What Y’all Missed

I know some of you didn’t. I know I didn’t.

What am I talking about? The passing of Levon Helm last week. But that’s not what I mean by what y’all missed. I’m sure many noted his passing.

What you may have missed was one of the most unique voices in rock history as part of a band that was one of the most iconic in rock history. A band that had the audacity to call itself…The Band.

The Band. Simple. Profound.

And very, very talented. Led my Helm on the drums and lead singer, The Band also boasted Robbie Robertson on lead guitar, Rick Danko on bass guitar, Garth Hudson on keyboards and Richard Manuel on just about everything else. This was group that was truly a group – an alchemy. A sum greater that its parts. Individually, they were talented musicians to be sure…but together, they were amazing. They were…The Band. Totally deserving of that simple title.

With the passing of Levon Helm, I was spurred to do a little reminiscing via YouTube of their musical peak, which was the mid-70’s. I watched them perform Up On Cripple Creek and The Weight – two of their most recognizable hits. In both, Helm gave it that soulful, homespun, twangy Arkansas vocal performance that marked his style.

But then I came across a video that I was just mesmerized by. So much so that I played it over and over and over…to the point where the song was just stuck in my head for days –

Virgil Caine is the name and I served on the Danville train…

That song, right there, is why Levon Helm was – and is – a national icon. He took this powerful song about the end of the Civil War and the utter defeat of the Confederate army and wrung every ounce of passion in his body into it. “By May 10th, Richmond had fell....it's a time I remember oh so well....”

And it also shows why The Band was, well, the band.

And it also gave me, as a northerner; pause to reflect on what the south must have gone through when they knew defeat was imminent. The song paints a graphical feel of the time – the army was defeated, they were hungry, tired, and heading back home…but all the bells were ringing and the people were singing.

And what were they singing? “Naaah na na na na na naaaah…Na na na na na na nah”

Almost like a taunt. We won. You lost. Scoreboard. Now go back home while we fill your ears with the sound of your defeat.

And one hundred and ten years after the war ended, Levon Helm and his bandmates totally captured what it must have felt like to have lost that war through the eyes of Tennessee farmer Virgil Caine…and his brother who took a rebel stand until a Yankee laid him in his grave.

Folks, we lost a great voice last week.

Rest in peace, Levon Helm.

An Orlando Primer

So I have now lived in Orlando for over three years, which is an ample amount of time to get a good feel for this place. And to not get lost anymore. Trust me – it is very easy to get lost in this town. I will get into the reasons for that shortly. So I decided to impart the things I have learned about this town on all y’all.

That’s redneck plural.

I love Orlando. I was excited when I first moved here in 2009, and it has just gotten better and better. So many things to see and do. Something always going on. My pet phrase is, if you are bored in Orlando, you just want to be bored…because it is not due to a lack of things available to do. It’s due to your unwillingness to get off your butt and do them.

But it is also a city with a seamy underside. And if you visit, you can certainly stay in your comfy room at the Grand Floridian on Disney property and take the monorail over to Epcot and have a swell time. But if you are feeling adventurous and want to see the city that over two million of us call home, well, read on.

Disney Ain’t Orlando

Nor is Universal Studios. Or Sea World. Or Wet ‘n Wild. Those are our major attractions, and what brings in tourists from all over the world. But that’s not Orlando. The world has gotten a view of the other side of Orlando recently – Casey Anthony, Trayvon Martin. Point being, we are like any other metropolitan area with over 2.3 million people – we have our issues.

So unlike other cities, we are not defined by how we are perceived. This isn’t Cinderella’s Palace or The Incredible Hulk roller coaster. We are a large, sprawling, teeming city filled with excitement…and danger.

Sinkhole City

Orlando likes to boast about all the lakes we have. And we do have a bunch of them. But you want to know what they really are? Sinkholes. Orlando is built on unstable land in the middle of a peninsula. A very high water table, which means there’s a reason we don’t have basements – because they will turn into indoor swimming pools.  And every now and then the land just gives up and falls in. Voila – a sinkhole. And after one of our summer rainy seasons that sinkhole turns into a lake. And two years afterwards, half-million-dollar homes are built with a sinkhole, er, lakefront view.

What the sinkholes also cause is windy, curvy roads. Nothing is in a straight line here. Therefore it is very easy to get lost, and your sense of direction gets compromised – ‘Let’s see…I was heading east, but now the sun’s in my eyes and it’s 7pm….how in the hell did I get headed west?’

Avoid I-4

Traffic is hideous in this town. Anywhere you go – from Winter Garden to Bithlo to Sanford to St. Cloud, there is traffic. Lots of it. And we only have one Interstate – I-4. Now, we do have other highways, but they are toll roads – the Florida Turnpike, 408, 429, 417. So if you want to get anywhere and you don’t want to go fishing through your pocket for change, sooner or later you are going to be on I-4.

I am telling you now. Try not to. At time it’s unavoidable – hey, I-4 is my daily work commute because there’s no other way to get from where I live to where I work. But if you have other options, use them. Please. For the rest of us.

All Cici’s Aren’t Equal

I mentioned earlier that the attractions of Disney, Universal and so on aren’t Orlando. But they are a section of Orlando – the section that we refer to as ‘The Attractions Area’. This is roughly defined as the area southwest of the city, northwest of Kissimmee. This also includes the International Drive (I-Drive) area. I-Drive is a cool place…to visit. But it’s not a place to spend an inordinate amount of time at. Because you will eventually get hungry.

Not that there aren’t places to eat on I-Drive. It is loaded with them, providing any culinary sojourn you care to endeavor upon. The issue is, they’re mostly tourist rip-offs, so expect to pay $15.99 for a cheeseburger. The biggest example of this is Cici’s Pizza – that wonderful chain of all-you-can-stuff-into-your-fat-face pizza buffets. I got two Cici’s within a 10-minute drive of my apartment, one of which is less than a mile from my yoga studio. $4.99 for the buffet.

The one on I-Drive with the exact same selection? $8.99.

