My last blog entry had a picture of my girls at Christmas time...so I'm cutting it close.
I've got a lot of mind-numbing ramblings and stories that only interest me, and tall tales of things I find amusing yet you may not. I will try to tie a date or month to different entries which may hopefully lead to less confusion. Believe it or not, I have actively been adding to the blog throughout the year…but I haven’t necessarily compiled them into a central place. Proceed with caution.
So let's get right to it.
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September 2008
We recently returned from a quick mid-September trip to New York City. It originally started as a one-nighter, but turned into a two-night ordeal as my wife pointed out “you don’t get to NY too often”. .
It all started when my mom and dad surprised me with tickets to a Yankees game. This is the last season for the stadium that has been home to the Yankees since 1923 Although I hate the Yankees and have a common disdain for the American League in general, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see “The House that Ruth Built”.
The wife and I left Friday morning and caught all of our flights on time. We touched down at LaGuardia at 3:30 and searched for the best way to get to our hotel. Our hotel was located just on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, near the George Washington bridge.
Now it should be noted that my wife and I have been quite a few places and while my sense of direction and ability to navigate is fairly adequate, the wife’s is a hundred times better. The same woman that will lose her phone 5 times a day remarkably can find an alternate route in a foreign city at the snap of a finger. Having said that, once we landed we asked the folks at the information counter what was the best way to our hotel. “Oh, easy…just go here, blah blah..” So on a bus we hopped. Figuring about a half hour, we’d expect to be able to check into our hotel, change and head to the 7 o’clock game.
As we bounced nauseously through the city, stopping abruptly for every traffic snarl (and there were countless snarls) my mind fought through the fact that I can’t stand buses…or other people, for that fact.
Suddenly, amongst the cavern created by the incredibly tall, amazing packed buildings of the city, our driver stopped the bus and told us we were here. “This doesn’t seem like New Jersey.” I thought to myself. We jumped off along with everyone else where a guy told us to wait for the next bus heading where we needed to go. Keep in mind, it is no longer spritzing rain as it had been when we landed…it was essentially a downpour with a little bit of cool wind thrown in for good measure. It’d only be another half hour or so…that’s what they told us. We’re standing on the sidewalk with our luggage and a couple dozen other passengers, pedestrians are trying to get around us..it’s raining and I don’t think we’re even within radar range of our hotel. Amazingly, at the end of the block is this giant, beautiful building called “Grand Central Station”. Our thoughts were…if you can’t get some sort of transportation in this place, you’re a shmuck. So out of line we jumped and we headed to the warm, dry confines of this place that has been a hub of intra-city travel for decades. Once inside we stood and marveled at the architecture and grandeur of this place. It really is impressive and recognizable too! We were trying to think of all of the movies we’ve seen this place in. We headed off to catch a train, a subway, a ferry…anything. Should be simple.
Well, we come to find that no matter where we went or what mode of transportation we tried we were essentially told “you can’t get there from here” or “get a taxi”. We tried the taxi. It’s New York City…you can just stand on the side of the street and hail one of the 50 million cabs you see flying by, right? Wrong. It’s about 4:30 on a Friday. Rush hour. We had to wait in yet another line, on the street, in the rain for about another half hour. Finally, my vacationy, take-it-easy attitude was quickly evaporating.
Eventually we shuffled to the front of the line and got a taxi. We told him where we wanted to go and he looked at us as if we were crazy. He had to flip open some book from underneath his seat just to find it. When a New York cabbie has to go to some book hidden under his seat, you know you’re screwed. He then said, “That’ll run about $175”. Wifey’s jaw hit the floor. My blood started to boil. We got out. We found another bus station, bought tickets and walked to our gate. The line stretched out the door. In line, people told of us 20 different routes we could have gone.
To make a long story short (too late, I know) we somehow (and at this point, I can’t even remember how or how much it cost) we made it to our room. It was already 7 o’clock when we checked in which crushes my rule of being at a ball game 2 hours before the National Anthem, but the steady rain outside made me think there might not be any baseball being played in New York tonight.
I think the thing that was so frustrating was that there was no clear-cut way to get where we needed to go. As I said before, there are a thousand modes of transportation in that city, but we kept getting differing information. We’ve been to Chicago and other towns across America. We’ve been to France and England too. But we’ve never been so screwed up in our sense of direction in our lives.
So we went to the stadium (after a $60 cab ride). We turned a corner and there it was. Yankee Stadium. Even through the dreary drizzle of a mid-September rain, the old place stood like a beacon. I couldn’t walk fast enough to get there.
We walked through the turnstiles and what I really wanted to see is what struck me and the wife first…it was old…and it was cramped. But that’s really the charm of it. We’re so used to being in the latest, state-of-the-art facilities…with their 60 foot wide concourses and Build-A-Bear workshops. But not here. Years of old paint piled on top concrete, steel beams, rivets and giant bolts were the backdrop. While most would see the grunge and “age” as something less than desirable, I saw it as if we were in a time machine. I stood there, taking it all in as people clad in pinstriped jerseys and ball caps made their way around me. 50 years ago, someone was making this very same journey to this very same stadium…but they certainly weren’t in blue jeans and a t-shirt as I was. They were most probably like the old pictures where the guys were in a suit and a brimmed hat. And I’m certain the old timers didn’t pay 60 bucks to get transportation to the ballyard!
