired on this stuff...

But anyway, that summer. Time meant nothing. 11pm turned into 3am but it didn't matter. Because the other factor that fueled our forays was youthful energy. We didn't get tired! And yeah, I had a 745am English Lit class at Kent State, but so what - a 2-hour rest & I was ready for another 18-hour day (Why does it seem the opposite now...?). Besides, there was this exciting world that needed explored, defiled & conquered. Not 4 years earlier we were riding our bikes to State Road (2 miles from home) and considered that some kind of exotic excursion. But now....we had cars. And hormones. And girls. And beer. And a 91-days extended vacation to explore them all. Especially the girls :)

My son just turned 16, and I look at this boy turning into a man & think, your summer is coming, and I wish I was his age again so I could be his wingman. It's now April. And I raise a Genessee Cream Ale (if they even still make it) & an 8-track of Gerry Rafferty's City To City in hopes that the Summer of 2010 is your summer.

Work Ethic

First off, I want to say straight out. I love my job. Beyond that, I have discovered something far deeper. Something that I feared I did not possess as it regarded my chosen profession. Passion.

I used to have a phrase to describe a job – It’s a place you would rather not be, doing something you would rather not be doing, with people you would rather not be with. So they pay you for this unpleasant arrangement. Lather rinse repeat for some 40-odd years, then retire.

Rather morose, no?

Well, fortunately for me, life can be a great head-rearranger. What I have discovered was that I wasn’t in a boring profession, I was in boring jobs within that profession. I was a size-10 foot trying to fit into ballerina slippers. When I left my previous job it was this very mis-fit that ultimately led to it being, well, my previous job. I then tried consulting, which was a better fit for my metaphorical foot. Problem was, I couldn’t make enough money. That was a problem. Now my foot was getting frostbite. Daddy needed a pair of shoes.

My profession is public transit management. I am a transit planner. I decide where buses go. It is a small, niche industry. Also not known for its glamour. But I do enjoy it. The problem with the industry is, there’s only one employer in a given area. Which means a job change likely requires relocation. Knowing this, I literally did a nationwide search: Kansas City, Richmond Washington, Dallas, San Francisco. I damn near got a couple of those jobs. But I didn’t, and thankfully so, because I was finally offered a position that required a relocation of two hours – Orlando.

And it was here, in Mickeyland, that I finally found a size-10 comfortable Italian leather tasseled loafer to slide into. Decide where bus routes go? I got 65 of them with 280 buses. Picture when you were a kid & you got one of those Lionel train sets and you would set up the track in different patterns to see if you could make the locomotives synchronize. (Okay maybe only I did that as a kid) The point is, as I said at the beginning, I love my job. Love it.

Know how I know I love it? The days fly by. I don’t clock-watch because I am too busy. Often I have checked my watch only to bemusedly realize that it’s time to go home. It is exciting, engaging, challenging, at times frustrating, satisfying, fun. Fun!

And that is the ultimate yardstick. A job that I consider fun. Kinda blows that morose viewpoint to bits doesn’t it?

Throwing Things Out

It is Thanksgiving 2009, and I am spending the day, not with family & friends, but taking care of some overdue tasks. I am now double-rooted (if that’s even a word…whatever) with a house in Post St. Lucie & an apartment in Orlando. I am at the house. And I need to get the place cleared out in order to rent it, which means I am going through stuff that I thought I would hold onto forever.

Stuff.

No, this is not going to be a rip-off of George Carlin’s famous routine. Instead it is more of a melancholy review of times gone by. See, I am 51 now and my son is 15. When I first moved here I was 42 & he was 6. Not a big move age-wise for me, but light years for him. Because I just went through the stuff in his room, and that’s where the memories slammed me. Here’s what I came across -

• A Hot Wheels slot-car track.
• Stuffed animals
• Various board games “For ages 12 and under”
• A half-finished log cabin kit
• A model airplane kit that never really worked right
• Jigsaw puzzles
• His artwork

And I had to make hard decisions – what to toss, what to keep. For certain, none of that stuff holds value to my son, but each one just floods me with thoughts of where were & what we were doing. But I can’t keep this stuff anymore!

So now all of that resides on my devil strip. With one exception – the artwork. I made a vow when my son was 2 years old that I would keep every bit of artwork he ever created. I am not going to break that vow. Besides, he will be famous one day & those ‘portraits of the artists as a young man’ will hold some value. If not in the open market, then with me. Always.

