My Limo and Paparazzi Life (almost)

With a mad dash pre-holiday trip to Phoenix this week, I found myself unexpectedly indulging in first class accommodations. First stop, I slid into the driver's seat of my rented Infiniti and barreled down the road as if it were all mine. I should have known at that point it was a sign of things to come. After a spin through the site and a few short meetings, I made my way to the new Renaissance Hotel which opened a few months ago just a mile from my project (so long nasty Courtyard!). Since my old summer stand-by the JW Marriott Camelback Inn is way too pricey these days, I have managed to find a suitable substitute.

As I checked in, my Marriott Rewards Gold Elite status finally paid off! I was escorted to the concierge floor to my complimentary upgraded one bedroom suite. Uh, this dog was bad-A! It had floor to ceiling/wall to wall windows 10' high on the 10th floor. Who's your daddy? It was massive and covered in modern decor. I wondered if I was the first to inhabit? Doubtful, but in my head they were saving it for me. Anyway, after basking in the glow of the dual plasma screens and admiring the gi-normous bed awaiting my slumber, I had to check out the 10th floor lounge. I was greeted by a properly suited host offering snacks, newspapers, drinks, and an outdoor deck overlooking the spa courtyard. It was better than the Admiral's Club! Amazed and overcome with a sense of celebrity jackassery, I felt a cocktail was in order.

I made my way downstairs to the main lounge and perched with my trusty laptop up to the bar. The Vikings game was playing and I typed feverishly away on my little Dell sipping my winter drink of choice, Maker's and Diet Coke. I couldn't help it. The power, it was overwhelming, I felt like I needed to seek out Paris to hang with. At one point, after scarfing down a whole wheat chicken quesadilla with some kind of fancy cheese, I reached past cocktail number two and grabbed a glass of water. I swallowed a large gulp to put out the jalapeno fire in my mouth. Then, the celebrity attitude managed to manifest itself outside of my head.

"Could you please replace this with a Pellegrino?" I asked politely but quickly returning to my keyboard unaware of what I had just uttered. Wait a minute...did I just say what I think I said? What the hell have I become? Who is this guy? I blame the car and the suite. The power of celebrity is just too much for me to handle...so tonight I ground myself in proper fashion once again by herding onto Southwest to fly back to Arkansas. Ah, back to my humble life! So becomes the simple moral of the week: elite status need not affect your head...I should know, I unconsciously ordered a sparkling water when I despise it! Cheers my friends, I must go, the camera flashes are just too much to bare!

Look Out Magic Kingdom- Here Come the Griswold's...err Carpenter's

I have always said I would rather stick a hot fire poker in my eye than go to Disney World with preschoolers…well now is my chance to compare the pain! We embark this week on a 10 day vacation to Florida for Thanksgiving that will include a short 2 day stint at the Polynesian and Magic Kingdom. This ranks right up there with my philosophy of owning a minivan…it is the day you admit life has beaten you to a bloody pulp. There is some sweet irony to this philosophy however, I unfortunately own a minivan and I have secretly wanted to go to Disney for as long as I can remember. It will be fitting for me to enjoy the MK more than anyone else; after all, I can quote every line to The Lion King. We won’t mention my secret collection of Disney show tunes hidden amongst the old dusty CD’s! And don’t even get me started on Cars and Aladdin! But I’m sure it will suck…not really excited about it at all. (Wink)

Home Theatre: Redneck Style

Truck, who is my neighbor, called last week with a great idea…let’s watch Transformers tonight. What an excellent use of our non-existent spare time. He painted a wall bright white in the garage and hooked a projector to an old Bose surround system, set up two patio chairs, placed the kegerator within reaching distance, fashioned a makeshift urinal (to avoid missing a single moment), and the garage version of the redneck home theatre was born! I finished dinner and bath time then dashed out the door and down the street. His garage is heated and the projected image was as close to a real theatre screen as possible. The old Bose system, which didn’t work before, cranked to life with a simple dismantling and “hotwiring” to bypass the control board. It sounded AWESOME in the garage, but once the player was in play mode, there was no pausing or going back! The projector, one used for slide shows and PowerPoint presentations, worked wonders on the freshly painted wall. The patio furniture complete with ottomans provided first class seating. We used a ladder for the projector stand, a Home Depot bucket for a urinal…it was a site to behold! Whoever said moving to Arkansas would turn me into a hillbilly, bite your tongue…this is innovation in the face of necessity, sometimes one just needs to see Transformers on the big screen in full surround sound the way it was intended!

Bad Juju

Finally I managed to find time to volunteer with Habitat for Humanity last Saturday as part of a church mission project. It was only going to be a half day from 8 to noon. At the last minute on Friday afternoon, I flaked out. I know how dare I right? But the reason why is even worse. I wanted to go to the mountains and ride 4wheelers. So I did. I told you it was worse, but rest assured I am full of guilt and remorse. I am also having a really bad week so far and it is absolutely going to get worse before it gets better…Karma is truly a sonofabitch. I will be lucky to dodge an infection of amoebic dysentery until I can restore my dogma with a new penchant for helping others…better get on it pronto; I have a sensitive stomach!

The Centerton Mafia

As I sit in my hotel room, far from home, I am missing my other life. The life I have at home. The one most normal non-road warriors have everyday. I flash back to the days of Halleck Coach and our own Centerton Mafia. It began with a block party, a chance to meet and greet the neighbors. With my social anxiety kicking in full force, I naturally resisted. I stocked the cooler with beer and was quickly scolded. "Don't you think that is a little tacky? We don't even know these people", I was reminded. I didn't think so. If they thought it was tacky, then we should just pack up and move!

Turns out it wasn't. Everyone else was doing the same thing. Rum and coke hidden in tall tumblers. Koozies concealing beer cans and the initial awkwardness that begins such a social gathering of complete strangers. That is where it began. We found friends from all walks of life that night...and the next weekend, and the next. They became our group. We became the Centerton Mafia. A triangle of friendship was formed from two doors down and across the street. Our venue: the driveway.

That was the summer of 2005. It has been a very short two years since then and we have all managed to go our separate ways leaving behind Sienna Estates and the many memories. Ann and Jeff moved to OKC. Kristal and Michael have since parted ways. We have moved to Stoney Creek. But when the moment is right and the stars are aligned, we meet and pick up like time has been suspended just for us. It reminds me of the friends my parents had when they were my age. They weren't a part of our lives for long, but they have left a lasting impact and have managed to remain close for more than 25 years despite living far apart.

It is the little things in life that make us who we are and in my philosophical mind it makes us keenly aware that we are part of something much larger. How can a small group of people from different backgrounds, varying ages, and with few things in common make such an impact on each other? Simple. We all needed each other. We each brought something unique and rewarding to the group. Kristal and I provided comic relief and endless laughter through our antics, Cindy and Ann a healthy dose of practicality and wit, Jeff and Michael a passion for childhood dreams and anything mechanical. We fit like a glove. I see a part of myself in each of them today for it has helped mold my adulthood. After all, we battled Saturday night hangovers and managed to rock out at the Shiloh Street service on Sunday mornings, now that is perseverance! We felt the pain of the others even when it was never mentioned on the driveway. The flamingos, the forks, the chalking, the late night gnome-napping...each etched in my mind for the rest of my days.