As we walked, it was such a sensory experience. If you could throw yourself back to the days of Mantle, Maris, Dimaggio…even farther back to Gehrig and Babe Ruth it probably couldn’t have been too much different. We rounded a corner and I told my wife, “I’m closing my eyes.” She replied “You better..because there it is”
To me, there are few things more perfect than the bright green grass of a baseball field and there’s hardly been a time when I don’t look onto a ball field for the first time without getting a charge out of it. I knew this moment would be different…it would be better.
With my eyes squinted closed while shuffling along the rail up the small corridor and to the opening leading to the field, I could sense I was getting close to opening my eyes. I slowly opened my eyes and there it was. That bright green grass. But what made this more dramatic for me than anything was my thoughts of the folks who called that field their home throughout the years. I mean, many of the greatest ever played here. It was such a feeling I’ll never forget.
I’ve held dear my experiences in these old ballparks. One of my favorites was the old Tiger Stadium, the actual home field of Ty Cobb (some considered the best player ever) during his playing days. That park was great for the same reason it was probably torn down and rebuilt…it was old and dingy, void of luxury boxes and Dippin’ Dots.
My visits to Tiger Stadium and other old parks from the formative days of baseball such as Fenway Park in Boston and Wrigley Field in Chicago were special for the same reasons I mentioned about Yankee Stadium earlier. There’s a romantic, intimate charm about these places. Without going all George Will on you and waxing poetic about these old stadiums, I can’t help but feel a little sad that their days have ended or their days are numbered. I guess there’s something in me that enjoys the bare-bones feeling of these old “cathedrals” (and I think that word is so appropriate in this case) and I consider myself fortunate to have visited these places before they meet the wrecking ball.
So our trip to Yankee stadium ended with the public address system blaring that the game had been cancelled that night. I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to see an inning there, but I also know that you don’t have to see a ball pitched or a hitter swing to appreciate what a place like that can offer. I felt sorry for my mom who spent so much time and effort setting everything up and getting the tickets and itinerary straightened away…but I think she knows that I was not disappointed at all.
Yankee Stadium was truly a treat and something I appreciated on so many levels that maybe some other folks, especially other tourists, don’t “get”. I will soon forget the $9.50 beers I gulped down (now I can understand how they afford that huge team payroll) and the chaos of just getting to the park…but I’ll never forget walking up that corridor and seeing the House that Ruth built with my own eyes and spending time there.
As the place emptied, we decided to walk the surrounding area a bit. We neared a sports bar and the wife suggested we should go there. What better way to cap off a hectic day of travel…a day that saw us forking out crazy amounts of cash, finding 37 alternates routes to get where we needed to get, and being stuck in traffic in a place as foreign as the Big Apple…than to have a couple of cold beers with the locals. I step to the bar and order two bottles of plain ol’ Miller Lite. The bartender placed the cold brown bottles into my outstretched hands and my taste buds tingled in anticipation. The bartender then said, “That’ll be $14”. My hands, which were so lovingly caressing the bottles of beer, tightened into fists of rage. 7 bucks for a bottle of freakin’ beer!?! I always think about the story of Larry Bird when he and the other members of the Dream Team (the first Olympic team assembled with professional players…probably the greatest basketball team ever) went to a hotel bar after practice. They’re all millionaires and have lived in luxury most of their professional careers. When Bird ordered his beer and the waitress said it would be $7, he turned it away and said he couldn’t justify paying that much for a bottle of beer. I feel the same way…although I wasn’t going to be hopping into my limo and heading to the Waldorf when I was done…I’d be risking life and limb trekking back across the city on my own…so I paid the money.
I gave a bottle to my wife and said, “Drink this and we’ll go. We’re not staying another day here. We’ll change the flights when we get back.” I got no arguments from her because she knows I don’t really like cities..or people (I think I’ve mentioned that before)
Just as we were finishing these $1.50 beers disguised as $7 pilsners, a young lady came to our table. She’d just stepped out of the rain and asked if she could set her purse there for a second. I told her she could have the table as we were just leaving. Just then, her three friends came over to join her. “Why are you leaving?”, they asked. “Stay and have another drink”. “Nah”, I said. They replied, “We’ll buy”. I said, “You have my attention.”
Approximately 4 hours later, my wife and I incredibly made it back to our hotel in Jersey. Those four girls were absolute angels in the sense that I believe the ghost of Babe Ruth himself sent them to me. They appeared out of nowhere and in the short time with them, they whisked us about the big city to various places. We piled into a cab and went to this place and to that place. My wife mentioned (and I had thought the same thing) that these girls reminded her of each of her college roommates. These girls were just fun to be around. Cute, nice and funny. We had a great time with all of them. It almost seemed like their sole goal was to show us a fun time…and they succeeded.
Of course, rolling in to one’s hotel room in the wee hours of the morning certainly curtails one’s plans to call the airlines and try to get an early morning flight back home. Ironically, that was probably the best thing. Without a change in plans, we stuck around on Saturday and headed back into the city around 10 am. We saw all of the touristy stuff. Walked around Times Square and walked to Rockefeller Plaza. It was pretty cool. As I said before, I’m not a big fan of the big cities, but we had a great day checking things out.