You Got A Walmart? We got 10 of them

One of the things that blew me away about O-Town was its proliferation of urban amenities. Whenever I move to a new area I have to identify my amenities – the closest dry cleaner, Chinese take-out restaurant, driving range. Much to my surprise and pleasure, there are about 6 of each. Within 10 minutes of my place.

We also have damn near any restaurant you have where you live, and most likely, multiple locations. Fan of deep-dish Chicago pizza? We got Unos. You a New Yawker that likes his pizza thin and foldable? Good God we got about 150 pizza joints claiming to be ‘authentic New York Style’. Cajun? Try Tibby’s in Winter Park. Vietnamese cuisine? We got a whole section of town – East Colonial – tailored to your palate. Mongolian barbecue, fried catfish huts in the middle of the ‘hood, sports bars, Hooters, Spanish cuisine, Puerto Rican cuisine, Mexican cuisine (each is different), Thai…we got it all.

You want it, we got it. Guaranteed.

Cool Free Stuff To Do

Universal City Walk, Downtown Disney, Leu Gardens, Orlando Historical Center, Wall Street, Lake Eola…to name a few. Believe it or not, you don’t have to spend scads of money to have a good time here, and in many cases, you don’t have to spend anything.

So enjoy your time in Orlando. The City Beautiful.

And stay off I-4.

So Who Moved?

I have been a Democrat ever since I was old enough to vote. Growing up in the strong Union town that was 1970’s Akron, Ohio, there was nothing surprising about that. Akron was a Democrat town.

But it wasn’t just geography that made me a Democrat. My political beliefs have always been aligned with that party. I believe, for example, that how we treat our poor is important, that business isn’t concerned about the public good (they’re concerned about making money), and that war should always be as a last resort. There are many other positions that, if I were to illuminate, would just make me even more Democrat. I have consistently held these beliefs even as I have moved up the economic ladder, and even as I have moved into middle age. So I have been consistent for over 30 years.

What has not been consistent is how I, and on the macro level, the Democratic Party, has been viewed through the years. In the 1970’s we were the majority. In the Reagan Revolution of the 1980s we were often the minority. In the George W. Bush years of the 2000’s we started to become marginalized, especially those of us who were against the Iraq War, as anti-American. After Barack Obama won the presidency in 2008, we were considered left-wing propagandists. When the Republicans won control of the House of Representatives through Tea Party support, we were radicals.

From the voice of the majority to, 30 years later, the far fringe. But the funny thing is, as I pointed out earlier, I didn’t move. So who did?

Kewpie Doll for you if you say the Republican Party.

Republicans have become the well-oiled weathervane of American politics, ever shifting to cater to wherever the prevailing winds are coming from. Now, I get that – to an extent. But what has happened to them is an outright hijack of their party by a true fringe movement. The Tea Party. A movement that came about under dubious pretenses – the election of a black president, fueled by dubious assertions – that said black president is going to ruin the country.

Well, four years later and we’re still standing. Quite better than in 2008 for that matter.

But that’s not the point I am trying to make here. The Tea Party is what they are, and by my count, that’s about twenty percent – at best – of the electorate. And twenty percent of vote in any election makes you, guess what – a loser. Every time.

So I don’t blame the Tea Party for what they are. They have their beliefs and they are entitled to them. Who I blame is the party that has pandered to them, and in the process has moved violently to the right. Want proof? Here you go –

There was once a president that had strong beliefs and a strong vision. He was very popular and served two full successful terms. But even he knew that, in order to get anything done in Washington, compromise had to happen. Legislation that served the interests of both Republicans and Democrats had to occur. This president raised taxes. This president raised defense spending. This president exploded the deficit.

This president was Ronald Reagan.

The same Ronald Reagan that today’s Republicans reverently refer to. The problem is, in today’s political climate, Reagan would not win a single primary, let alone nomination by his party. He would be branded as a Socialist conspirator who not only acknowledges the other side of the aisle, but actually works with them. Today’s Republicans do not take kindly to such traitorous actions. Current-day Republicans do not compromise. They do not budge. They have become the embodiment of far-right dogma. A large chunk of their supporters not only do not accept Obama as president, they believe he is a Muslim. Another large chunk do not even believe he was born in the United States. Folks, agree with me or not, but that is the definition of radical, fringe thinking. If you believe that the president is illegitimate, the radical is you.

As a result, we Democrats (remember us?) have been, in their eyes, moving father away.

But we aren’t the ones who have moved.

Politics, like nature, abhors a vacuum. And in this current political climate, a vacuum has been created by the Republican’s violent move to the right. So someone has to step into and fill that vacuum. It won’t be a Republican. They’ve been hijacked and hamstrung catering to a percent of the electorate that cannot elect anything.

So I will make this prediction now, and check back in November for confirmation. Barack Obama is going to be re-elected. And it won’t be because of Acorn, voter fraud or other concocted conspiracies. He will win the same way he won in 2008. With a solid majority of sane people.

The Republicans created the vacuum, and Obama will fill it.

Ooh My Head

That’s the title of a Ritchie Valens song from the late 1950s, later stolen by Led Zeppelin to create Boogie With Stu. Look it up. Wait, I’ll do it for you –

But I’m not going to discuss music or specifically Zep’s unsavory habit of ripping off other band’s music and calling it their own.

Instead, I am talking about MY head. Last Wednesday I shot my lowest round of golf in five years. A very satisfying 71 at Casselberry Golf Club, with My Man Mike. Satisfying in the sense of shooting a low number, but also unsatisfying in that my damn head got in the way of it being a much lower score. Allow me to recap, and you will see why –

I hit a nice drive on the first hole and proceeded to make a solid par. On two, I half-skulled a gap wedge to 6 feet and made birdie. Number three was a solid two-putt par. We jumped ahead to #6 to bypass a slow foursome and I hit a sand wedge to 3 feet and made the putt for another birdie. On 7 I made a real good sand save for par. On 8, a tough par-3, I hit a 5 iron to 15 feet, two putt par. On 9 I hit a 6 iron to 5 feet and made the putt for birdie.