But the memories are also pleasant, as they are proof of the good times we have shared. Now my son has an ipod, a laptop & a Wii. He likes to school me in Wii tennis.

Life moves on.

Brace Face No More!

It all started with an innocuous query to my dentist four years ago. During a routine cleaning I asked him if he could whiten my teeth. Well, much like an alcoholic that asks a friend "Do you think I have a drinking problem?", my dentist saw the opening to give me the ugly truth.

"Jerry, I could whiten your teeth. But given the shape your teeth are in, it wouldn't be worth it. Your bite is collapsing, your molars are slanting inwards, you still have a baby tooth, and your upper teeth are slanted inward so far that they are digging into your lower gum & is causing serious periodontal disease. You will need dentures within ten years. So yeah, I could whiten your teeth, but you really should get braces first."

Dr. Vincenzo is nothing if not direct.

He then handed me the card of a local Orthodontist, Dr. Mark Lively. I called & scheduled a consult. And thus started a 37-month sojourn that ended two days ago, when I finally got my braces removed. The initial consult was, if nothing else, illuminating. Dr. Lively is a guy whose name fits him perfectly - an always smiling, upbeat, song-humming, joke-telling wiseaker. "Bite down", he instructed me. "Now open.....hmmmm....bite down again....hmm..." Much like a lumberjack inspecting his next tree, he looked, inspected, hummed whatever song was playing in his office, hummed some more, then stopped, took a deep breath, exhaled & gave me the prognosis. "Okay. You got like four things going on in your mouth..." He then explained them in great detail that pretty much confirmed what I thought. I should have gotten those dang braces when I was 15 years old. I asked him, well, can you fix me? He replied, "I love challenges, and YOU, Jerry, will be a challenge. Yes I can do it."

And he did it. For three years and one month, I learned all about bite plates, utility arches, slanted incisors, scissor bites, impacted cuspids...and pain. Broken wires. Jabbing wires. Double-helix wires reinforced to somehow keep my constant gum-chewing deep bite from severing...but still did. There were many times where I would call up his Angel Of Mercy, Lindi, and cuss up a blue streak & threatened felonies unless Mark would pull these things out of my mouth. Gimme the dentures. I had had enough.

But I talk big. I hung in there. Mark & his staff were eternally patient with me, and on Monday October 12, 2009, they came off. As I was scheduling my follow-up for my retainer fitting, Mark came out & handed me a gift. A bottle of wine. Probably cuz I was a 'bottle of whine' throughout the whole process. I actually cried when he gave me the gift.

Now, who in the heck cries getting a bottle of wine from an orthodontist? For that matter, who in the heck GETS a bottle of wine from an orthodontist? Well I did. And I did. So there. And part of the reason for the tears was the realization that, even though the day I had long been waiting for had finally arrived, there was genuine sadness that it was over. I had grown very fond of my visits to see Mark, Lindi, Michelle, Essie & the rest of gang. And I think that they enjoyed seeing me. Well, except for the felony-threatening part. The realization that I wouldn't be seeing these wonderful people anymore made me sad.

But now for the good news:

NOW I can go get my teeth whitened.

O-Town Plus Three Months

I see that I haven't posted a story here since way back in the halcyon days of April, when I was one month into my new gig working for Lynx in downtown O-Town. Well, since I have bulging following of SEVEN members now (roughly a quarter of the population of Wasilla Alaska if you don't count the children that look like moose inbreeding), there is such a responsibility-laden commitment now. Or something like that. Life is pretty good these days, as the paycheck spigot is now full on, and meals no longer consist of whatever is a Publix Bogo. So I thought it would be interesting to give an update of my thoughts of this place I am now calling home, three months since my initial glow -

• It gets hot in Orlando in the summer. While this is hardly a news flash, bear in mind that I moved from SOUTH Florida to here - I moved 150 miles NORTH. But the key geographic direction here is not north/south but from about 5 miles from the ocean to 55 miles away. I never realized the impact of a sea breeze to Florida climatology. The other day the high in Orlando was 98 degrees. With no breeze. And 85% humidity. The best way to give a graphic of this is, I wear glasses & the nanosecond I go from an air-conditioned building to outside, instant condensation.

• Keeping with boring weather talk, it doesn't rain in Orlando. We have apocalyptic, Scriptures-induced storms. More electricity in the air than rumors of a Beatles reunion tour. Every afternoon.