Although our time in the triangle was short...the experience was full. I think we all came away with a sense that distance and time are no match for true friendship. Peace to my peeps...the CM.

Tangent Thoughts O The Week

Tangent #1

Two things that spurred my brain this morning: 1. I cannot believe it has already been two years since I left Wal-Mart for General Growth. 2. I am getting old if time flies that fast. So today with aging on my mind and while Lindsay was cutting my hair, I noticed the increasingly vast amount of gray that kept sliding down my drape. She tells me they are free highlights and Cindy says I look distinguished. WHAT? Distinguished is code for old. Shh, here that? It’s the creeping back of my pre-mid life mini crisis. This cannot be happening already?! And if so, when do I get to buy a G37 Coupe?!

Tangent #2

One of my biggest pet peeves in a hotel room has to be an obnoxiously loud neighbor. You can always look past it knowing the TV eventually goes off or the booming drunk-dial will end. Some things, however, never seem to amaze me. Like the…uh…how should I put this gently…overtly amorous, affectionately physical bonding ritual between two humans…at a Marriott Courtyard of all places. Don’t get me wrong, I say take advantage of the hotel room ambiance, especially if you’ve left the kids at home for the weekend…but save the savage behavior for someplace more intimate and secluded. Remember the walls are thin people; no one else needs to hear it. Today I am thankful for the volume control on my iPod.

Hello Skinny Jeans

It has finally happened. I have surpassed the 30 lb mark in my quest for a new me. Ironically, I threw away all of my left over skinny jeans from college just last year. Damn the luck. I had to toss over 2/3 of my entire closet last weekend because they just didn't fit, 4 inches makes a huge difference. Oh well, life is all about sacrifice. Next time you see me I will be withered away to nothing...this anorexia really works. I know, it was tasteless...but I'm excited nonetheless to reach my goal. The "couch to 5k" plan is starting to pay off. Word.

Bionic Icon: LOVE - Sleep Number: NOT SO MUCH

With the constant prodding of Lindsay Wagner and her sumptuous TV commercial touting the dreamy nights possible with the magical Sleep Number bed, Cindy and I bought one just a shade over thirty days ago. While in the store, we thought we had died and gone to heaven. It was cozy and perfect. To our dreamy, star-gazed eyes it was coated in chocolate and saturated with pheromones. The sales pitch was excellent, nice and smooth…not too pushy, not too soft. We could have been swept off to La La Land at any moment and fell hook, line, and sinker. The ambiance was pleading for me to stay and enjoy a comfy air-filled power nap. After walking out with two Select Comfort pillows, an order for the Sleep Number 5000, and a magically “cooling” mattress pad, we were so stoked we could hardly stand it. Never again would our backs ache and good-bye dimply soft mattress, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.

Fast forward a month: goodbye new bed. The dream was over. We had awakened to the cruel reality of life on the outside of the eyelid theatre. My Sleep Number never gave me the full satisfaction the price tag deserved. Looking back, I think we were both too sore and tired to make an intelligent decision. Lindsay took advantage of our sore backs and sleep deprived vulnerability. I gave it a fair opportunity to woo me, make me dream about hitting the sack, hop into bed with the giddy anticipation of a teenager on a first date. But alas, it was just OK. I could never really see it as more than a friend. For the money I think I should LOVE it and be unable to live without it. It is now perpetually stuck in the “friend” zone. Good try Lindsay. Although I will always love the original Bionic Woman, her buddy the Sleep Number is now just another face from the past. This week it went back to its boxy cocoon to await the next star-crossed lover seeking chocolate covered pheromones. Cindy said she was not sad to see it go; however, she did really like her setting and I think she just didn’t want to make me feel bad. I don’t. I justify it by not having to secure a second mortgage to pay for it and can sleep just as soundly on my new memory foam mattress from Sam’s for a fraction of the cost, which I might add, came with a cool plastic box…can you say that Sleep Number? I think not.

Dads In Charge...Scary Isn't It?

Well it finally arrived, the long planned girl trip to Branson for the weekend. Cindy and Julie left Truck (that’s what we call Michael) and I in charge with all three cherubs (Finley, Evelyn, and Grace) from 8am Friday morning to 7pm Sunday evening. Today, I am anxiously awaiting my trip to Phoenix! Nah, just kidding, it was fun and we all survived in tact without burning down the house or visiting the emergency room. It was much more tolerable because Truck and I joined forces. Three miniature human species units vs. two adults, there is strength in numbers people, remember that in battle!

We spent the weekend painting poster boards, playing soccer, coloring, trampoline jumping, grilling, swinging, climbing, sliding, riding bikes, and even found time for some Barbie’s, Lego's and Tinker Toys. 28 hours later on Saturday afternoon, while sitting exhausted and dazed on the back porch as chaos swirled about us, it was hard for us to understand how the mom’s keep from hitting the bottle by noon. If there is one thing I have learned over the few years I have had kids, it’s that the first two days of a single parent stint are like rebirth. It takes two fully chaotic days of re-learning the ropes before some semblance of normal activity and schedule inevitably takes over. By Saturday night, we were spent and so were the kids so we divided early to conquer the last day.

A typical streaming conversation from our weekend:

THEM: I want my mommy! When’s mommy coming home? How come we have to eat that? I don’t want eggs! I need more juice! I have to go potty RIGHT NOW! I’m sleepy! Can we have cake? I need a band-aid! I want to go to Hanky’s house! THAT’S MINE!

US: But we’re more fun! Not soon enough! That’s your only choice! Fine, just eat cereal! We’re out, drink water! YOU WILL HAVE TO WAIT until we are out of the front yard! Then lay down and close your eyes! Eat your hot dog first! It’s not bleeding, shake it off! He doesn’t want you there, he’s enjoying the quiet! Really it’s MINE, I paid for it!

Then as if I had not already bitten off more than a bite’s worth, I had to sub for Cindy in Finley’s Sunday school class as a helper. Whoa, talk about over stimulation! Getting them up early, fed, dressed, and to the church on time was the easy part. There were 19 precocious 3 year olds to contend with when I arrived. I had no idea how to help and it was obvious I was in over my head. Miss Monica, the ever patient Sunday school teacher, noticed the profuse sweat rolling off my forehead as I tried like mad to keep the little buggers contained and focused. It’s like herding cats into a dog pen and it was the longest 60 minutes in recent memory. It is true, like animals, kids can smell fear and use it to their advantage!

So, now it is over. Dusk on Sunday marked the return of our female pillars of strength. The weekend of fun had regretfully come to a close. Each time I think about how exciting it would be to become a stay-at-home dad, I will quickly remind myself of the past 59 hours/23 minutes and gleefully board that usually dreaded flight out on Monday morning! Cheers to the mommies…you have our respect but also our undying gratitude that you are home! THANK YOU BABY JESUS!