Enter the first chink in the mental armor – I said to Mike “Holy shit I’m three under.” Mike’s response is what he always says to me – “Don’t think about it. Keep swinging.”

On 10 I made a lucky par. Eleven is arguably the toughest hole on the course, and I made a bogey. I parred 12 and 13. Standing on the 14^th tee I’m 2 under and I know it.

And that’s exactly the wrong place for your head to be – knowing what you’re shooting. The impulse is to try to protect/defend instead of, as Mike said, to keep swinging.

I pulled my drive on 14, but was okay. I tried to hit a hard 9 iron into the wind to a front pin with a bunker in front. Bad strategy. There was 40 feet of green behind that pin, but I hit the club that brought the bunker into play. Splat – into the bunker. Left with a very simple, clean uphill lie in the bunker and about a 50-foot shot, my last thought was “Don’t blade it over the green.”

Well I didn’t. I hit it 3 feet and left it in the bunker.

Now I’m pissed. Stepping up to the next shot I did exactly what I told myself not to do on the previous shot. I bladed it over the green, damn near decapitating Mike in the process. I pitched on and made a 10-footer for double bogey.

Even par.

On to 15. The toughest hole on the course – a 220-yard par 3. On the drive from 14 to 15 I am kicking myself – ‘Nice job Nimrod. You just doubled an easy hole and now you gotta play the toughest hole on the course’. I tried to jump on my 3-hybrid and hit a skank pull-hook that rattled in the huge magnolia tree and came to rest inside a drain culvert. After taking a drop, I hit on the green and two putts later, I registered back-to-back double bogeys.

Two over. When fifteen minutes earlier I was two under.

Ooh my head.

Sometimes I really hate this fucking game.

But it’s not the game! It’s how I play the game that’s the issue. I made three good pars on 16, 17 and 18, and I said to Mike, we gotta go back and play 4 & 5 because I want to post this score, and we had skipped them earlier.

So back to #4 we go, a solid 380-yard par 4 with water in front. The play is to hit the drive as far as you can to set up a short iron over that water. Knowing that, I heel a piece of crap drive about 210 yards off the tee. Now instead of a 9 iron approach I have 170 yards to a back pin into the wind with a pond in front, and I am trying like hell to get two over into the clubhouse.

It was at this point sanity re-entered the cesspool of my brain. I took out a 7-wood, my 180-yard club, and made my best swing of the day, placing the ball about 25 feet from the hole. Two putts later and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief because the fifth hole is just a 120-yard par 3 with no real hazards.

On the fifth tee I said to Mike “I need an ace to break 70.” He just laughed. Because he knows me. I hit it 12 feet from the hole and before I hit the putt I said “If I make this it’s 4 under on the front nine.” I didn’t, but a tap-in par gave me the 71.

Golf is essentially played between the ears. Yes, there is a lot of mechanics involved in executing a proper swing, but ultimately it is about using your brain to a point, then shutting it off – you have to use it to calculate yardage, wind direction, the lie, where you want to hit it and so on. Then you have to shut it off when it’s time to hit the ball. Trust what you got…and just swing.

And for Christ’s sake, do not think about what your score is.

My head hurts.

The View

No, not that estrogen-laden talk show.

I was thinking about my job and what I do for a living. It is an unglamorous position in an unglamorous profession. Specifically I am a transit planner. I determine where buses go. And here in Orlando, that consists of 230 buses on 65 routes serving 95 thousand people a day. It is intricate work, much like a large crossword puzzle where the ‘Across’ and ‘Down’ words intersect at key points, except instead of words it’s buses.

There is a lot of ‘behind the scenes’ work in making a transit system run efficiently. On the surface it seems pretty straightforward – you see a bus going down a street picking up people. You might think, looks easy. Well, when planned properly, it is. But couple the detail of writing bus schedules, making sure the Across and Downs intersect at the right places, then couple that with the road network in Orlando and the insane traffic we have here, and it is a constant struggle to get it right.

In fact, you never really do get it right. There’s just degrees of wrong.

So my job is to minimize the wrong – to get printed bus schedules to reflect real-time, daily-changing variables. For example, a bus operator once asked me, “Do your schedules take into account getting caught by a train?”

No. They don’t. If you get caught by a train then you will run late.

“What about when the Orlando Magic are playing at the Amway? Do you adjust the schedules?”

No. We don’t. If Dwight Howard is pouring in 33 points then you will run late.

So to summarize, this is not a job that most kids grow up aspiring to have. And to be fair, I like what I do, and to quote my mother, I am pretty damn good at it. The pay isn’t bad and the people I work with are, for the most part, a pretty good bunch.

But if you’re sensing a lack of passion for my profession, you would not be incorrect.

So why do I do it?

Well, for one, because this is what I chose to do, and I am now 53. A second career really isn’t in the offing, especially since retirement is (hopefully) just 12 years down the road. But there is one thing I absolutely love about my job, and for some it may seem trivial, but it is really what motivates me.

It’s my office.

I have an awesome office. It is on the top floor of the LYNX Building in downtown Orlando with ceiling-to-floor windows looking westward over Interstate 4. I can look to the southwest and see Disney in the distance. To the north I can see all the way to Seminole County. Looking south I see the skyline of downtown. I can hear the I-4 traffic humming below. It is a fairly roomy office with room for a little circular meeting table and shelves with mementos of my real passions – my son, golf, and the Cleveland Browns.

As I mentioned, some may consider this trivial. I so disagree. It really means everything. I have worked in cubicles. I have worked in a large room with twenty other people. I have had offices with four walls and no windows. I’ve had jobs with no office. My current office beats them all…by a mile. It is the best office I have ever had.

Look, work is where you spend 40 hours a week (at least) at. That’s twenty-five percent of a week. You actually spend more of your waking hours at work than elsewhere, including home. And the environment you are placed in matters. A lot. Cubicles are soul-sucking constructs of supposed efficiency. But an office with windows – 60 feet in the air? That’s damn-near nirvana, Bubba. Especially for what I do.