• People are friendly here. Bear in mind that I moved from the Sixth Borough also known as South Florida. Not to pick on New Yorkers, but I've found that when there are less of them in an area, said area tends to be a bit more laid back. And while I wouldn't necessarily call Orlando 'laid back', it definitely has a different vibe than SoFla. More natives here.

• So much to do here. This is not a boring town. There is a reason why it is the #1 tourist destination in the world, and it's kinda cool to hear folks talk about things like 'Hey, Universal Islands of Adventure is having a 3-day special this week.' Yeah I know I lamented about this fakeness in my last post, but now I'm talking from the standpoint of what to do during down time, and living in a place where you got the pick of Disney, Sea World, Universal, Wet 'N Wild, Aquatica, International Drive, $20 helicopter rides, and scads of golf courses doesn't suck. And I've come to find out the 'cheapie' methods of entertainment, like Downtown Disney - free parking, free admittance. Two words: Lego Land.

• You hungry? We got it. Mongolian barbecue? Check. Sushi restaurants everywhere. Vietnamese cuisine. Good ol' fashioned rib shacks (it's still the south). Sidewalk cafes in College Park. Authentic Puerto Rican cuisine in Kissimmee. Think of you favorite chain restaurant where you live & I'll betcha we got it here - Carrabba's, White Castle, Olive Garden, whatever. I haven't been stumped yet on that challenge.

Now, I know what you're thinking - 'Great Jer, but are you happy?' Uh, yeah, I am. The job is fantastic - and that may be the topic of a future blog - but the point of this post & others I've made is that life is so full of unexpected twists & turns, that you truly do not know where you may be a month or year from now. If you are finding yourself in the middle of a rough patch, just believe. Then get busy. And maybe you will find yourself, say 6 months from now, gushing about a new place that you now call home. I look forward to hearing from you with such a story.

O-Town O-My!

I have lived in Southeast Florida for over 25 years now, having moved here from Ohio in 1982. My domiciles have ranged from Port St. Lucie in the north to Boynton Beach in the south - centering around Palm Beach County mostly. And like any metropolitan area, we exhibit pride in our choice of residence. Part of the expression of pride is to decidedly trash other areas of the state. And the one area that has long be the whippin' boy is Central Florida, specifically the Orlando area.

Land of the Fake, Mickeyville, RatLand...home of overpriced happy meals, tourist traps & horrific traffic. That's the Orlando that we have portrayed. Much of which is, well, true - especially the traffic part. As my friend Lyle puts it, Orlando's the only town where, the fastest way to get from point A to B is to go in the opposite direction. Mind-numbing traffic. (Tip: Avoid International Drive).

Well, due to various sets of circumstances like the desire to not starve, I have been seeking gainful employment in my chosen career path, which led me to a real nice job offer in - you guessed it - Goofyville. And it was with real trepidation that I decided to take the position offered. That was a month ago, and I can tell you that I have discovered an area of Orlando that very much flies under the radar & is not talked much about - the downtown area.

Before I talk about what is in downtown Orlando. let me tell you what's not there. You will not find any souvenir shops, mouse hats, Chuck E Cheese, Japanese tourists, German tourists, hell - Florida tourists, insidious background 'It's a small world after all' music, or 45-minute wait lines for a 2-minute ride. All that is a 30-minute drive to the southwest that locals barely recognize, let alone point to with pride.

What downtown Orlando is, is one of the coolest urban settings I've ever been a part of. My office is smack downtown, and as such, I've been exploring the area - either on foot or through use of an awesome method of urban mobility unique to O-Town: The Lymmo. A cool decorated bus that has its own dedicated guideway & signal preemption. Translation: cars & traffic lights are not a factor - it glides past any traffic. And it delivers you to the center of bars, restaurants, musicians, museums, open markets & a cool/funky environment that, unlike more famous areas of Orlando, is completely organic and natural. Nothing contrived here. In downtown, It's a legit world after all. And there's no subliminal reinforcement needed of that fact.

The other thing unique to downtown is the proximity of great places to live. And by proximity I mean walking distance. Truly. Like 5 blocks away from a thumping night life & great restaurants are neighborhoods like Lake Eola Heights, Thornton Park & Colonial Town. Safe. Clean. A lot of pride exhibited by the residents. Totally freekin' cool as hell.