Music: Philosophy with Tempo

The Beatles have always been just another band from the past to me. Although they inspired a generation, they have never really been a favorite of mine. Yeah, I like the music, but I have never bought an album or had them streaming on my iPod. I went to see the film Across the Universe last week and suddenly it became clear to me why the catchy iconic songwriting has become legendary. It’s easy to see why they were so inspirational to the world when I finally took the time to listen to the words.

The film was scripted and presented from and by the lyrics of some of the most memorable and popular Beatles’ songs. It was a very interesting and modern take on life in the 60’s (well, as real as a musical can be) and I’m sure a realistic representation of an exotic acid trip. The plot was written around the very lyrics of a large number of songs and it was amazing to me that an entire film plot could be extracted from the words of one band’s recordings down to each and every character’s name.

I know this is a lame post. Without trying to sound like a snooty film critic or liberal philosopher, I must say I was actually inspired and it made me start thinking about more than just the beat when listening to my own generation of artists. It sounds really far out, but an entire lifetime of struggle, living, and emotion can be portrayed in bits and clips from some of my own favorite music. I guess we are drawn to the underlying meaning behind cryptic lyrics to seek solace and understanding in our own lives through the music we love. So now I have found meaning and influence in this film and the philosophy derived there from; however, the lyrics of the Beatles transcend generations and mean more today than perhaps no other time since their incarnation.

All you need is love as the circle of life moves us all like sands through the hourglass; and so are the days of our lives. Thus concludes this episode of Deep Thoughts, by Jack Handy. Stay tuned for VH1’s Save the Music.

Post Script: I have tried in vain to find it, but there is absolutely no meaning in the lyrics of Britney Spears. So the philosophy has some faults, tread lightly and skip to the next track!

Locksmith? Nah, Got It Thanks...

Last week I was driving a rented Nissan Frontier Crew Cab. Not a bad rental car, especially while tearing up on a construction site. Friday morning, as I am loading my gear to head to the airport for my journey home, I found a new wild side to my self I never knew existed.

I placed my suitcase in the backseat, backpack in the passenger seat, inserted the key in the ignition and started the truck. Not realizing the auto door locks engaged with the ignition (rather than engaging while shifting out of PARK like most normal cars in the US), I grabbed some trash from the console, got out of the truck, shut the door, and walked to a nearby trash bin. My stomach churned uncontrollably when I realized the door handle was not handling the door! In sheer terror, I darted to each of the four doors trying desperately to open each as if some magical flaw on the assembly line would have allowed just one door to remain unlocked. I stopped, assessed the situation. Looked at my watch, it was 7:15am. I had a 30 min drive to the airport, a 15 min shuttle ride from the rental car facility, a minimum 20 min wait in security, and 20 min prior to departure boarding time to stake my claim in group A. My flight was at 9:20am. Any other day, this scenario would have been a cake walk. Today it was hell. My first thought: BREAK THE WINDOW! No way, I couldn't do that...then common sense took back the wheel.

Luckily I had my phone in my pocket, I called National and their road-side assistance number (now strategically stored in my phone). After about 10 minutes on the phone, the agent finally reached a local locksmith who would be at my location in 20-30 minutes. “That is not going to work, I have to have him here in like 5 minutes”, I yelled at the call center dude. “Sorry man, it is what it is…I can’t drive him there”, the smug agent responded. I quickly shot back that we had to come up with plan B. “What else can we do?” He responded very matter-of-fact, “Break the window”. What? Did he just say what I think he said? There was validation to my initial thought after all! To break or not to break? I wrestled with the decision for exactly 3 seconds. Fine, I’ll do it...I mean I have no other option, right? There was no way I was taking a later flight! Note: later flight lands 2 hours after scheduled flight but the thought of playing barbaric criminal was clouding my judgment.

I was parked at the end of the hotel in direct view of several patrons shuffling in and out of the front entry. I grabbed a large cobble from a roof drain leader and waited for the optimum time when there were only a handful of people milling about in sight. I calculated my approach carefully. I would break the small half window on the rear passenger door, less glass. I took a deep breath, bowed up my chest and tapped on the glass with the dull cobble...my hand instantly bounced back as if I were hitting a tennis ball to a brick wall. Harder I tapped...nothing still...HARDER again. I started beating that tiny window with all the cautious strength I had, to no avail. It would not shatter. What the hell, is this thing armored? So I moved to the larger window on the rear passenger door. I tapped again, harder, then HARDER. Somewhere at the Marriott Courtyard I am sure they have my ridiculous attempt at grand theft auto on film. I was completely dumbfounded! The glass had the deflection of an airplane wing! Finally, giving it all I had, the tempered glass succumbed to the constant blows from the rock and BAM! It blew open like a burst balloon. When it shattered it exploded with the force of a hurricane and sent glass flying all over the cab. It blew inward all over the backseat, front seats, console, dash, and even blew outward covering me with tiny shards of tinted glass (not the best time for me to be wearing flip flops, I might add). I carefully knocked the shards off and emptied my shoes, climbed into the back and unlocked the doors.

By this time, I had attracted the attention of anyone in earshot. To them, I was just some maniacal crack head beating the shit out of some poor guy’s truck window to steal CD’s or loose change. As I started cleaning the glass off the driver’s seat, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man walking toward me at a pretty good pace. I thought for a second about just driving away, but the thought of the potential police chase that would ensue deterred me. I rolled down my window as he asked “Dude, did you just break into that car?!” No, I'm waxing it! “Do you work here?” I asked back. He said he did and asked for some ID. I showed him my license and told him the story, of course my rental agreement is electronic and the paper tag you receive upon checkout has no personal info, luckily he just glanced at both. He told me that a woman came running into the lobby screaming about a man dressed in black breaking into a white truck. I was wearing a black shirt…so I laughed, he did not. I apologized for the shards left on his parking lot while he stood in disbelief unable to comprehend what had just happened. He didn't even crack a smile and so I went merrily on my way speeding off with my adrenaline high.

I made it in the nick of time even spending an extra 5 minutes filling out a report at the return center. The rental agents all looked at me like an escaped mental patient when I told them A) the window was broken and B) I broke it. "Why did you break it?" she asked sheepishly as she handed over my receipt. "Your people told me too", and with that I bounced out the door. We all have our priorities and mine was not missing that 9:20 flight! So now I can add yet another valuable skill to my bag of tricks. Just call me next time you lock your keys in your car, I know what to do; however, I offer this word of caution: breaking into a truck via the rear passenger window is much more difficult than it appears on TV. Good thing I didn’t try the old towel-around-the-elbow trick, I would have certainly landed in the ER!