So, to take it back to the top – why do I do this?

Because I love my office.

The Only Way?

The NFL is a copycat league. This we know. When one team has success utilizing a certain play or system, other teams mock it. The Wildcat, for example.

This seems to have extended to how you build a successful team. Recent Super Bowl winners have featured homegrown Quarterbacks taken high in the first round of the draft – Eli Manning, Drew Brees, Peyton Manning, Aaron Rodgers and so on. So other teams, seeing this success, are copying it. This would explain the Redskins mortgaging their future for the shot at drafting Robert Griffin.

And it also explains why some Browns fans are screaming for the front office to take Ryan Tannehill, who does not even represent the QB consolation prize in this year’s draft – that was Griffin. Tannehill, by most accounts, is the distant-third-best QB in the draft. A project that will need time to develop. A guy who we will not even know for about three years whether he was worth the investment.

But hey, recent Super Bowl winners have first-round QBs. So we gotta have one too, right?

No. Recent success by other teams doing something a certain way does not mean it’s the only way to be successful. See, I could point out a 6th round pick by the name of Tom Brady, or going back ten years, Trent Dilfer. The supporters of ‘Draft a QB High’ blueprint don’t like it when Dilfer is invoked. But it is a valid point – there’s more than one way to win in this league. Baltimore’s plan was a dominating defense and a ball-control offense…and a QB that doesn’t have to go win games (and on the flip side doesn’t lose them).

I know our front office has a plan. And I am sure somewhere in that plan is upgrading the QB position should Colt McCoy not be the answer. McCoy was a third-round pick, so if you subscribe to the ‘Draft a QB High’ theory to success, that’s about two and a half rounds too late, thus his fate is sealed. I am hoping by the point some are starting to see the over-simplistic folly of equating success with where your QB was drafted.

What I would say about the QB position is, it the most visible position on the team. He handles the ball on every play. And we know the QB gets too much of the credit when the team wins and too much of the blame when they lose. Which, by the way, explains much of the criticism of McCoy. With a losing record as a starter, he hasn’t (yet) captured the lightning in a bottle and elevated the play of those around him; therefore he doesn’t represent the express elevator ride to the top that the ‘Draft a QB High’ theorists want to see.

Well, I would offer that Tannehill won’t give us that ride either.

So here it is, here’s my take. Ready?

There are many ways to build a winning NFL franchise. Recent success of other teams notwithstanding. What we have experienced recently are teams that, somewhere along the way, were in a position to upgrade their QB position. They were in a draft position where they could get their QB of the future, let him ferment on the bench for a while, then step in and carry an already good team to higher level of success.

Read that last sentence again. Teams that were already good is the key.

The Browns are not good. Yet.

So how do we get good? Well, this year’s draft is going to be critical. With (presently) three picks in the top 37, we have the opportunity to get three impact players. If Heckert parlays that #4 overall pick into multiple first & second round picks, we will have even more. But unfortunately (or in my opinion, fortunately), QB will not be one of those players chosen.

Unless, of course, Heckert ignores the plan and instead tries to shortcut the way to the top like the Redskins are trying, by ignoring obvious areas of the team in need of upgrading in favor of a project QB.

I have a theory. And I will admit I hope it proves true since the Browns have been living it for about a decade now. It goes like this: The longer it takes for a team to get good, the longer they will be good once they get there. In other words, teams that have a plan and patiently stick to it will be rewarded once the plan produces. Conversely, those that try to shortcut their way to the top will either never get there or, if they do get there, won’t be there long.

So for the 2012 draft, ignore QB. It didn’t work out for us this year and we are in no position to be drafting projects in the top ten. Let the Dolphins take Tannehill. I will gladly welcome Trent Richardson, Justin Blackmon or Morris Claiborne to the team and enjoy watching them improve the team immediately.

William and Trayvon

I don’t know what it is about Orlando, but recently we seem to be in the national spotlight for less than desirable things. What was once all about teacup rides and Incredible Hulk roller coasters has become more sobering storylines about mothers killing their children and getting away with it. We went through a tumultuous summer last year being transfixed on the Casey Anthony trial which culminated in a not guilty verdict over the Fourth of July, and subsequent cries of unfairness of a system with apparently heinous loopholes that would permit an alleged child killer free.

Now we have the shooting of an unarmed teenager by a wannabe cop in Sanford.

Here we go again.

George Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin. He confessed to the shooting. He is, or will be, claiming self defense. He felt this young black man-child posed a threat to him even though it was Zimmerman who was the pursuer. It was Zimmerman with the gun. Martin was armed with Skittles. Zimmerman claims Martin jumped him and broke his nose, and thus was justifiably in fear for his life. So he killed him. This we know. We also have a video tape of Zimmerman arriving at the Sanford Police Department with no blood on his face or clothes, and his nose looking pretty much intact.

Now, we really do not know what happened beyond that. There were only two people who saw it, and one of them is dead. However, what we now have coming out from all angles is speculation. That’s fine, that happens. In the absence of verifiable proof, people speculate. Something has to feed the 24/7 news cycle.

But something else is starting to surface, and it is something very alarming and very wrong. Trayvon Martin’s character is being debated. Reports of being suspended from school repeatedly have surfaced. Reports that he was essentially a thug-in-training. A whole line of totally irrelevant to the fact that Zimmerman shot him information. Information that is designed to paint Zimmerman, not as a make-believe cop with an itchy trigger finger but instead as someone doing society a favor. This picture is starting to become clearer, and it will likely be used for whatever defense Zimmerman must use to defend his actions.

I have another name for you. William Schroeder.

You probably do not know who William Schroeder is. Perhaps it will help if I mention the other names that he is connected with: Allyson Krause, Jeffrey Miller and Sandra Scheuer. Still drawing a blank? Then I will give you one more: The Ohio National Guard. Here’s one more: Kent State University. May 4, 1970.