We were at 30 Rockefeller (where NBC is) and there’s a J. Crew store nearby. The wife recalled that two of our friends from the night before worked there. I mentioned that there’s probably more than one J. Crew store in NY and only 20 trillion people in the city. Odds are, these girls won’t be there.
We walk in the store and, wouldn’t you know it, there they are. They stopped what they were doing and ran over and gave us big hugs. Just the nicest, most genuine folks you’d ever want to meet.
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November 2008:
As of this very moment, I am sitting at a table over-looking the Atlantic Ocean (the Gulf of Mexico, to be precise) and watching the waves crash on the beach no more than 50 yards away from me. The warm, salty breeze fills my lungs with life. I feel a lot like Hemingway at this moment with only a few glaring differences such as: He's dead, I'm thankfully not. He was a good writer, I'm rotten. He clicked away on a typewriter in some sort of majestic sea-faring garb, I'm tapping on a laptop wearing a ball cap and a green pair of shorts. Millions of people read his stories, about 5 people will read this garbage I'm hammering out.
My wife's aunt Pam, probably one of the most generous people I know, invited us down to Florida to visit. While here, we've already managed to hit Disney World and such.
Disney is a cool place, obviously, but it's a lot of work taking one’s kids there. It's like a full-court zone defense as you try to keep your eye on them, making sure they don't wander into someone and cause trouble. Also, our kids are downright adorable and beautiful, making them an attractive target for would-be kidnappers.
But Disney does it right. Everything they do is first class and well done. From the hotel we stayed in (very clean), to the food at the cafeteria (prepared and served by non-typical food service folks..like Shaniquwa at the airport) to the way they run their amusement rides. For example, when one goes to Kings Island you stand in a line that barely, if ever, moves and makes the hour of doing nothing feel like 4 hours. But Disney cycles people through so quickly. People are fed through the ride like they're grading cattle ready for slaughter. In addition, they have a thing called "Fast Pass". One uses his admission ticket to get a fast pass for a ride that typically has a longer wait. That person is instructed to come back later between the hourse of, for example 3:15 to 4:15. Upon returning, this person can simple walk into the Fast Pass line and make their way to the front of the line. There are certain rules in place to keep you from just grabbing fast passes all day, so you have to be smart about it and manage your choices. It’s like a game to do it most effectively…and I like that.
The other great thing about their rides is that it's not just a simple maze of twisting ropes to shuffle through as you await your turn. The line itself is, in a sense, part of the ride as it immerses you into the ride. For example, they have an Aerosmith roller coaster (kick ass, by the way) where part of your wait is in a "recording studio" instead of just a plain ol' line. It makes your 20 minute wait feel more like 10 minutes instead. There's nothing worse than shelling out that kind of cash to get into the park only to see the time click away waiting in line. Disney Parks does a great job of optimizing the experience.
I can't tell you how fun it was to take my kids. I guess I feel extra fortunate that my kids are fun no matter what the situation. They're always up for whatever. Needless to say, when you're pulling up to a place like Disney and all of its spectacular sites, you can just see and feel their excitement and giddiness. I was telling my wife that people don't take their kids to places like Disney for their kids’ sake, they take them there for what the parents get out of seeing them there. I'm convinced that we spent more time watching the kids' faces as they watched what was going on.
Our youngest Ava, who is 3 years old and thus now required to buy admission into the park, amazingly turned the clock back a few months and became 2 years old again. Disney is a magical place, you know. We informed Ava to not talk, not make eye contact and to stay firmly in my arms with her head buried as we entered the park, to avoid the questioning eyes of the ticket takers. By the second day, she knew the routine and assumed the position. Once in the park, I whispered "all clear" and without moving, she said "Can I talk now?" I said yes and put her down on the ground at which point she started dancing and jumping around. She was ready to rock!
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How was the Earth created? Where did we come from? What happens when we die? These are all questions that have hung over scientist, philosophers, and thinkers for centuries. Well this one has been plaguing me for...well..a couple of minutes.
Why is it that all the smart kids in school get academic scholarships to go to college? Shouldn't we be giving the free education to the dumb kids so they can be...less dumb? Carrying it further, maybe we should re-evaluate our giving of
athletic scholarships to highly gifted athletes and, instead, give full-rides to the clumsy, uncoordinated stiffs who always get picked last in gym class.
Academic scholarships are strange when you really think about it. Here's a kid that is very smart...the university contacts him/her and offers up free room and board, free books, and a free education to attend their university. The kid accepts...goes to college, studies, passes tests and eventually graduates. What does the school really get out of it? Do you think the Dean of Admissions goes to parties and tells his friends that "We just signed on Lori Jenkins! She is just like Martin Feldman from the class of 2002, except she has better handwriting. Score!!!"
You could argue that athletic scholarships are useless too because the schools aren't technically in the business of growing world-class athletes. However, a good football programs supports a huge portion of a schools operating budget so little Sanji Akbar can come to America and study spirochetes with a fancy new microscope instead of that old, crusty one they'd been using for years.
Besides, nobody cares about your SAT scores or what your term paper is about. They care that your defense was third in the conference against the run and that you just stole a star recruit from USC.