So there's my little advertisement for downtown Orlando. Coming from a jaded Floridian with long-held preconceived notions of what Orlando is, downtown has been an awesome eye-opener. And my advice to any would-be traveler to O-Town is this - Take the scads of money you would spend on a hotel with a mouse-shaped tub & overpriced admission tickets for the privilege of standing in mind-numbing lines, and stay downtown. Take in a Magic game, stroll around Lake Eola, try the Vietnamese cuisine on East Colonial...and basically enjoy the REAL Orlando.

Neurotic Browns Fan interviews Browns Head Coach Eric Mangini

Browns head coach Eric Mangini sits down to talk with Neurotic Browns Fan -


NBF: Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule of remodeling the practice facility to speak with us.

Mangini: Uh, you’re welcome. Are you referring to the relocation of the Browns mural?

NBF: YES YOU INTERLOPER! HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE PROUD HISTORY OF THIS TEAM! BELICHICK MUST DIE!

Mangini: Your passion is commendable. Also a little creepy. But don’t worry – I have only relocated it to an area where the public can see it. Have you ever seen the mural?

NBF: Are you being condescending? We pay your salary, bub.

Mangini: Actually, Mr. Lerner does tha…

NBF: LERNER!?! You mean that tea-sippin’ soccer-loving rich boy that cannot fathom the pain we have lived with all these years?

Mangini: Uh, yeah, Randy Lerner, the owner.

NBF: I know who he is! Now you’re insulting my intelligence. You’re not endearing yourself to us, Mangelichick.

Mangini: Well, since you mentioned him, you know that I got my start with the Browns when Belichick was head coach here. I was a go-fer, I broke down film, basically did anything that was asked…

NBF: So you supported the decision to cut (cue the choir) Bernie Kosar?

Mangini: Uh, actually, I didn’t have anything to do with that decision. During that time I was ordering pizza for the press corps that was gathering to attend the press conference…

NBF: I deliver pizzas for Hungry Howie’s.

Mangini: Uh…good…good for you.

NBF: That doesn’t mean I don’t know my football though, Mangoofus. Don’t try me. I once delivered a triple anchovy pie to (cue the choir) Dave Puzzouli. He sacked Elway during The Drive.

Mangini: You must have been proud.

NBF: YOU DON’T KNOW ME!

Mangini: Uh, okay. Anyway, I am real excited about being the head coach of this great team, with its proud history and tradition. It is my goal to bring a championship to this great city and to you fans. You all deserve it.

NBF: What about the Steelers?

Mangini: Uh, what about them?

NBF: My God, are you as blockheadedly obtuse as your former boss, Beliprick? Are you going to beat the Steelers?

Mangini: Well of course. It is my goal to beat whichever team the Browns play on a given week…

NBF: Ya gonna instruct your players to disembowel Roethlisberger? Maybe face-plant him like (cue the choir) Turkey Jones did to Bradshaw? Maybe yank Polamalu’s hair until it rips the flesh off the top of his head exposing his brain matter to the frigid Cleveland air causing him to die a slow agonizing death? Cuz that would be cool.

Mangini: Uh…yeah. Look, my team is going to play tough, nard-nosed blue-collar football, but we will also play within the rules.

NBF: You’re a wuss.

Mangini. Noted. Anyway, the ultimate goal is a Super Bowl win, right?

NBF: No. Beat the Steelers.

Mangini: Pardon?

NBF: BEAT THE FREEKIN’ STEELERS!!! What’s this “Super Bowl” thing you talk about?

Mangini: Uh, it’s the championship game of the NFL, played every year.

NBF: Oh. Do you get there by beating the Steelers?

Mangini: Actually, you get there by making the playoffs & winning all your playoff games. Technically, the Browns could lose twice to the Steelers and still make it.

NBF: I don’t like that then.

Mangini: Sorry to hear that. Anyway, look – I gotta run. I’ve got a ton of evaluation to do on the current players & get ready for free agency & then the draft. There’s just not enough hours in the day, you know?

NBF: Yeah right. You need to go buy some more white paint. I get it. Not enough time for the FANS WHO PAY YOUR SALARY AND WHO YOU SHOULD WORSHIP, YOU FRAUD!

Mangini: Yeah. Anyway, have a nice day.

NBF: DON’T LEAVE BEREA!