Adios Summer

Today is the first day of October, the month that usually starts a rapid descent into wintry holiday bliss. My two favorite seasons have long been fall and spring for the simple reason of their transitional existence. Long hot summer gives way to winter by means of autumn. Cold winter nights slowly succumb to warmth by means of spring. And so it goes, year after year. This year, I am less jubilant at the onset of fall. I woke up this morning thinking about the three months that lie ahead and how quickly they seem to slip by until we are bundled up in snow covered yards with brown grass and leafless trees. The only signs of life will be the few evergreen shrubs in front of our Stoney Creek abode. Halloween, which has already begun, quickly turns to Thanksgiving and before we have our turkey and bountiful cornucopia the aisles at Target are full of Christmas décor. The seasons get longer and longer in a time period that allows for no more time. We wander in a daze for three months trying to remember which holiday is chronologically next while retail invokes our holiday spirit with commercial goods for holiday’s on-deck.

So goodbye summer, I have enjoyed my tan and the blistering heat of the Arizona desert. I have enjoyed my patio time with my buddy Truck and the kegerator always delivering ice cold refreshment. Goodbye lawnmower, for I am not sad to see you winterized, but will miss the fruits of your labor. Sitting in the creek at the camp will be hard to do when the water is frozen. The lush deciduous foliage will soon fade to a dreary brown haze covered by the occasional snow. For some reason, “Hazy Shade of Winter” is playing in my head. Ah, the Bangles, what would we have done without them? With just weeks before the first frost, I am clinging to the last breath of the first summer I have enjoyed in a very long time.

With cautious trepidation, I am hoping to fall in love all over again with each season of the upcoming year. Maybe I will burn some of this nostalgic energy on picking out my Halloween costume, which will certainly propel me into the bliss of autumn. So peace out my dear friend summer, thanks for the memories, cannot wait to meet you back here again next year.

...or are you just happy to see me?

Limos and Paparazzi

Although I use this expression quite often, thanks to the creative genius of my dear friend Tim Boom-D-A McG, it sums up the life of a road warrior quite well, n’est pas? So in addition to this phrase, I offer the following dark truths to life on the road.

We all know life on the road is not all about limos and paparazzi…it’s about cheap hotels and mid-size rentals, value meals, Diet Dr. Pepper from Circle K, and searching for the best local radio station. What you may not know, is the dark side and the unwritten rules of the inner circle of road warriors. Although it is against the code for me to divulge these secrets, I will sacrifice my position in the secret society and explain. There are certain things one must keep to oneself, after all, “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”, and the same is true of Baltimore, Phoenix, Buffalo, Omaha, pick a city. By reading forward you are now responsible for this heavy burden of the following three dark secrets of travel:

1. While on a plane, sitting within 6 inches of the person wedged between you, you still feel compelled to let out the “tester”. If it is safe, you release the hounds…if not, you stop and keep typing as if the cabin is full of the fragrant aroma of fresh cut roses.

2. One trip out of 50 it is a scientifically proven you will become “that guy”. The one that boards the plane completely sloshed and gets stuck in the middle, having to pee at the sound of the first “ding” and who reeks of malted hops and/or cigarette smoke. No one plans to be “that guy”, it just happens mysteriously when the right conditions present themselves (i.e. stress, bad week, wrecked rental car, etc.) NOTE: flight attendants HATE that guy…to remain under the radar remember the following: posture, demeanor, and for God’s sake chew some gum.

3. IMPORTANT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Never, ever, under any circumstance…purchase a vehicle from a used Rental Car fleet. Road warriors make it a sport to beat the living hell out of the poor Taurus’ and Malibu’s of the world. It is common practice to stockpile the rear floorboards with untold amounts of trash as a sport to see who can achieve the highest tower of Sonic cups. BUYER BEWARE: All potholes, speed bumps, curbs, medians, mud holes, icy parking lots, tiny parking spaces, speed limits, off road capabilities, and steep road dips become glaring targets of the common man’s journey in a rented sedan as if they have transcended adulthood and reverted back to their deviant inner child.

So you have now been duly initiated into a secret brotherhood of road warriors. 2B1ASK1. Be mindful of your fellow brethren and respect the code. If we should ever meet at the airport bar, I shall buy you a drink and teach you the handshake. Bon Voyage.

A Made-For-TV Moment

One morning when Cindy and I were carpooling together we ran through Mickey D's for McMuffins. As the line progressed we reached the first window, paid for our fine dining experience, and began waiting again. As the cars began to move, we noticed the guy sitting in the little pickup directly in front of us did not. We waited, and waited, the head of an employee bobbed out of window number two as if to signal "what is the holdup people?". Then we noticed the guy in the little pickup was sound asleep. Head back on the headrest, snoozing, and I mean out cold...mouth wide open and settled into the eyelid theatre. It seemed like forever, when it was probably less than a minute, but we could do nothing but watch in this sort of bewildered state. We looked at each other and at the same time both busted out laughing so hard we were crying. I have no doubt the poor guy could hear us and when he finally jumped awake and moved forward, he turned around, looked at us with wide eyes, gave us an embarrassed smile and promptly sped away...we laughed for hours. To this day one of us will quip, "remember that one time at McDonald's...". No need to continue, we bust out all over again!

Bowflex: Multi-Purpose Machine

We spent the weekend at the lake with the kids and some friends. I was typing away about the good times we had and funny memories that were made until I rambled into a subject that has created tumultuous conversations and long standing jokes at our hood. I had to delete...and start over. You see, it was April 2001. Cindy and I had just celebrated our one year anniversary moving into the house we had built on the tornado lot in OKC. For the past two years, I had been carting around a VHS (yeah I know, but it was still early in the OO's) promotional tape I ordered late one night from the Bowflex infomercial. I was sold from the first pitch. It took the next two years to find a way to pay for it. Finally, on that crisp spring day in April I made the call and sent it on its way. All for the bargain price of $799 plus shipping and handling.

Fast forward six years, thirty pounds, two kids, a minivan, five houses, and two dogs later. It is truly the multi-purpose machine I purchased way back in 2001. Don't believe me? Check the top ten list and see for yourself:

1. Fold down bench makes for excellent ironing board and impromptu closet shelf.
2. Flex rods make for excellent impromptu closet rods.
3. Upright bench and legs make for excellent drying rack for water toys, floaties, and life jackets.
4. Off season storage of water hoses and fertilizer bags.
5. Perfect for hanging the gi-normous Sam's Club freezer bag year round.
6. Raised platform prevents moisture from infiltrating stacked boxes and totes.
7. Velcro leg wraps become perfect make-shift garage holders.
8. Handle attachments may be used for a variety of odd chores when in a pinch.
9. Always valuable as a marketing tool for drawing people into a Garage Sale.
10. Holds "NOT FOR SALE" signs in the perfect eye-level location.

Of course I have never used this fine machine for anything other than its intended purpose (I almost made it without laughing). I simply wanted to share with you the plethora of uses this amazing contraption is capable of providing. It is truly the Swiss Army Knife of fitness equipment. More versatile than a Leatherman, more flexible than a universal remote. I recommend you pick one up if you have the means. After a weekend of hoisting my ass back onto a Sea Doo, I will fall in love all over again. Long live the Bowflex, provider of so much, recognized for so little!