Of course...all of this is probably wrong. I attended college and excelled at neither sports or academics. I knew I was in trouble when my first class was called Quantitative Reasoning and, unbeknownst to me, it was a math class. The teacher might as well have been talking Greek. All I heard was buzzes and clicks. That pretty much set into motion the wheels of utter disappointment in college that ended with the realization that I will spend the rest of my life working for other people...who probably had academic scholarships.
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October 2008
My old high school celebrated 50 years of football at the high school level by recognizing different events at each home game this season. The biggest event was held on a perfect fall evening on October 10th. It was Homecoming that night, but what many in attendance were there for was the honoring of the 50th Anniversary All-Time Football team.
I, along with my brother, was fortunate enough to be named to that team. As the blessed day approached many of my fellow inductees and I decided we should make an all-day event out of this monumental occasion.
So we held the first annual “Norsemen Open”. The Norsemen Club is an idea that my friend Jake and I have pondered long and hard during many late nights, typically after consuming massive quantities of ale. We’re always full of great ideas at that particular time…but those ideas seem to get lost as the beer wears off and we head back to our normal lives. But we always thought it’d be cool to start a club that celebrates the game of football at Miami East. Until just recently, the football program had been wallowing in complete crap-ass rotten-ness. Soon after my class graduated, the program plunged into over a decade long slump that saw them barely winning a single game each year. In planning the Norsemen Club (Miami East’s teams are “The Vikings” thus the Norseman reference) we envisioned a club that convened to support football at the school and provide a sort of identity that current and former players can enjoy. Also, we thought it would be a great way to throw a heck of a party periodically. The club would be pseudo-secretive, yet somehow public. Open exclusively to former Vikings and only football players, this club would operate somewhat covertly and under a dense fog of mystique. Let’s say the team needs a new blocking sled…one day, the men go out to practice and there’s a brand new sled with nothing on it except a small tag that reads “Compliments of the Norsemen Club”.
It harkens back to the days when my mom, on her own, started a 50-50 drawing during the basketball games. It was wildly popular and half of the money went toward the football team. One day, she was told that if she was going to do the drawing that the proceeds would have to be split amongst the other sports. Being true to her family, she said that would be no problem…as long as the soccer program didn’t get any of the money. The school informed her that the soccer program would indeed be a recipient of a portion of the cash. My mom immediately closed the 50-50 program down (essentially telling everyone that soccer can “suck it”..my words, not hers)
This would be where the Norsemen came in. This 50th anniversary celebration was a perfect time for Jake and I to start planting the seed and start organizing this club. Our first event was the Norsemen Open mentioned above. Many of us took off work and convened at the lush rolling hills of Cliffside Golf Course in Tipp City. Here’s the thing about Cliffside: It’s a decent course with interesting hills and valleys (the terrain really doesn’t feel like it belongs here in this part of Ohio). However, they don’t operate on a huge budget. So it’s not the fanciest place, nor the most well-taken-care-of track. But the beauty of what we so lovingly named “Side O’ Cliff” is that 1) it’s cheap 2) it’s hardly ever crowded 3) you can bring your own drinks 4) you can wear a greasy tank top if you chose 5) you can bring your own drinks and 6) you can bring your own drinks. Obviously, this should forever be our home course.
I’m not much for event planning. But it was my duty to get this thing off the ground. We rallied some people up and ended with about 12 guys. I thought about getting a picture with everyone around me as I sat at a long table and had my last supper…but that might have been too much and the Biblical reference would most likely have been lost on many. Anyway, I called the course a day before just to make sure that we’d have no problem teeing off and to let them know the size of our group. I dialed and a lady on the other end said “hello”. I said “hi” and that we were planning on bringing x-amount of people at so and so time on Friday…and I rambled on…then I realized the lady wasn’t replying. I stopped and said “hello?” The “lady” on the other end said “I can’t hear anybody” and hung up.
Fine. Obviously some phone problems and she couldn’t hear me. I’ll try again. I call and say “HI! CAN YOU HEAR ME”. She can’t hear me. But I hear her say, “They’re doing it again…they’re not saying a thing. I’m gonna find that mother(beeper)” and blah blah *#&! blah.
I hung up.
A few minutes later, using their caller ID, I get a call back. This time we can converse and I explain that I was talking and she just couldn’t hear me. She apologized profusely and asked nervously, “You couldn’t hear me…could you??” I told her “yeah…you called me a mother-*”. But it all worked out. The next day at the course, Dave (who flew in from North Carolina for the events) was there first and prepped the lady and told her I was pissed. When I got there, she was very nervous. I kicked the door in and said, “Where’s that lady that called me a (beep)?” Her jaw dropped and she quickly pointed to the side door and said, “I think she went that way?”. Anyway, we had a good laugh and the first annual golf outing went off without a hitch.
After golf that morning, many of us went to get some chicken wings and...you got it…more beers. That left us basically an hour to get ready for the game and the ceremony and, most importantly, time to tailgate.