...And There Was Much Yawning

So, the Cleveland Browns have announced their new Head Coach - Eric Mangini, the recently deposed head coach of the New York Jets.

And we collectively shrugged.

And I don’t get it. The apathy, that is. I understand that most fans were holding out for a ‘big splash’ hire like Marty Schottenheimer, or the whale of a catch in Bill Cowher. Neither materialized, and in retrospect, they were not going to happen – those were the wet dreams of the fans, but not the wishes of the guy who pays the bills, owner Randy Lerner.

But ponder for a moment what the hiring of Mangini brings to Cleveland, and that is this: A head coach with experience at being a head coach. Yeah I know, you’re yawning again. But for the Browns, this is an accomplishment. The last EIGHT head coaches of the Browns came to the job with zero experience at being a head coach. We have to go all the way back to Nick Skorich to identify the last Browns coach that had such experience when he took the job, and further, the list of such coaches ends there. Eric Mangini and Nick Skorich – the only coaches in Browns HISTORY to bring experience to the head coaching position.

Insanity is defined as repeating behavior expecting different results. And I would have placed the hiring of yet another assistant coach to head the Browns squarely in the insanity category. That is not to say that assistants cannot flourish in their first gig – Sam Rutigliano and Marty Schottenheimer are two examples. But for every Riverboat Sam we had a Forrest Gregg and Butch Davis. For every Marty we had Chris Palmer and Romeo Crennel.

So why is Browns Nation unimpressed with the Mangini hire? Some point to his dour persona and lack of sideline or press conference animation. Seems I remember people describing Paul Brown the same way. Some point to Mangini being part of the ‘Belichick Tree’ of coaches, and here in Cleveland, that is not considered a positive thing since our personal experience with Mumbles was not necessarily a positive one. But love or hate him, he has produced three Super Bowl victories, and the byproduct of that is a tree is planted & his assistants go on to head coaching gigs. We could certainly do worse.

Some think we should have hired a General Manager first, and then let that GM do the hiring of a Head Coach. Sort of like Phil Savage selecting Romeo Crennel. ‘nuff said there. Hiring one before the other guarantees nothing, so get over that.

What I really think is happening is that Browns optimism is at a low ebb. I think it is a defense mechanism us Browns fans have cultivated through the years of Butch Davis mismanagement and Romeo Crennel cluelessness. We don’t want to get excited until we are given a reason to. And hiring another head coach is not sufficient reason. Yet.

But like the Buzzards returning to Hinckley every Spring, you watch what happens when training camp opens in July. We will be back. But for now, we are treating the Mangini hire like we would opening our Christmas present and finding that instead of getting a Big Wheel we got a calculator. Disappointed.

But ultimately, it was the right gift.

The World According To Dee

Mother’s Day is over five months away, so the following story is not meant to serve as any kind of flowery tribute befitting that day we set aside to keep FTD and chocolate companies in business. Instead, it is simply a long overdue introduction for whoever reads my blog to the most amazing person I have ever known. My mother.

Dolores Mae Peroli Bryan, born February 21, 1927. Child of the depression. Married Charles Herald Bryan on February 12, 1949, and remained his devoted wife until his death in 1997. Mother of four more-or-less normal children. Everyone knows her as Dee.

I, of course, know her simply as Mom.

Dee is now 81 years old. At that age she is not the person, either physically or mentally, that she once was – who is – but even at this age she does things that astound. I will get to that shortly. I am her youngest child, and as such share what I believe to be a unique bond; much of which was forged when I was a child, but transcends just that closeness. We are kindred souls with very similar views on politics, sports and how to interact with the world in general. Virtually all that I am as a person can be directly traced to her, and that is not an exaggeration.

In 1974 Dee was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to have a radical mastectomy. In those days that meant not only removal of her breast, but most of the muscles in her upper right arm. The night before the surgery, people came over to visit with her, and I still remember how everyone arrived concerned for her welfare, but left feeling energized by her spirit. To her, it was just one of those things that sometimes happens, and you just face it head on, deal with it, and move on. What I am trying to say is that the word ‘pity’ is not part of her vocabulary.

Her politics are liberal, she thinks LeBron James is a ‘nice young man,’ thinks Romeo Crennel is cluelessly over his head as coach of the Browns, believes that family is the most important asset that a person can have, and you always balance your checkbook to the penny. Not surprisingly, I share all those views.