Memoirs of a Dreamer

When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a spy. I spent countless hours reading Encyclopedia Brown novels. I was mesmerized by recon gear and once even thought about becoming a Navy SEAL. I ordered my official GI Joe dog tags that arrived engraved with my name and address. I went so far as to start a neighborhood detective agency for all things gone missing. RSS as it was called; Railhead Secret Service was based at the back of our one acre lot in Railhead Estates. Our offices were in the penthouse suite of the treehouse I built with my dad, brother and friends. We never had one client. My brother Zac and I would scour the neighborhood on our bikes to find anything suspicious to examine. Missing animals, damaged mailboxes, littered trash, we viewed anything and everything as a potential case that would lead to international intrigue where we would prevail as heroes. My imagination was fueled by books and stories of kid capers and the film Cloak and Dagger where a kid becomes embroiled in a spy ring concealing national secrets within a video game cartridge. I dreamed of traveling on multiple passports with multiple identities as a spy out to preserve the greater good of humanity.

Leaving elementary school and moving on to Junior High, I never stopped living in my little world of intrigue. Although I played soccer from the first grade, basketball for a couple of years, and little league baseball, I had not a speck of athletic talent. It was really unfortunate although I never really enjoyed playing anyway and remained in my own little imagination bubble. I borrowed an old Smith-Corona typewriter from my grandmother and began writing random stories. I wrote on paper the entire story of the film The Heavenly Kid because I had memorized every word. I started writing stories about my dreams of being a spy or a bad-ass detective.

I piddled and built model ships and random things in my garage like a coaster “bus” as my dad called it. It was a monstrosity of a coaster car. I had planned to use it as a recon vehicle full of uber cool gadgets. It didn't coast, never stood a chance, the threaded rod I used for axles bowed and buckled under the intense weight of the 2x6 frame. But it was a valiant albeit frustrating effort! I wanted so badly to build my own go cart, but never got around to starting, which is probably a good thing. I tried to make my own putting green in the backyard with the old green Lawn Boy, that didn't work. I rode my old red Honda three-wheeler for hours and hours and still have battle scars from a few of my exploits and daredevil tactics exploring the undeveloped wooded hills and fields near my house. Trout fishing trips to Blue River were my favorites. Not because I loved trout fishing, but because I spent most of the day exploring the river, falls, and caves picking up old relics of who knows what that had been carried by the river and playing the early version of Survivorman or a spy behind enemy lines. Wow, I really was a dork.

As time passed, I dreamed of moving on, growing up faster, being an adult. I could not wait to go to college. I spent my high school years dreaming of moving on to college, and although I had a great time I always thought of it as a temporary gig. When I finally went to college, I had abandoned my passion for spilling my dreams onto paper. I never once thought of majoring in Journalism. Honestly, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. I still find myself thinking what I want to be when I grow up (although a multi-millionaire tops the list). My early college years were full of beer and parties and having fun (and the occasional class). My tenure at OU saw many major changes and I managed to make my way through plenty of the major degree programs: engineering, architecture, film, communications, construction, pre-med. Nothing caught my attention as THE one. In the end, I settled with Construction Science and eventually graduated with a total of 213 combined hours. I like to think of it as a well rounded and robustly diverse Bachelor of Science.

Only now as I type away at this rambling blog post do I remember the passions of my youth. Perhaps when they say our first instincts are correct, that really means we dip way back into our past to find our true calling. At the very least, I prepared myself decades in advance to enjoy the Bourne film trilogy and if I could go back and apply what I know now, I could’ve built a kick ass treehouse! Perhaps I will have the pleasure of building a masterpiece for my kids one day!

The Human Spirit

Ever feel like you’re not living up to your full potential? Know there is something else in your life that is drawing you in? Well take a number and wait in line. Is there such a thing as pure fulfillment? I think it is a side stitch we try so badly to ignore. As humans, we aspire to be something better, finding new talents, abilities, and strengths. We KNOW we are not being utilized to our full potential. Only we just keep thinking tomorrow will bring some new found revelation that we must finally use these gifts and claim our mark on this earth. We have all been raised to believe these innate feelings are called “entrepreneurialism”. Bullshit. In this age of capitalism and dog-eat-dog battles over being the newest and most desirable “item” du jour only to make a few bucks, we have lost sight of the true human spirit. I find myself drawn to those who seem to find peace and virtue using those traits for the greater good. The greater good is not necessarily being a martyr for a particular cause. It’s simply letting the human spirit reign over your actions. Believe me, this is no sermon, for I am the last person who should lecture or preach. But what I do understand clearly, this life is about more than just you and I. It’s about all of us.

David Freeman is a fellow thirtysomething. He will tell you tête-à-tête he exudes a certain amount of pretension in his life. He will tell you he has the snobbish tendencies of a sheltered suburbanite. He will tell you he is compelled by his Type-A personality to be the center of attention. Curiously, I have no problem with any of those characteristics. Not because he happens to be the Executive Pastor at the First United Methodist Church we attend, but because he is human. No, no, don’t think I’m turning right-wing evangelical here (1-20-09!)…I truly feel admiration for this man who does for others that which would not be done by the common man. I have only known David for a couple of years and in that time I have come to one very simple conclusion. He does what he does, not because it was a calling, but because he wants to and because he chooses to utilize his entrepreneurial spirit. Although I am sure he felt the calling of the ministry, his character predetermined him to become a person to best fill the shoes of a champion of the cause, where cause has many meanings. It takes an un-Godly (pardon the pun) amount of character to stand before a congregation and speak the ugly truth about the ills of the world and gently (oh so gently) compel the flock before him to think outside of their wealthy bubble. Never does he speak harshly, never does he condemn. He instills compassion and virtue in a world full of very little with a sugarless coating. Even I was compelled to succumb to the calling and spend a week in Mexico this October for an adult mission trip. Unfortunately, this will be the second year in a row I have been unable to partake. My “meaningless consumer driven life” has prevailed due to conflicting work schedules.

Those who know me know that I am far from spiritual and “religious”, which adds a bit of irony to this post. I’m not trying to pretend I have some overwhelming need to spread the "good news"; I’m just another dude with a healthy dose of the human spirit. We all have needs. We all have wants. We all have regrets. And yes, we all have the drive for fulfillment. It’s just that we sometimes forget it’s about more than just us. Luckily, David is there, not to remind us, but to show us. I think about that every day. Someday I may actually do something about it.

A Personal Hiking Experience

If only I could show you pictures, you too would laugh. I spent the weekend at my buddy Gabe's camp in the Ozark National Forest. It is a beautiful setting in the Boston Mountains with a small cabin and two nice spring-fed creeks (seasonally fed anyway). To the physical setting you add a group of guys, ATV's, a couple of tractors, a keg of beer, and camp chairs for perching in the few pools of cold water that have endured the August heat. It goes something like this...we strap the keg on the back of an ATV, load up a 10lb suckling pig, 6 bags of charcoal, a box of crab legs and head to the chest deep pool of ice cold water to marinate and bond.