The whole night was really a great experience. I’m honored to be named to this team and I was excited to have my mom and dad there and, especially, my girls. And of course, my wife…who was standing in the corner of the endzone when I caught my final touchdown and high-fived me way back then. My oldest, Anna, secretly asked her mom if she could wear one of my old jerseys. She came out the next day with my old blue jersey hanging very loosely off her. I about died seeing her with our last name and #83 on the back…it was breath-taking and really meant a lot to me.
It was also great to be honored along with my brother. He was named to the team twice (jerk!) but one couldn’t argue that. He was a member of the greatest team at the school, the 1981 team they called “The Blue Wave”. The defense had 7 shutouts that year (out of 10 games folks!) and they hold virtually all defensive team records. I remember being a kid and standing at the “tunnel” formed by the students where the team would run through and onto the field. Each week I couldn’t wait to stand in that line and to have one of the guys touch my hand. Always…I mean ALWAYS…my brother, in the mass of padded men heading into battle, always found a way to find me and slap my hand. As they left the tunnel and neared the bench, they all huddled together and the last couple of guys would jump into the pile. Those were just things that, especially at that age, were just the coolest things to me and I couldn’t wait for my opportunity to do the same thing.
This night was the first game I had been to since my final game in 1990. Being there was a great opportunity to chat with ex-teammates and joke with the guys and tell “war stories”.
When I arrived that night, it was surreal. I had that nervous/sick feeling in my stomach…the same feeling I’d get before games.
One of my fondest memories of football was that long walk from the locker room to the field. I can picture it and feel it today just like it was yesterday. And when we parked the truck and got out, I had to make that same walk to the field. Back then, it was walking down in your blue jerseys and all of the equipment…buckled, laced, strapped…ready to battle, that really got me ready to play. I always remember the sound of the cleats clicking on the blacktop as we walked through the parking lot as one and the sound of the band growing louder as you neared. Even now, when I hear a band “marching” (and by marching…I mean the music they play when they’re walking…not really a song, but that drum beat as they moved) I still instantly flash back to that walk to the field. The team would meet at the gate for a split second and then burst onto the field and through that very same tunnel of students. I always liked to be last and I went out of my way to slap the kids’ hands and I always jumped on the pile at the end.
It probably sounds corny but it’s just so danged vivid in my mind even to this day.
At halftime of this recent game, before they called us to the field, the current Vikings’ squad walked back to the field to warm up again. They walked right by me and my wife, who was standing by me, and I just smacked a couple of the guys on the helmets and said “keep it up” and some “go get-ems”. As they walked by, I just couldn’t help but think of that same walk I used to take. Later, my wife mentioned that she could just see it in my eyes at that very moment as these kids walked by, what playing football was like for me and what types of emotions run through you. It got to me.
We stood before everyone and as I waited for them to call my name, I heard the names of others being called down the line. They called my brother, who stepped forward and waved. They called my buddies Mike, Dave, Todd, etc…and I could look down the line and see them step in front and acknowledge the crowd. It was a really cool scene and a great memory and something I’m grateful to be a part of.
Of course, I felt I had the best “wave”. When they said “At wide receiver, class of 1991, Mike Jacomet”, I calmly stepped out (before throngs of reaching fans who were screaming and yelling and giving me a standing ovation…well, I might have made that part up) and tipped my cap. The only reason this is significant is because several people later said how cool it was that I tipped my cap. I told them I saw it on an All-Star game once…but I was pretty happy I did something cool and didn’t pass out or crap my pants in front of everyone. (if crapping your pants is cool…consider me Miles Davis)
After the game we all went back to Geneos (the barn that we always watch the Ohio State games at) and enjoyed the rest of the night.
The end of an extremely long and eventful day had drawn near. On the ride home, I smiled and thought of all of the great memories from long ago. I wouldn’t trade my life right now for anything and there’s not a whole lot in my life I’d change if I had to go back…but on a night like that, it’s hard not to think about those times in school, playing ball and all that went with it and not be a little sad that they’re long, long gone. Fortunately, I still live near many of my friends and teammates and we can re-hash the old stories…the same stories we’ve told a hundred times…over a couple of beers. Of course, the ten yard touchdown suddenly turns into a 50 yard jaunt through the entire defense as we tend to embellish the tales as the years go by…but I guess it’s not a bad thing to remember the Glory Days
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I occasionally have coffee every now and then. I probably drink more now then I used to, especially when it’s cold out. My wife has always been a coffee drinker and she recently explained to me this little nugget: “50% of drinking coffee is just holding it.” This makes me laugh because if my wife pours 10 cups of coffee a week, she’ll only drink about half of them. The others are left somewhere in the house, only to be found later where they are then placed into the microwave to be re-heated. Those re-heated cups of coffee are then discovered by me that evening.
A few years ago, my buddies Jake, Mike, Andy, and I went down to Cincinnati to a Bengals game. Only this time, my wife came along for her first pro game (if you can call the Bengals a “pro” team). Due to her inexperience, she wasn’t aware of some of the rules of pre-game tailgating. One of the rules is that, the moment you arrive at your parking spot it’s a rule that you must pop open your first adult beverage of the day. When you figure that we park in a gravel pit, amongst the piles of sand and rocks, and we usually arrive by around 8 am…my wife apparently doesn’t understand that it’s not coffee time. You hear the crack and pop of the cans of beer being popped, the grills being started, and random “Who-Deys” being shouted throughout the lot. Just then, you look over and see my wife unscrewing her thermos and pouring a steaming cup of java into her cup. She grasps it with two hands and holds it close to her face, shuts her eyes and inhales the deep, rich aroma. Meanwhile, the rest of the guys and I stand there, mouths agape and stunned looks on our faces, confused by the fact that she’s drinking coffee and not beer. She looks up at us, equally confused that we are drinking beer and not coffee at 8 o’clock in the morning.