Schroeder was one of the students killed by the Ohio National Guard during the Vietnam War protests at Kent State. Schroeder was guilty of nothing more than going to class at the most inopportune time, at about 12:15 p.m. on Monday, May 4, 1970. That is him, with the box around him, books in hand, part of the group that the Guard fired into. That picture was taken about ten minutes before he was killed.

In the wake of the Kent State shootings, we were informed that this was a rioting mob. That there were snipers on rooftops – and perhaps in the crowd – that endangered the Guard’s lives. That, therefore, the shootings were justified. History ended up showing, however, that there were a total of 67 shots fired that day and all 67 were by the Guardsmen. The final tally was four dead, nine wounded, and none of them Guardsmen. In the aftermath, a lot of spin was attempted, from the President of the United States all the way down to the Mayor of Kent, to portray the shootings as justified. That order had to be restored. That, hey, a few dead radicals…so what.

Look at that picture of William Schroeder again. Do radicals wear windbreakers and carry books?

Keep this story in mind as the George Zimmerman case unfolds. Because we are not a country that remembers our past very well. Trayvon is going to be vilified. As his grieving mother said “They killed my son. Now they’re trying to kill his reputation.” We will be led to believe that Zimmerman was simply doing his job, and Trayvon got what was coming to him.

When I go to the the May 4 Memorial in my visits back to the campus where I spent eight years of my life pursuing and obtaining two college degrees, I am always left with the same conclusion:

These kids did not deserve to die.

And neither did Trayvon Martin.

After all the talking heads have talked, that’s the bottom line. This is not about wearing hoodies or walking though a neighborhood after dark or being suspended from school. It is about abuse of force.

Both William and Trayvon were the victims of it.

An Intimate Group

I just returned from a trip. It was a trip that can be categorized in a number of fashions – it was a pleasure trip consisting of a lot of golf with some old friends of mine. That is probably the most general way to describe it but certainly not the only way. These are guys I have known, some for over 15 years. Others I had never met before. Some I am very close with. Others, honestly, I probably would not spend a lot of time with.

We are a group that, if not for a shared disease, would not normally mix.

The disease is one that, if not arrested on a daily basis, will kill us. And the way we arrest it is to take action. And one of those actions is what we did for the past five days in Charleston, South Carolina –insisting that we absolutely enjoy life. That may sound odd since I am being purposely vague about our shared malady, so just trust me on this. This is something we had to do.

And we, or speaking for myself, had an awesome time. I played six round of golf in five days. I have the blisters, sunburn and the inability to raise my left arm as proof. I also have the glow of a shared experience. We don’t drink alcohol, which seems to raise eyebrows in others. But one of the ways we don’t drink is to mix with each other. We stay close.

Unfortunately for me, I moved away from Akron 11 years ago (where these guys are from), so the opportunities to stay close to them are limited to these trips. So for me, this was an essential journey.

So we laughed, we ribbed each other, we bet a little, we golfed, we had dinners together, and we shared. Twice we held meetings back at the hotel. In these meetings we each talked about, well, whatever was on our minds. During one of these meetings, John H. Jr. had an illuminating comment. We usually preface our comments with our name & acknowledgement of our malady. Instead John said ‘Do we really need to state our names? We are a pretty intimate group’.

An intimate group.

Indeed we are.

These trips are bittersweet for me. I dearly enjoyed our time together, but I also know that time together is limited, that in a few days I would head south to Orlando while they all headed north to Akron. Sometimes that reality got to me. It did during one of these meetings, as I spontaneously started welling up and crying. It also happened as I said my goodbyes to them when I left to go back to Orlando. I shook each one’s hand, gave each a hug. And then the last one was John. Not the John that said the ‘intimate group’ comment, but John H – my Scarecrow. My closest, dearest friend in recovery. I hugged him…and I couldn’t let go. I told him I loved him. He said he loved me. And I kept hugging him.

Obviously, I had to let go, because John had more golf to play and it is kind of difficult to play golf with someone attached to your chest. I got into my car and started the 400-mile drive back home. Before I even got on the highway I was crying.

I don’t know how much they miss me, and that really doesn’t matter. That’s for them to answer. But I can tell you I miss these guys. A lot. I have similar friends here in Orlando, but it is just not the same. These were the guys that saved my ass time and time again. We are an intimate group, because, despite our apparent differences, we are cut of the same cloth. Nobody knows us like we know each other. It’s not on a physical plane. Not even an emotional one. It is much deeper than that. I cannot explain it, and do not really want to try to. It doesn’t need analysis. It just is.

And I can tell you this –

My calendar is already circled for a trip to Charleston in March 2013.

Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio

So, where are you from?

This is a common question uttered down here in Florida, as most folks are from somewhere else. When I am asked that, I usually reply with Ohio. When pressed I say northeast Ohio, Akron area. If they are really wanting details I mention the town I grew up in – Cuyahoga Falls.

Ah, Caucasian Falls. In my youth it consisted of 49,572 white people. It is not so homogenous now, as integration and matriculation from neighboring North Akron has brought it into modern times. But my high school graduating class consisted of 841 white faces. I did not share a classroom with a black or minority until I got to college. To be clear, that is not something I am proud of. It’s just how it was.

But anyway. The Falls was a great town to grow up in, and it is still an interesting place to live, as my mother and sister still reside there. So my purpose here is to give a bit of a primer on my hometown.

First off, let’s get the pronunciation straight. Cuyahoga is an Indian word meaning crooked. The Cuyahoga River, which runs through town is also called the Crooked River. One look on a map would explain why. But the correct pronunciation is KYA-HO-gah. That’s if you say it slowly. We don’t, and instead it comes out Ki-ogga. That’s why we just say The Falls. So now that we have that down, here are some interesting (to me anyway) facts about The Falls -

One Of The 24 Nicest Places To Live

When I was growing up in the Falls there were signs at the city limits proclaiming “Welcome to Cuyahoga Falls – One Of The 24 Nicest Places To Live In America.” I was always intrigued by this proclamation. First off – why 24? How did they come up with that number? Secondly, how was ‘Nicest’ defined? Was it because we were all white? Was it because the people were nice, or that nothing exciting ever happened there? To be sure, The Falls of my youth was one of unlocked doors at night and no fear of going anywhere or doing anything. I guess that’s how they ended up with that moniker.