Now marinating and bonding are a ritual at the camp but this time, fueled by the addition of a full size keg (and 20 bags of ice) there is very interesting conversation. Mostly degrading each other with stories of bonding rituals past and trying hard to decide how best to cook the pig. Good thing we brought back up burgers!

Well into the aforementioned ritual bonding, I decided to expend some of my energy and hike downstream for a distance with as much pace as I could muster. Then I would turn around, hiking a different route back to the keg, recharge, then head upstream with the same intent. It started great, pace was good, handy walking stick useful, simple route with minimal obstacles...it was actually exhilarating. I turned, wandered back through the opposite side of the creek bed with slightly more obstacles and managed to keep the same pace. I had two nasty little spills, both times glad that no one could see the graceful slide on algae coated slate or the rotting tree trunk give way...my handy walking stick was the only casualty, splintered by the force of my body sliding into the pool below a small waterfall.

Once back to the base camp, I recharged, caught my breath (which took longer than a minute) and headed upstream. At first, the pace was on track with the first two legs...I have to admit it was pretty fast for me and my hefty stance. But at the end, I was spent. No more. My tech amphibians were full of rocks, my heart was beating out of my chest, my handy stick was lost...but something funny actually happened. I found a sort of high that I have never experienced. Perhaps it was the flood of endorphins, but I really enjoyed beating the hell out of myself on those rocks. So today, after a day of recuperation and soreness (ok, two days) I find myself anxiously awaiting the next time. I have a new goal. I want to push myself into a new phase of physical activity. It is now my goal to run the rocky trail from the camp up the mountain to the gate...I think it is slightly over a mile, but uphill most of the way with an elevation change of about 400'. Any bets on whether I can do it? Perhaps by publicly stating my intention, the motivation will not wain. And if so, I will always have the memory of finding my new endorphin high to motivate me! Wish me luck.

Construction in the Desert

Just a little sample of what I do day in and day out. It's not glamorous by any means, but I thought you might enjoy seeing the fruits of my labor and travels to Arizona.

Of course I don't physically build anything myself...that credit goes to the scores of peeps that work in the scorching heat to build a Bali-esque retail resort. I prefer the air-conditioning!

UUUUHHHHHHH...

This post is dedicated to my dear friends Tim and Ambra who have so diligently waited for a place holder in my most random memory abyss. I thought long and hard about what I should post and what would be appropriate for a "wide" audience...I wanted to post part of the Hogan story, chapters 1-6 would have been a hoot. But so not appropriate! So I decided, there is nothing suited for a "wide" audience...

If you do not relate to this story, then stop right now...you won't get it and it won't be funny. If you know anything about Hogan or Sigma Delta Chi, then keep reading...you will laugh your ass off (Caution: do not critique the grammar, spelling, sentence structure, punctuation, or writing style in any way...the random thinking IS the story).

what about a grudge match with karla and mandy? can i get a shut up and drive and a little pasty arm outstretched for an advil? "so what do you know tim?" "well I know about reba" what about a hugo boss suit at a high school reunion (OH MY GOD TIM IS SMOKING)...what about benson? what about that gravy? can i get some constant craving, what about a hair brush? "I am doing good, I have 75 records" can i get some tuna helper at barbie's disco palace? what about frosty and clancy...what about some CDV's for cigarette money..."ya'll im a lesbian now""well im not"...should we make a reservation for dinner at the Holiday Inn? can I get a bean burrito spilled on my floor? ooohhh...what about STARRRRRR? what about monica lewinsky...those beads are dirty. What about dominique and darcy...oohh...what about mary? do you think she has ever done some hair flippin? what about a christmas party with Hurley in a formal gown? can i get a pacer record? what about LD? what about TT and some tutoring up at the mabel bassett?

What about some employment screening...and Ed's kid crying at the sound of Shawn Colvin..."no tango coffee"..."there's no paul on the walton's"...what about ruh girl? do you think THO would be proud...do you think stie can thieve some of amy's food? how much do we miss the riverbend pool? candice was the VERY BEST mont waitress...still have scars from mont bugs? "you say, i only hear want i want to, i don't listen hard, i dont pay attention to the distance that your running to anyone anywhere"..."are you the same girl that i went through hell for, do you remember my name?" what about junior mints and a broken shot glass at jimmy buffet...half price apps with an 89er's ticket stub only at La Roca..."it's marianne!" "hakuna matata" what about the omnipresent turbo-charged wheelchair and the omnipresent kappa alum? what about raspberry beer at interurban?...what about the thunderchicken? what about our server dave and curt hill? and most importantly, what about a turpin turtle?

Miss you guys!

Alihilani? What The Hell Does That Mean?

For quite some time, I have had a dear affection for the word and more than a few inquisitive friends asking the above. Not only does it bring back memories of a simpler time (WARNING: tsunami of nostalgia approaching) and youthful innocence, but also that of one of my life's passions, sailing. Alihilani is Hawaiian for "the heavenly horizon". It was also the name of the 34' C&C sailboat aboard which I learned to sail when I was 16.

Two years later, I returned to the Alihilani for a bareboat charter with a herd of high school friends to celebrate the end of one era and the beginning of another. It was a great weekend full of reminiscing and trying diligently to score booze with a single fake ID (which was successful!). My friends were all headed to the ends of the earth (well, it was to me) to attend college: Texas A&M, OSU, Arkansas, me to OU, and my buddies Matt, Paul and Ryan were still stuck with another year of high school. It was far for us, being as it was no longer in our little town called Harrah. I would miss them. It's funny how we watch and read stories of how life goes on and pass them off as Hollywood moments, forgetting how true that statement rings in our own lives.

So as I embarked on a new journey to college, I kept the Alihilani as my mascot and personal historian. Even as I met new friends, found a second family with my fraternity brothers, and met a future wife, I drifted further and further away from Harrah. I still remain close to a couple of the old group and do manage to keep up with the rest through the grapevine and the occasional Christmas card.

The Alihilani is my holy grail of sacred memories and stands for more than just a boat or a weekend adventure. Alihilani will forever be part of me. It will forever keep my weekend trip, my multitude of college memories, and even those from my distant childhood: Visions of the brown treehouse, grandpa Sam's camper, my two best childhood friends, Caleb and David, my yellow Mongoose, the creek that ate my GI Joe hover craft, the brown Bronco, my Atari, the grave of my English Sheepdog, the coaster "bus", Johnson's Sports, the abandoned 1910 railroad tunnel, the blue bunk beds, the old MG, Foss Lake, the camp out to see Halley's comet, bus 15, Shelly Lockhart...all there for me to see.