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I’m sitting here in bed (doctor’s orders) watching one of my all-time favorite movies, The Right Stuff. I remember going to see it at a matinee when it first came out with my buddy Clark Allen. He and I had true dreams of being astronauts. I, unfortunately, had (and still have) the mathematical skills of a 3 year old monkey which pretty much rules you out of being accepted into any military academy. Clark could have been one. He was and is one of the smartest people I know, not to mention one of the most creative minds I’ve ever been friends with.
I don’t know if my goal was really to go to space, but to be a fighter pilot. To be a young, crew-cut pilot “pushing the outside of the envelope” and to reap all the benefits (i.e. hot chicks) that went with being a fly-boy were part of my goals as a young man growing up.
My entire family and I have always, for some reason, been in love with flying and probably more specifically, jets. From my mom and dad, to my brother and sister…we’ve always been captivated by the power and thunder of jets. My dad always said he’d mortgage the house just to have one ride in a fighter jet. My mom remembers the first jet landing at Dayton airport (she was there) and used to take me to the Airshow by herself. I remember my family gathering down at a little pond near Tipp City that sometimes was/wasn’t in the flight-line of the airshow, with hopes of just getting a glimpse of one of those jets streaking by. One year, we were all looking in the general direction of where the jets would likely be seen. A fighter is nearly silent until it passes you and the engines get in front of you. As we all stared skyward to the west…out of the east, with no warning came a lone F-18 Blue Angel. It was so low…so loud…that it really scared us. The water rippled on the pond! As the sound passed, I turned to see each of my family, with arms raised triumphantly to the sky and tears most likely in their eyes because there’s just something about the scream of a jet going by that gets to us.
To this day, I always try to get down to Dayton to see the jets fly and I hope that my girls will get the same thrill.
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The end of November and the beginning of December 2008 have been a fairly crappy time for me. Two weeks before Thanksgiving I was fighting the flu and eventually had to take a day off work. I finally got over that and starting feeling fine…in time for the OSU/Michigan game. The following Monday I was driving to work around 5:30 am. I crossed the train tracks on Eldean Rd when suddenly my truck just shot sideways and to the right. I was heading not for a ditch, but toward a huge bank. I braced myself as I hit the embankment and proceeded to flip over and over, ending up in the middle of the road facing the direction I was coming from. I was still strapped into my seat. I always wear my seatbelt but I am not an even bigger proponent of seatbelts. It was remarkable that while I was on my side, driver’s side against the road, I was still firmly in my seat…no slouching or anything.
As I began my tumbling I can honestly say that I was preparing for it. Not to sound macho or tough, but I knew what was coming and I was sorta challenging myself for what was coming. I held tight and fought every roll. I swear that I even recall thinking to myself to “keep my neck straight” because I was afraid of snapping my neck. If I could look at myself I would have to think that I was gritting my teeth and just determined, it was like a challenge to get through it and get home to see my family.
I finally came to rest in the road and it took me a second to orientate myself. My next thought was about getting out because someone else could be coming and hit me. I unhooked my belt and plopped against my driver’s side windshield (which was against the road) I looked straight up to see the passenger-side window busted out. I saw a car pull over to the side and turn to shine his lights on me. I pulled myself out of the window when I heard this fellow yell to me “Get down!!!” I look up to see a pickup truck coming on the same route as me…he was sliding back and forth. I froze. I couldn’t drop back down and I couldn’t get out quick enough. The truck barreled toward me, sideways. I held my breath as he passed no more than 10 feet by my truck. I literally felt the whoosh of wind as he went by me and skidded down a hill and hit a tree. I was shaking horribly and scrambled out of the truck to the side of the road where the first guy had stopped. His name was Brian and I knew him as his kids go to school with mine. He’s a tremendously nice guy and it was nice of him to be there for me.
Luckily, the guy that hit the tree was ok and he and I started to run up the hill to warn others of the impending slick roads.
My hand was bleeding and my neck was killing me but I kept thinking that “hey, I’m walking around here!” The sheriff came and was very nice and remarked about how the roads just started to get icy within the last ten minutes. The ambulance came and cleaned me up and checked me out.
It was raining/sleeting and I was so cold. For some reason, I wore an old Carhartt coat (I hardly ever wear anything but a couple of sweatshirts) which had pockets in it…which I happened to put my cell phone in (which I’d probably never had found after the tumbles). So I had my phone. I called my wife and she answered in a concerned tone. I’m not a deeply religious man or anything but I just told her to say a prayer that I’m ok.