Dee is perpetual motion. It infuriates us to this day how she simply refuses to sit still, that we fear she will take a fall or simply wear herself out. And even when she is sitting in her chair watching her Cleveland Cavaliers or Indians, she crochets. Ravenously. Like, afghans-for-the-world levels. And while this may not seem unusual, it is worth noting that due to a rough patch of circulatory problems, she has two fingers & half a thumb missing on her right hand and one finger on her left hand.

How much does she crochet? Well, each of us kids have at least five of her afghans, all her relatives, most every neighbor on the street, half the city, and over 300 sick kids in local hospitals. She has donated over 300 afghans to Project Linus, which is a program to basically give sick kids a blanket. Even with about a third of her hand missing, she cranks out about an afghan a week. There are hundreds of children in the greater Akron area with a Dee Bryan-original afghan.

These days, Dee is forgetful and often repeats herself. She often asks which day it is. She will tell you a story at least a dozen times, and in the spirit of quid pro quo, it is best to repeat stories to her so that she will remember them. The onset of dementia perhaps? Nah. She’s just old. And what do I do when she repeats herself? I give her the same patience she always gave me when I was ripping through parts of my life; times where I knew I was causing her to lose sleep fretting over my welfare. I smile and nod, laugh at the appropriate time, and show her the respect she has earned. Not that she has demanded, but earned. Hers has been a life well lived, and one that anyone through emulation would dramatically improve their own life. She is the embodiment of attraction rather than promotion – never boastful, just an example of grace, courage and dignity.

One day in the future – one I hope is still well off – there will be a funeral. It will be an event. Hundreds will be there, because I am not sure she totally realizes it, but the scope of her positive impact to others is vast. And on that day the world will become a far crueler, selfish place with her no longer occupying it. There is no doubt she will be in heaven, as she has lived her life as an angel within our midst.

Ode To The Semicolon

I have always rooted for the underdog, which would help to explain my devotion to a team that has never made it to a Super Bowl in their existence. But now I am going to take this cheering to a level of subliminty heretofore not expressed. I am going to talk punctuation.

More specifically, the misuse of punctuation. It truly shocks me the pervasion of sloppiness in writing. With the proliferation of e-mailing, texting and other 'shorthand' versions of writing, a subculture of punctuation paucity has flourished. And don't even get me started on texting acronyms like lol, roflmao & gtg (Question: Does anyone truly 'roll on the floor laughing their ass off'?). But aside from this bastardization of the language for brevity's sake (or to save money on texting charges), proper punctuation seems to have become a lost art.

I see you rolling your eyes. Stop it.

Punctuation, when used properly, delivers the message or the story in the proper timing; in the way the writer intended it. If not used properly, the message gets garbled, or worse, misunderstood. Hey, wars have happened over misunderstandings, so let's not trivialize punctuation, mmmkay?

Which brings me to the bastard stepchild of punctuation. The semicolon. It's sort of a colon, sort of a comma. And totally misused, or worse, ignored. Semicolons are very important in writing. They are used within a sentence to express a shift in thought yet still having connection to the initial thought, like the following: "I like to eat cows; however, they don't like to be eaten by me." Alas, such sublety is lost on many.

But let's talk about the poor semicolon for a moment. First off, it's a terrible name. Semicolon. It doesn't even rise to the level of a full colon; it's existence is to be only partially like a symbol that has the same name as the body part that carries human waste. How sad. "All I want to be is sort of like the punctuation mark named after the duct for carrying feces from the body."

Such humility.

We could all take a lesson from the humble semicolon and try to emulate its acceptance as a forgotten punctuation mark. The semicolon has been dealt an unfair hand, but it still sits there, ready to be used in its proper place. In fact, look at your keyboard right now - note that the semicolon shares a key with the colon (right side of the keyboard, next to the L). But a closer look will reveal that you do not have to hit the shift key to attain the semicolon, but you DO have to in order to get to the colon. What are the QWERTY creators telling us? That the semicolon is more important than the colon perhaps? That's how I choose to understand it.

So next time you are searching for that right punctuation mark, give the humble, underused and totally misunderstood semicolon a try.

But if you misuse it I will rof and lmao.

What's It To You?

I have never been one to wrap myself in the American flag. Instead, I have looked askance at the injustices of our society with a jaundiced, sarcastic view and wondered, ‘What the hell is our problem?’ To elaborate, it consistently galls me this absolute obsession we as a people seem to have in making sure we have a group to hate. For some bizarre reason, it seems to make us more comfortable with our shortcomings.