But just as it was for Gordie Lachance, "...I will never again have friends like the one's I had when I was twelve." (Stephen King, from the Novella The Body and the Rob Reiner film Stand By Me). I learned many life lessons the day I read that book. Those lessons and more importantly the words still reside in me, thus forming the keel of my Alihilani. So now you know the name of my secret treasure box and that to the outside world she is just a sailboat. But her name says it all: though the heavenly horizon beyond is the goal, it is the journey that gets us there and the journey we shall never forget.

Footnote: I have since tried to charter her again, but the marina no longer charters from their private fleet and she was bought and relocated to an unknown location. She too is now only a memory on the heavenly horizon.

The Fog: Revisited

I know it was a boring post, but to me it was a journal entry reaching into what has been my life with fogged over glasses. I like to think I am the only one who reads my posts; therefore, I tend to spill just slightly more than is palatable. Well, just in case I am the only who reads, I offer this postlude to myself.

I finally did it. The fog, as thick as it gets, was beginning to become unbearable. I got myself into the doctor to find solace. After a barrage of tests, and clinicians telling me I had to find peace with my "condition", I finally sought the advice of a trained professional. His evaluation, based on the scores of tests and questions from my childhood and adolescence, allowed me to see the light and finally understand why. It was clear to my doc that I was a classic case of ADD sans the hyperactivity (hmm maybe that's why I'm not skinny and pretty...). Against my stubborn personality and my decades of denial, I decided to try his prescribed crutch, medication.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears...for a new day has begun. It took six weeks of sifting through select serotonin reuptake inhibitors to discover my problem was not the over-diagnosed, dare I say, depression. I found that I am a member of a growing number of adults living unknowingly with the gift that is Attention Deficit Disorder (unknowingly because most adults were never diagnosed as children). I say gift because it is just that. Disorder is a fallacy. I finally know for medical certainty that I belong to a group of people propelled by creative, intelligent, insightful thought processes. We just simply cannot control those machines humming and spinning ferociously in the brain. What began in childhood, never went away and has been gnawing on me for decades. I will spare you the genetics and physiology of the brain (for it is not completely yet understood) and offer you this: ADD is no longer a curse, but a blessing in disguise. Sure, it makes life as a "normal" person slightly more difficult to maintain, but the benefits I have found are far more inspirational.

I am still the daydreamer who cannot keep appointments, accumulates endless piles of paperwork, strays from the average conversation, and forgets to pay the light bill; but, am now the one attempting to harness my inherent gift for a lifetime of everyday happiness. With the help of my better half, we will form a new way of life around the mold shaped by the fog. Oh I said it...happiness. You are thinking to yourself right now...damn is he drunk? Nope. My mental clarity is beginning to shine. Think of it this way, the brain runs nonstop 24/7 for everyone and the same is true for "us". But "we" have a brain that runs on jet propulsion, constantly moving, dodging, crafting, conspiring, spinning, creating, working at light speed. The medication gives the little hamster on the wheel in my head something to chew on, whilst I go about the process of reclaiming my life.

Although it is only a small part of the reclamation process, the medication offers me the ability to strategize and ultimately focus. Focus is the key. For the first time since I was a young child, do I finally realize my full potential as a productive human. If only they could do something medically about the procrastination...but I can live with forcing myself to start a task rather than trying to blindly run the gambit from start to finish with little conscience effort.

I thought long and hard about actually putting this post on electronic paper, and I neglected to share with Cindy that I was going to go public. But in the end, my decision was not one based on overcoming a stigma, but rather recapturing and taming what is rightfully mine to hold. I could care less what any one else thinks at this point (note: impulsivity is an ADD benchmark, which I am sure does not affect me!). I am free to surf the inner workings of my mind now that I have found the means to focus on them. I will publicly state however that, although I make no promises, I will try to work on my piles at home G!

I will spare you the medical mumbo-jumbo and the psychopharmacology, but offer this: look out world...for I have seen the sky through the fog for the first time in many a moon, and it is bright, airy, and waiting for me to seize it again (or for the first time)! Here's wishing you a lifetime of unconstrained productivity!

Life Lessons: Chapter 1

My two friends Greg and Jason were watching a Steelers game at Buffalo Wild Wings one Monday night last fall. The bar was packed and a young Gen Y-er was sitting with a girlfriend at the bar. Her top was cropped and she was wearing hip huggers that fell ever so slightly below her exposed T-back. Just a teeny bit of crack was visible as she sat imbibing and engrossed in conversation. Unfortunately I was not there to witness, but through Jason I have heard the story many times! Greg gets up to walk to the bathroom, stumbles past the girl, glances as he passes, steps back to glance again, then as if the two had a history of playful chemistry…he slips his right index finger into the visible crack. Bloop…just like that! She was obviously stunned and he continued on to the bathroom as if nothing had happened.

Life Lesson #648: Thou shalt not poke, prod, or otherwise violate the T-back sanctum of a strange coed in a bar whilst thy judgment is impaired.

Many a moon ago, in my short tenure with Hogan Information, I had a colleague named Jessica. She was on a business trip to Orlando staying at a high-rise Embassy Suites. It had been a great day, productive business, awesome hair day, stunning new clothes, the world was her oyster…she left her room to visit the front desk for directions to a dinner location. Giddy with a zest for life, she entered the elevator where she joined a visiting family on vacation sparking conversation as they rode to the lobby together. She sauntered across the large atrium lobby area past more families checking-in and happy hour patrons, saying hello and waving as they watched her make her way to the front desk. With directions in hand, she sashayed back through the expansive atrium with her good hair bouncing in rhythm with her confident stride. She boarded the elevator once again to return to her room and shared the car with a young visitor from the UK. Half way to her floor, he leaned over and in proper and eloquent British form he shyly whispered, “Pardon miss, you seem to have your skirt tucked into your knickers”.

Life Lesson #724: Always check thy clothing for unnecessary tuckedness and/or stray toilet paper.

Life Lesson #811: Always share with someone their unnecessary tuckedness and/or stray toilet paper to aid them in avoiding compounded embarrassment.

Summer Arrives- Hide Your Eyes

It has been a LONG time since Cindy and I have enjoyed the summer the way it is intended! Babies, work, moving, changing, always on the go, lack of beach body...all inhibiting factors. So this summer I am making it a priority to move outside. Thus the reason for my 6 wk blog hiatus, I had to plan. Actually that is not entirely accurate, I had to procrastinate the planning and slowly motivate myself to initiate the plan. Whatever the case, those of you who know me will appreciate my ability to dive right into the plan...literally.

To begin, I have been spending an obscene amount of time in Phoenix at my project traveling back and forth on a weekly basis. A few weeks ago I decided to take some time to myself and begin the "plan". Now, keep in mind my body has seen the sun only once every summer for the past 6 or 7 years and that was only on the 4th of July. Imagine the pasty, farmer tanned, redneck and alabaster back coupled with my mounting heft...yeah I know...EWW.