I didn’t want her driving but the sheriff was busy and said he couldn’t take me home for a little bit as he had to take care of things there. My stuff was all over the road. Cds, pictures, receipts, check stubs. Things you don’t really think about. I was able to sift through the mud and muck to find my wallet and my laptop. It was amazing how much dirt was in the cab, which I picked up as I tumbled along. My dad saved a rock that was rather large and said, “there were dozens of rocks like this in the cab…most larger. Can’t believe they didn’t hit you”. When I got home, I had a ton of mud in my nose and ears and some glass stuck in me in different places.
Brian, the guy that pulled over to help called me that night to ask how I was doing. He said, “You know…I can’t get the vision of that truck sliding by you and missing you. I’ve thought about it a hundred times today. You’re very lucky”
Lucky, indeed. The force of the flips actually ripped the back wheels off the axles.
It’s amazing how many people have been concerned about me. It’s heartwarming to know that so many people care.
So Thanksgiving came and it was a blast as usual. Of course, I drove about 50 mph on the way there as I am still nervous about driving.
The week after Thanksgiving started and about Wednesday I started feeling kinda’ bad again. My throat was sore and I ached a bit. Friday evening I went to Urbana to go to a visitation of one of our friends’ father. On the way home, my tongue felt really strange as if I had a swollen taste bud or something. I went home and went to bed. I awoke Saturday morning feeling worse and now, my tongue had swollen to where it nearly filled my mouth! I could hardly breath and, due to the sore throat, couldn’t swallow. My tongue hurt so bad.
My wife took me to the emergency room. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so sick. I don’t really believe in being sick. I mean, sure, we all catch a bug now and then and I’m sure I’m more sympathetic to my children. But I just don’t like being sick, nor do I have the time. I told my wife, the good Lord gives you x-amount of days on this great earth and I hate just wasting them in bed feeling like a stinky pile of poop.
Once in the emergency room, the got me in rather quickly. They immediately put an i.v in me and gave me morphine to ease the pain. I received a ton of medicine through the i.v. and they monitored me closely. They even took me to get a CAT scan. I didn’t even bring my cat! (me so funny). I couldn’t talk at all. Literally, not at all. I was in the hospital for part of the morning and most of the afternoon on Saturday. Noting my distaste for needles, I’ll bet I got stuck 50 thousand times. I hate needles. I’ll never be a heroine addict for that simple fact. It’s notable how comforting it is to be in pain and have your wife and your mom there. There’s something soothing about those two sitting next to the bed.
Not to be overly dramatic, but according to the doctors, I was in some peril. They noted that I was fortunate to come in when I did as it was possible for my airway to be sealed completely. Also, I’m not supposed to do ANYTHING for three days. I find that a bit too much.
As of this moment, it is Sunday around noon and I’m already starting to go stir crazy. I think I finished the internet….I’ve been to every website and explored everything. By the way, try Hulu.com. You can watch episodes of new shows like The Office, Family Guy, etc.. Plus, you can watch full movies. I watched Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels last night for free! (I give that movie a 6 out of 10) I’m watching the movie version of Phantom of the Opera which is VERY good considering I’ve seen the show live 5 times. It holds up very well
I must go back to the doctor Monday, some specialized dude who will tell me what I have.
Needless to say, it’s been an adventurous couple of weeks. I can look at it as a bunch of major inconveniences and pains…but I guess I tend to look at it as I’m still here, I’m still relatively healthy. I’ve got great kids that I still get to see. I have a wonderful wife who continues to take care of me on top of all of her other duties as a parent and bread-winner. I’m quite blessed.
Oh…and to add to my hospital experience, I feel it’s important to “publicly” tell you all how incredibly wonderful the entire staff at UVMC was while I was there. Genuine, caring, knowledgeable folks who seemed to go above and beyond to help me and make me comfortable. Good people.
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I feel there are a few things in this world that should be available to all people free of charge. I don’t think we should have to pay for water, for example. It covers 2/3 of the earth (If I remember correctly) and yet I gotta shell out 2 bucks for a bottle of it.
Also, gas stations shouldn’t charge for Air for your tires. Another thing is Trees. You should be able to just get a tree for free and plop it into the ground wherever you’d like.
My wife claims that feminine hygiene products should also be free. I can’t disagree with that at all, but I refuse to talk any longer about it because I think it gives us all the heebie-jeebies. Ewww.
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I’ve watched a lot of football this weekend. I’ve come to realize a few things.
1. I hate the teams in the SEC (Florida, Alabama, etc..) They’re darned good and they play good football. 2. I throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I see the Steelers on tv. Of course, they’re the Steelers and considering the fact that they were the dominating team of the mid-70s (when most of my demographic spent their formative years) they have a ton of fans. It’s like there are a ton of Patriots fans around now. Win a couple of Super Bowls and suddenly little Tommy from down the street has been a Patriots fan all of his life. Plus, the Steelers are chick-friendly. Some teams open themselves up to having many girls root for them. The Bengals tend not to be chick-friendly for the simple fact that girls don’t like teams that never win and girls are too busy applying rouge and buying skirts to waste time on sad sacks like the Bengals.
It’s kinda like the dickweeds you see driving around town with a big Michigan “M” on their bumper. They are most likely moderate fans of the Wolverines, but their lives are so lame and sorry that they get a stiffy by thinking they’re pissing me off by flaunting enemy colors in obvious Buckeye colors. And you know what? They do piss me off. I wish I had my old 66 Ford with the steel “cattle catcher” on the front grill where I could just t-bone them at an intersection and pinch their door shut.