Rex’s Erection

One of the more interesting residents of The Falls was televangelist Rex Humbard. During the 50s and 60s his broadcasts emanated from the Cathedral of Tomorrow, a cool-looking circular building up on State Road. He was on a par with Jimmy Swaggert and the Bakkers as far as power in the God Needs Your Money arena. So Rex pulled in a lot of bucks. In the early 70s he took much of this fear of going to hell money and plowed it into erecting a 500-foot tall tower with plans of having a revolving restaurant perched atop. Construction began, and up rose this concrete monstrosity that looked like a skinny nuclear cooling tower. Not surprisingly, when Rex got the tower completed, he ran out of money to construct that revolving restaurant, so he never was able to finish off his dream. But the tower remains to this day, and is the iconic image of The Falls. The locals have dubbed it Rex’s Erection.

The Naked Lady Building

On Portage Trail there is an interesting building. It is circular in design, and it presently houses the Akron Art Institute. What makes it unique, however, is the exterior of the rotunda. It is replete with...3-D images of...we are not sure what. But for some of us with more imaginative minds, we see naked ladies. Check it out for yourself.

Rockin’ On The River

In the 70s, downtown Falls went through an urban renewal period where Front Street was closed to vehicular traffic and was turned into a walking plaza, which essentially killed the local businesses. There used to be a movie theater, car dealerships, restaurants and so on. When they dried up and died, other businesses took their place, a Sheraton hotel was built, and new venues opened up. The plaza now hosts some kind of festival every summer weekend, and every Friday night there is a drunkfest overlooking the river called, appropriately, Rockin On The River. Live bands perform, cheap beer is consumed, and everyone has a grand old time.

Black Tigers

That is the name for the Falls High sports teams. The Black Tigers, which I always thought was funny for a couple of reasons. One, tigers aren’t black. That would be a panther. Two, as I stated earlier, there wasn’t anything black in the Falls. If you were black, you best get yourself on the other side of the high level bridge into Akron before sundown. So to have our sports teams have a ‘Black Tiger’ moniker seemed goofy…at best. Ah well. We are goofy. But we are also pretty good people.

So that is where I am from. And like they say, everybody has to be from somewhere, and I am a Black Tiger.

Rowrr.

I Love My Yoga (Instructor)

It’s Monday night and I am unwinding after my now-standard activity of Monday and Thursday nights. Yoga.

Yep. That Eastern-mysticism adopted by the leftist freeks in Cali in the 60s but now a mainstreamed exercise of health, wellness and funny poses. Downward dog, cobra, cat/cow, warrior…and funny Indian words that I still cannot pronounce.

But I love how Lee pronounces them.

Lee is my instructor. And I love her as much as I do the yoga. Maybe more so. She is the most positive, gentle, empathetic person I have ever met. Never a negative word from her lips. She is beauty and beautiful in one. I love her.

In fact I told her so tonight, after we finished and she was talking to some of the other students in class, I walked behind her, kissed her ear & whispered ‘I love you’ in that lovely ear of hers.

But back to the yoga for a minute. I have been doing it for about four months now, and have finally gotten to the point where I can do most of the poses. And the ones I can’t? Well, that’s okay, and that brings up one of the things I love about yoga. There is no right or wrong. It is all about you and what want to get out of the practice. Nobody is an ‘expert’ at yoga. We are all just yogis coming to our mats as an affirmation of being kind to ourselves. To give ourselves honor. To treat ourselves to a wonderful amalgam of gentle exercise, meditation and blessings.

This is why, at the end of each practice, we honor each other with hands pressed together against the forehead, a bow of the head, and the word Namaste, which means, the light in me honors the light in you.

Mutual beauty and respect. How awesome.

I am now feeling the tangible effects of practice. I am wonderfully loose now, and it shows in my golf game as I have added about 20 yards to my drives. That was one of the main things I was hoping for from this, but to limit the positives to how far I can hit a golf ball is doing yoga a great disservice. It has taught me patience, empathy, soundness of mind and body…not to mention unbinding my 53-year-old body of years of institutionalized stress.

Lee is a taskmaster. Not in the drill sergeant sense, but in the sense of, she can do poses I can only dream of doing, and she makes sure we all get a good workout. At the beginning of class she asks what we want to work on; for example, the back, shoulders, legs, whatever. She then tailors the practice that evening to those areas. She is so giving and obviously loves what she does. I get the sense that it’s not ‘a job’ to her but something she relishes as much as we all do.

I now have a nickname. Being the only regular-attending male in the classes, the other ladies now call me Token Yoga Dude. I love that. Not to mention sharing classes with 10 or so women. Someone name me a better way to spend a Monday night than watching a dozen women twisting and contorting without going to a strip club.

I recently added Thursday nights to my practice, at Lee’s insistence. About a month back she felt I was ready for a second session each week. And I will tell you this – I will do anything she tells me to do.

The only other woman in my life that shares that honor is my mother.

So, this is a love story. I love yoga.

And I love you, Lee.

How NOT To Raise a Kid

I am a father. My son is quite a talented artist. Now 17 and a Junior in a magnet arts high school, his future is bright. His mom and I have done whatever we could to nurture and encourage this talent.

‘Encourage’ is the key word.

Last Sunday I went over to Winter Park Golf Club to play nine holes. I was on the first tee warming up when a father and son walked up to the tee and asked if they could join me. I said sure. The boy was 10 years old, dressed impeccably, sporting a fine set of fitted clubs, Nike golf bag and hat. Dad wasn’t playing. I hit my drive then stood to the side awaiting the kid’s shot. The dad started – “Now remember what the pro told you…” The boy hit his drive a little fat, about 100 yards. The father, “That was terrible. Hit another one.” The boy re-hit and it was a much better shot.