Time was - less than fifty years ago in fact - we used to hang blacks from trees for looking at white women. Women have had the right to vote for less than a hundred years. Seems like the newest wave of immigrants are ostracized by those that passed through Ellis Island before them, as if to say ‘The door closed behind us, bub.’

But over time, the assimilation of these peoples, and the simple adherence to our founding principles has rendered the heinous injustices to these people more or less to the history books. Racism still exists, but at least they aren’t lynching negroes in Mississippi anymore. Women still have glass ceilings to break through, but the cracks are extremely evident – it's just a matter of time there.

So the pool of people to pick on has shrunk. But we are a creative bunch, we Americans. Don't tell us we can't do something. Don't tell ME that we are all created equal. By golly, we will find someone to turn our unjustified bigotry and anger towards. And we’ve seem to have found our latest group. Gays.

I am not gay. And I am also about the least homophobic person you will ever meet. I am firmly of the opinion that if someone can find another person to love, honor and cherish to walk hand-in-hand through this sometimes very dark dirge we call life, it matters none whether they share the same sexual organs. If two people are happy, what’s it to me.

And what’s it to you?

Really. If you are a person that is against equal rights to gays, or ever worse, harbors anger towards gays, what the hell is your problem? What is it that makes you hate two people finding love and happiness? Is this a sociopathic streak that you’re secretly fermenting towards people that seem to find a happiness that has somehow eluded you? Does everyone have to be as miserable as you? Does the idea of two people of the same sex copulating repulse you - is that it?

Or do you just need someone to hate? If so, welcome to America. You’re fitting in quite nicely.

Because you are far from alone in that neanderthal view. Laws are being passed in scores of states banning gay marriage. Now please ponder that for moment. Our legislators & by extension the people they represent feels we need laws preventing something that does not impact you in any way. If gays are allowed to marry, it does not affect your marriage or your life in even a remote way. If you're happily married, you are free to remain that way whether gays receive that same right or not. If your marriage is a mess, why not allow gays the same chance at that misery? For that matter, why are you defending something that only about fifty percent of the participants are successful at? As Anna Quindlen stated in a recent issue of Newsweek, "As for the notion that allowing gay men and lesbians to marry will destroy conventional marriage, I have found heterosexuals perfect willing to do that themselves."

Again I ask - What's it to you?

Opponents to gay marriage say its about not allowing people a loophole to receiving health insurance benefits. Well heavens no – we can’t actually have MORE people freed from the anxiety that a broken leg could mean financial ruin, can we? Others cite religious reasons and Bible passages as their justification. Well look – I’m not a Theologian, and as such do not want to delve into what this Book of Solomon says or that Book of Job says. Those that profess to know what God thinks (Here's a piece of advice: avoid these people) would say that homosexuality is a sin, punishable by eternal damnation.

That seems a bit harsh for committing an egregious act of love. But maybe that’s just me. Instead I would just offer this simple & very un-religious-trained observation over this whole ‘religion’ angle – 

What would God think? 

I believe the answer is that He (or She) wants us happy, and as such would be pleased at two people finding love and companionship. I really don’t think flesh-burning in eternity is what is in store for those who have found a life partner to live, love and laugh with simply because Tab A doesn't fit into Slot B. My guess is that God would smile at such an event.

A friend of mine says the reason for our ongoing search for a group to hate is because we are a ‘young’ country, in that we have not yet gotten through our growing pains. I can kinda hang with that. My guess is that most more ‘mature’ countries laugh at us for our teenaged impetuosity & predisposition to hate.

I see only one answer. We need to grow the hell up. There's really no need to hate anyone, and any two people that enjoy each other's company to the point that they wish to make a lifelong commitment to each other should be honored, not derided. 

And certainly not made illegal.

Advice for DA

So…in an extremely disturbing case of déjà vu, a struggling Brows Quarterback got hurt & some fans cheered. Player gets upset. The knee-jerk opinions are the fans are classless jerks, and pity the poor player who is just trying his best under trying circumstances.

A bit of perspective is in order.

First off, the victims here are the fans, not Derek Anderson. The fans are the ones that have shelled out the $50 for the ticket; during an extremely disappointing season & in an economy where the purchase of pro football tickets cannot be a very high priority. That money could be far better used for like, oh I don’t know, maybe Christmas gifts or simply paying bills. Instead, they spend it to watch the Browns play football. Very lousy football.