Drive around and see a chick driving a cuted-up Jeep or something…and they’ve got a Steelers logo on in.
Another thing that boggles my mind…how can game announcers continue to call Rothlicksburger “Big Ben” instead of his normal goofy last name? Not once did I hear them refer to Tony Romo as “Tony”. “Tony, back to pass. Throws to Terrell and Fred makes the tackle” But it’s always Big Ben, Big Ben. We get it: He’s over 6 foot tall and his name is Ben, so you call him Big Ben…like the clock in London. Clever! Now move on so I don’t have to poop myself every time I see this Miami University geeky, turtle-neck and gold chain-wearing doofus with his backward hat on.
And, like the Browns, do the Steelers ever play an away game? Since they’re on tv every week, I see that they always play at home in front of those yellow towel waving drones who continue to piss themselves at the mere mention of Chuck Noll.
Now that I’m finished with my usual Steeler bashing, let me follow this up with a disclaimer. This is not directed at my friends Barb and Eddie who are legitimate Pittsburgh transplants and who both know, understand, and are passionate about their team. Also, it should be noted that I’m a Bengals fan and that I historically have nothing to root for except for whether my team will be getting the first or second pick in the draft. My team is mathematically eliminated from the playoffs by the bye week. And another thing that makes me spitting mad…how do the Detroit Lions get all of this flack for being the worst team in the NFL? How dare they? They have only 1 more loss than the Bengals, my friend! Let’s not sell the Bengies short, they’re tremendous slouches.
Well….at least I have the Reds. Pitchers and catchers report in just a couple more months!
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Here’s what I know about Art. Very little. I’m watching this guy featured on 60 minutes…he’s got a picture of a girl that he re-created (he found it somewhere…so it’s not even his idea) then he put a black stripe through the eyes. He said his father asked him why he blacked the eyes out. To which I answered, “Yeah, dumbass…why’d you do that?” So you’d focus on the face, he said. Wow. You’re a genius. The sad thing: that painting is worth millions. I don’t get it.
Like poetry, for instance. If poetry doesn’t rhyme, then it ain’t poetry, folks. Maya Angelou, give me some rhymes. Bust out a rap song or something. Here’s what passes for “poetry”:
The sand settles on the beach
Carp smell like dirty diapers
Seaweed on my legs freaks me out
Gurgle gurgle goes my sunken beer bottle
See? That isn’t good. The premise is this, can you write a couple of words in a really short sentence, put a title and your name on it? Then you’re a danged Poet, baby!
My two oldest girls chant this:
Girls go to college
to get more knowledge
Boys go to Jupiter
to get more stupider
Yippdy-do, my girls are suddenly world-renowned poets and should start receiving government grants and large paychecks!
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Well, it’s that time of year again…when the winter snows begin to fall and the temperature drops. It’s time once again to become annoyed at the local weather people. Last night, for example, I had my television screen shrunken down to the size of a postage stamp so they could scroll a large message, written in bright red and ALL-CAPS saying that we should expect to get snowfall of “up to a half an inch”. Are you kidding me? Local weather has gotten completely out of control, but this is the last straw! No wonder people are buying 60 inch plasma screen televisions…because they’d like to at least get to view 30 inches of their normal programming after you block the rest with scrolls, dangerous weather symbols, tickers, and station logos.
And a half an inch? “Use caution while driving. Roads may be slick” No crap!?! Local weathermen are no better than the guy who yells “Fire” in a crowded theater. In fact, they’re worse because they’re broadcasting it and spreading panic to thousands and thousands instead of a captive hundred.
I happened to be on the internet the other night during my total disgust in local weather reached a boiling point and I looked into the personal bios on local weathermen. Jamie Simpson, the most visible douchebag in the Dayton viewing area said something to the fact that his most satisfying part of his job is “keeping people safe and warning them of hazardous conditions”. He forgot to mention that he enjoys interrupting prime time programming to tell me there’s going to be a normal summer thunderstorm. I’ll bet he gets a secret thrill knowing that his goofy mug is breaking into a pivotal 3rd down and short situation in the big football game to tell me that it might get down to 31 degrees over night and that any exposed skin might get “really cold”.
They’re the type of people you might work with who are tremendous losers, total goobers who get a big chubby screwing with other people. Like the guy at work who imposes some new policy that does nothing but screw with the normal order of things and causes headaches and troubles for the masses. But he gets to go home and puff out his chest and tell his wife that he’s a big man at work and what he did to screw with everyone. Weather guys are the same way. They go home to their one room apartment and tell their moms (whom they still live with) that they broke into some rare, decent programming to warn the masses of an impending half-inch of snowfall. God Bless you local weather man. Thanks for saving our lives…you douchebag
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Well, I guess that wraps things up for this entry. I truly mean it when I say I'm sorry for not staying on top of this blog. As crazy as it sounds, I think a few folks enjoy reading it and, quite honestly, it's a good way to "journal" some of the things that pop into my tiny head throughout the year.
This entry wasn't full of laughs and wasn't very remarkable in any way, I realize that. I'll try to do better next time.
Have a safe and prosperous 2009.
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