As we walked down the first fairway we made our introductions. John and John Jr. The dad was friendly towards me, but a drill sergeant towards his son. The boy missed the green with his approach shot – the dad remarked, “Is this what I am paying for lessons for?!? Jeez.”

This went on for the balance of the round. The boy walked along from shot to shot with the dad chirping in his ear. The boy never said a word – head down, determined. He didn’t look like he was having any kind of fun.

On the fourth hole the boy bladed a chip shot across the green. The dad berated him. I then followed suit with my chip shot, also blading it across the green – “Looks like my son is wearing off on you.” I demurred, saying oh no. It was a tough shot, and just because I was getting a little tired of the dad’s boorish behavior, added, “And so was his.” I was walking a fine line, as I never tell anyone how to raise their kid, because surely I would be offended if someone tried to tell me how to raise mine. But it was apparent this guy didn’t have any idea how tough this game is.

He also has no clue on how to raise a kid.

On the seventh tee, while the kid was hitting hit drive, I said to the dad, looks like he has had some lessons. The dad said oh hell yes. He’s been to the David Leadbetter academy, and is presently working with the pro at their home club. He also made it clear to me that this kid is his (the dad’s) ticket to scholarships and the easy life. He is living vicariously through his kid. It is sad. And it is wrong.

Walking down the last hole, I finally had a moment alone with the kid. I asked him, “So, are you going to play on the PGA Tour?” His reply, without hesitation, “Of course.”

Yeah, well if he doesn’t end up hating both the game and his dad before he’s 16.

Seeing my opening, I told him, “Hey, remember. It’s a game. You’re supposed to have fun.”

We putted out on the last hole, and in typical professional fashion, the boy came over to me, took his cap off, shook my hand and said, “It was a pleasure playing with you sir.” I lightly chuckled at the kid’s decorum beyond his years and said, “You too, John. Keep having fun” and shot a look at his dad. Heading to my car, I said to both of them, “Have a good evening” to which the dad replied, “Oh we aren’t done yet. We have more stuff to work on.” and marched the kid back to the first tee.

Legend has it that Tiger Woods’ dad was quite demanding on him. Earl Woods would try to mentally strengthen young Tiger by coughing in his backswing or challenging him all the time. Obviously, it worked. He developed one of the greatest players of all time. But I just cannot imagine Earl berating a young Tiger…especially in front of strangers. Tiger speaks very fondly of his dad, and that hug they had after he won the 1997 Masters seems to indicate Tiger appreciated what Earl did for him.

I am not picturing such fondness between John and John Jr.

As I mentioned at the start, my son Nick is a talented artist. I think he will go far with this talent. Now, I am far from an ideal father, but I cannot ever imagine looking at one of his drawings and saying something along the lines of ‘Jeez this is crap. That’s the best you can do? Get back to your easel.’

And that’s why Nick loves his dad.

And why John Jr. will end up hating his.

Advice to the Class of 2012

I remember many moons ago in the summer of 1981, fresh out of college, living in Houston, Texas. I graduated with my Bachelors degree in May and two months later I moved from northeast Ohio to Houston. To get a job. Northeast Ohio was going through a very hard and deep recession, and my guidance counselor had one word of advice: Leave. I was 22 years old, very full and very sure of myself. I was ready to unleash my awesomeness on the world.

So I went to Boomtown. I was there for maybe two weeks, when I read an article from Lynn Ashby, a columnist for The Houston Chronicle. Somewhere I still have it – it was titled, ‘To The Class of 1981: We Don’t Need You.’

Ouch.

That really pissed me off. Don’t need me? How DARE you! You obviously do not know who I am!

Yeah. They knew exactly who I was. Mr. Ashby’s point was, we are doing quite fine, thank you, and do not expect to wow us with your presence. Part of that was a Texas attitude thing as they were facing thousands of transplants (like me) invading their city with the idea that we were gonna show them how things were done. It was his reminder that they didn’t need saving, and certainly not from some 22-year old punk with a freshly minted Business degree from a state college in Ohio.

Now, Mr. Ashby stated his view rather inartfully, but there was an underlying truth to it. And it is a piece of advice that now, over thirty years later, I am ready to pass on to the next crop of college graduates. It is this:

We are doing quite fine, thank you.

That is not to say we don’t need you. We do. We need you to do the crap work we had to do when we had no real-world relevance. But that is just the way things are. We are not impressed with college degrees with the only relevant experience attached to it was as a lab assistant in your Psych 101 class. College is not real life. And many would say college does a poor job for preparation of real life. I agree. Because that’s not college’s job. Their job is to educate you, but you still have to learn how to wash whites separately, eat on $25 a week, and learn your place in the work arena.

And that place is the bottom of the totem pole. Where we once were.

Grads, there’s no shortcut. No secret handshake that, once learned, gets you a corner office and an executive assistant. You are not going to make six figures by your second year of gracing yourself with your presence. We may, if we like you and the job you do, decide to keep you around for awhile.

We need the comedic relief anyway.

You can also dispense with sucking up to the boss, because he (or she) is very ‘hep to that. Because we did that too. Want to impress the boss? Work until 8pm a few nights to beat a deadline by three days. Forego a Saturday afternoon of beer pong and log some desk time so you can have that proposal sitting on her desk when she comes in Monday morning. Ask coworkers if they need help on a project. Make yourself invaluable though hard work and being there. You will get noticed. Even when you think you’re not…because people are watching you. So make sure you’re being watched for the right reasons.

Don’t want to do that? Well, the world needs ditch diggers too.

Some will say that’s harsh. Yes it is. But that’s business, and business is harsh.

So just remember – we’ve been here a while and, more importantly, have been where you are (or about to be). But also remember this – It’s not personal. We like you. You remind us of what we once were. So realize that you do not possess anything we do not already have other than youthful hubris. You represent fresh blood, an (hopefully) open mind, and lots of energy ready to be exploited. That’s what you bring to the work arena.

But Lynn Ashby was right.

We don’t need you.