Secondly, has DA considered why the fans cheered? Does he have the ability to look in the mirror & ask whether HE’S the reason that the ‘fans don't like him’ as he put it? Does he really think that he was doomed to be the bad guy just because the team drafted Brady Quinn? Psychologists call this a ‘victim mentality’ in that a person never looks at how he contributed to a situation but rather how he has been victimized by it.

Lemme help him out. The fans booed you, DA, because they were fed up with your mediocre play & were relieved that they did not have to witness any further of it. An excuse for their behavior? Perhaps. But an understandable one for anyone who cares to put themselves in the shoes of a Browns fan for five minutes.

A pro player that in any way shape or form blames the fans for anything lives in a bubble. And here’s DA’s bubble: He is a very wealthy young man playing a game. The reason he’s wealthy are those booing fans that chose to spend their money on tickets. All his medical bills will be paid for in full – no co-pays, no premiums. He will heal & be healthy in the span of about two months. He will be 25 years old with a number of suitors willing to give him a lot of money for his skill set. He will be financially set for life.

Meanwhile, those nasty booing fans will, if they’re lucky, go back to their $35k a year jobs & scrape change together to pay the electric bill. If they’re not that fortunate, they will hope they don’t get hurt – not because someone will cheer their misfortune but because the resulting medical bills will bankrupt them since they do not have medical insurance.

So DA got hurt & some fans booed. Here’s my advice to him: Get over it. And be thankful you’re not here in the real world with the rest of us.

Everything Is Broken

- Bob Dylan

Whenever a situation strikes me as full of uncertainty, complexity or ambiguity, I go to a reliable source to ferret through the static - Bob Dylan.

Now I am sure that the Twentieth Century Troubadour was weighing in on far more socially impactful issues than the status of a professional football team when he wrote the above, but it still has that clear finality when applied to the status of the Cleveland Browns.

Everything is broken.

Sound familiar? Doesn't it have that 'Oh Gawd here we go again' discordant ring to it? 1991. 1999. 2001. 2005. I swear they should rename the franchise to the Cleveland Cicadas with its rhythmical pursuit of putridity. Our president-elect ran his successful presidential campaign with the message 'Change We Can Believe In'. With the Browns, it's 'Change We Can Set Our Watches By'. Whether the team exhibits success on the field (The firing of Schottenheimer after the 1988 season) or presents another lesson in Murphy's Law On Steroids, this team will embrace change as its mantra.

Look, I'm not here to proffer solutions - at least not in this post - but rather to vent my spleen. This is not about Bring In The Chin or Phil Must Go. It's about that extremely familiar yet still disconcerting feeling deep within my bones that comes with being a Cleveland sports fan. A feeling I do not enjoy, but have come to accept as my lot in life

So I have to find a scapegoat. And I have one. My parents. Do they deserve it? No, they're great people. But they conceived me in Akron Ohio. I had no choice in this. When I was seven years old, my dad said to me, during a Browns-Steelers game, 'Son, see those guys in the black helmets? That's the enemy." Okay Dad. I believe you. And at the time - 1965 or so - it was a true statement. Cleveland owned Pittsburgh. Sunday spaghetti dinners included the Browns on TV with Ken Coleman & Jim Graner. Touch the dial and you die. My choices were root for the Browns or go to my room.

So here we are at the tail end of another Browns season that has inextricably yet almost predictably spun out of control. And yeah, the Cavs are kicking ass & taking names at the moment but the buzz is not how good they're playing or whether they can bring Cleveland a ridiculously-overdue championship...but whether LeBron is going to the Knicks or Nets in two years (Who else but Cleveland fans are already apoplectic over their star leaving two years before the event actually occurs? It's Pavlovian conditioning). And the Tribe - I'm still wondering how a team with All Stars at every position lost a World Series to a bunch of mercenaries eleven years ago. I still cannot get past 'Two Outs To The Title I Hate You Jose Mesa Edgar Renteria Must Die' mental block.

So bring on the latest reboot of the Browns. Clear the cookies, erase the Temporary Internet Files, hit Control-Alt-Delete. Once the screen comes back up, I'll expect to see an improved performance...but I know it won't last. In four years we'll be doing it again.

Ain't no use jivin'
Ain't no use jokin'
Everything is broken.