What I Like

So I have been writing a lot lately about music. Old music. 60’s and 70’s stuff. What’s good, what’s overrated, what should be avoided like I-4 at rush hour. That era represents my formative years when I was morphing from nerdy loner kid to geeky teenager to well, a nerdy loner geeky adult. So that era has an impact with me. I am also writing this with the sad realization that I only knew one of the bands nominated for best Rock Band at this year’s Grammys. Fortunately, it was the winner, Foo Fighters.

Therefore I am sure that some (certainly not many) may have concluded I am an old fogey that longs for the days when Foghat opened for Thin Lizzy at the Hollywood Sportatorium.

Not really. Cuz Foghat sucked.

But besides that. Some may believe that I think today’s music is a bunch of pubescent crap. Well, yeah. Some is. Case in point – I would be totally fine if Blink 182 broke up and never produced another whiny note. They’re the Foghat of the new millennium. Annoying. And it has now been twenty years since Grunge hit the scene, so that is also music of another generation. So I cannot say in good conscience that Alice In Chains is new music. I like the Chains, but they’re yesterday’s news.

So it’s time to get with the new century. There are a number of new bands (meaning, the last 10 years, so don’t give me that 2002 was a long time ago, mmmmkay?) that I really like. Their music has depth, meaning. And they can shake a coat of paint off the side of the house. So here are three ‘new’ bands that I totally dig, and thanks to their presence on the scene, will keep things fresh while still honoring where they came from -

Chevelle

Angst in a nutshell. Lead singer Pete Loeffler can lay down a whine but he’s not a pussy. He’s not looking for sympathy. He’s looking for a party. And the platform that his vocals are built upon is pure rock power chords –

Deep Purple could do that. Chevelle takes what the greats before them gave them and spiffs it up into a nice, new millennium mosh pit.

System Of A Down

Music for ADHD victims. Their songs are a panoply of, here we are…NO we’re now over here…FOOLED ya…we are now in left field intercourse. This is not music for the masses. Some of their stuff will leave you with a migraine, including this one –

You’re heading to the medicine cabinet looking for the Tylenol, aren’t ya. They scream, they have unintelligible passages, but unlike the Death Metal genre, they come back to a melody. C’mon now, you know you were swaying to the ‘Everybody’s gone to the party have a real good time’ part weren’t ya?

Sure you were.

The Raconteurs

Okay, this is for you, Dawn. But I like the Racs. I like any of the stuff Jack White is a part of. He’s got charisma and stage presence. And they have wonderfully crafted songs that are just a little off-kilter to keep you interested. That’s okay. Steady as she goes –

Now sure. I have other new bands I like as well. Case in point - The Strokes, Five Finger Death Punch, Puddle of Mudd to name a few. The sum total of these bands and their works has me feeling good about where 'new rock' is heading.

Just please. Don't ever resort to hair spray and spandex. One era of Cinderella was enough.

Guilty Pleasures

We all have them. And I got mine.

Now sure. Some of a more prurient nature that I won’t get into here, and please, keep yours to yourself too (unless I am part of them). But we all have those things we do that, deep down, we are not really proud of, as we feel if they were found out it would somehow lessen how people view us.

Well, I am getting too old to care about such fronts. I yam what I yam. And here are a few of my guilty pleasures that may make you view me differently. I’m ready for the fallout.

Cici’s Pizza

Being half Italian, I may get disowned for this. Some of my more distant ancestors would likely give me a Youngstown Tuneup over the revelation that I occasionally frequent a place where their ‘Italian food’ as about as Italian as French Fries are French.

Sue me.

I subscribe to the theory that pizza is like sex - when it's good it's very good, and when it's bad...it's still pretty good.

C’mon $5.99 for all the pizza, pasta, salad, breadsticks I can eat? So what if it’s pimply teenagers making the pies instead of Mario? And so what if it’s not authentic? It tastes pretty good and there’s plenty of it. Look, there’s a half zillion pizza joints in this town, and if I wanna go plunk down twenty bucks so some sweaty Vito makes me a triple meat authentic pie I can. And I do. But more often than not I cruise over to Cici’s for a nice thirty minutes of shoving as many types of kind of okay pizzas as I can into my mouth.

And the coup de grace with Cici's is two words:

Dessert pizza.

I rest my case.

 

Techno Music

This is definitely going to get me branded as a hypocrite, given the tomes of stories I have written about rock music, what bands rock and which ones are lame-o-matic. I have certainly set myself up for criticism as I have painted myself as a Rock Snob.

Well, I am. When it comes to rock I like to think I have high standards and a discernment over what has integrity/talent and what sucks canal water.

Fortunately Techno isn’t Rock. It’s my diversion from it. And yes, I know it is a manufactured sound, something concocted in a studio replete with over-dubs, drum tracks and synthesizers. Something that cannot be duplicated on stage, but only on a computer.

But I loves me some FatBoy Slim. And Crystal Method.

Sorry.

 

Celebrity Apprentice

Donald Trump is a major assbag. A tool of the highest degree. But for some reason I get a vicarious kick out of watching celebrities chuck each other under the tires in the boardroom, trying to permanently attach their lips to The Donald’s backside. I don’t give a damn about the first 90 minutes of the show, but I must tune in to see if Dionne Warwick or Gary Busey goes sideways. The last half hour is must-see trash TV.

Plus Ivanka is smoking hot.

 

Wal Mart Socks

Actually, lemme alter that. Wal Mart undergarments. No wait – stuff from Wal Mart.

Seems like whenever I go to Wal Mart I check out with a typical Wal Mart slate of purchases: Fruit of the Loom underwear, orange juice, motor oil, an Alumina-wallet, some crappy DVD from the three-dollar bin, plums, Q-tips.

And socks. I don’t know who George is, but he makes good socks. Three pair for 8 bucks. Unless they got the price slash thing going on, when I can score three pair for 6 bucks. I’m talking argyle, reinforced heel and toe, office attire sock that I gladly wear under my $300 suit for special work occasions, like preventing unemployment or sucking up to the boss.

If he only knew.

But then again, now he does.