I took the plunge a few weeks ago and decided I did not care what I looked like, I was going to get some sun and boost my body's supply of Vitamin E (sounds better than promoting skin cancer). So fueled by a few cold suds delivered by the little cabana girl at the Camelback Inn, I removed my shirt and assumed the position! I noticed at this point that the entire pool deck glanced, winced, and shielded the glare from my chest. Cabana girl returned, offered something stronger, I accepted, and felt much better with the addition of liquid courage in the form of rum. It was 112 degrees...and it was 6pm. I am told it is a "dry" heat and therefore doesn't really feel hot. Let me tell you friends, it doesn't matter if its dry, moist, or otherwise...when it is 112, it is HOT.

Instantly I begin to sweat, meaning I could have supported a rice paddy. I tough it out with the same perseverance of holding back the first break-the-seal pee. It has only been 20 minutes and I am already fried. Finally I just cannot stand it...I MUST GET IN THE WATER...AAHHHHH! Life is grand again. 112 is not bad when accompanied by a crystal clean cool pool. Cabana girl returns and I inform her of my change of venue...keep em coming girlfriend! She did. I finally threw in the towel when my face, shoulders, chest and back were sufficiently crisp.

And so summer has arrived...hide your eyes people, for inhibition is no longer in my vocabulary!

Suns Bandwagon

Well most of you know that I have been working part time in Phoenix since last fall, and befitting, I have joined the bandwagon of the Suns. I went to a game in February and decided that the NBA is pretty damn exciting when the home team doesn't suck. Such was, and is, the case of the Phoenix Suns. I was mesmerized by this past Tuesday when Nash and crew just eked victory in the last few minutes...and fell asleep last night when they couldn't hold on. I still maintain it is all fixed, but with really good reason! It does tend to get your blood boiling. So my vote is with the little white guy (not being racist) even if he tends to be a ball hog on occasion. Tonight I am in Chicago, and spent the night watching the Bulls and Pistons, not really into it as much as my new surrogate team, but there is something about playoff time that makes you really enjoy a sport so tainted by corporate greed and punk-ass players. I mean really, Sprewell, Anthony, HORRY! Punk Ass players. Too bad there is no justification for higher education. Ah well...I can't blame them, they get to buy they mama a new house, and I don't. But at least I can complete a sentence. WORD.

The Scavo Wars

As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I secretly love Desperate Housewives even though it actually brought some turmoil to our quiet abode. After dinner and baths and stories and kid chaos, when the eye-lid theater beckons the babies to enter a quiet slumber...we sneak off to the family room to enjoy our Sunday night drama. Tivo rocks. If you are a fan then you can appreciate our Scavo war. I mentioned to Cindy that I felt sorry for poor Tom, stuck at home and in pain...his wife seeking attention from the Iron Eagle. She gave me the "lip-curl" and said "What?! Lynette is the one who should endure our sympathy." And so she goes, giving up her job to stand by her husband, the cooking and cleaning, caring for 5 kids...yada yada. Dude, HE is the one who has been oppressed, unable to seek his dream and when he FINALLY does, it is never good enough. He endures bossy Beazus who runs the household with an iron fist. "He sunk their life savings into a pizza parlor, which will probably not last!" she says to me. Well of course not, it is destined to fail if she isn't behind it! In the end, we agree to disagree. Dreamers of the world unite...and join the fight against pragmatism. Long live the pizzeria and down with the gourmet!

Whataburger

While waiting impatiently for a flight last night, I was reading an article in my Fast Company magazine on the cult status of Whataburger. It made my mouth water. Cindy and I have had a huge affection for Whataburger since the dawn of time. But since our tenure in NWA began, we have been in severe withdrawal. The article was catchy and spoke of management style and values and blah blah...we love it for its food! There is something highly addictive in their Ketchup (not Catsup) and it makes their fries and burgers seem like little nuggets of heaven on earth. Don't get me wrong, Mickey D's fries are good and all, but they don't hold a candle to the elusive popcorn-box-o-fries from the orange A-frame. I purposefully leave 30 minutes early when driving to Tulsa to fly Southwest just to have time to visit my favorite foody house, well that and to go to Academy, but that's a different post all together. Driving through the state of Texas, passing every giant orange and blue "W" on I-35 is like being 6 again roaming the toy aisle at Kmart; elated to see the possibilities, but fending off a tantrum because mom said no. There is just something magical about hearing that crackling speaker chirping "would you like to Whata-size that, sugar?" Uh, there is no need to even ask. So who cares that the Whata-sized soda is the size of a super tanker...it's all good since its DIET Dr. Pepper. Well, happy thoughts and Whata-dreams to you...the Whata-end.

Traveling Thoughts

I am sitting at DFW waiting for a flight that has been delayed nearly three hours, it is almost 11pm. Ironically, we are waiting on flight attendants to arrive from Little Rock. Are they walking? I have been to Chicago and Phoenix over the last 48 hrs and I am exhausted, perhaps that is why I feel like a prolific writer...well, that and I am finally rid of the 80's hangover. This week is proof that being a road warrior is not all limos and paparazzi...yes, I know I say that all the time...but it's true. Ever have those days where nothing goes right and you are always on the defensive? I hate those days, I like the feeling of being in control and those days take that feeling away from me. Anyway, I am enjoying some good people watching. I think I could truly write a book just chronicling my days on the road. There are some colorful creatures stuffed into airports across the country. There are people on cots making their nests for the night...I pray I do not get stuck here...if so I will be pissed. I hate Dallas in the spring, nearly as bad as Chicago in the winter. I spent some time kickin around on MySpace. That site is like crack, I just can't stop looking at people. High School class mates combined with college peeps tends to offer hours of entertainment. Some of these people look really old. You better not be saying that about me or no more pics of fun events! So...OOHH OOHH...flight attendants are in the house! Looks like I may just get lucky! Gotta jet. Word to your mother, peace out and all that.

Pics, as promised...

Costume Party: Like Totally Gag Me With a Spoon!

Cindy and I are going to a costume party on Saturday night for the 30th birthday fiesta of our friend Joel. We are charged with representing one of the past 3 decades in full campy flair. At first I was thinking 70's pimp, then we thought about Mork and Mindy, Hans and Frans, Valley Teens, Shaggy and Velma...ok stop laughing, I'm being serious. We have decided costume parties suck. They are way too hard. It's hard enough to come up with an idea, but it is impossible to find anything to wear. Unless you buy it already pre-assembled in a costume shop, good luck finding anything that would pass for any of the above. So, we are stuck with mixing our favorite 80's fashions. Although it makes me feel old to know 80's retro wear is mockingly funny, I mean it wasn't THAT long ago we were wearing that ugly crap! Remember Dexters with the curly cue laces? Bugle Boy Baggy jeans? Braided leather belts 6 sizes too big so you could loop over and under and let it dangle? Hirachi sandals? Parachute pants and strokers caps? Jean jackets with Bon Jovi and Poison buttons? I wish I had time to grow a mullet. So in the end, I am torn between 80's Biff and Buffy and 80's hood. It is way cooler to wear an Anthrax t-shirt and jean jacket, ripped jeans with a bandanna around the leg and pen inked metal band logo's...but it is WAY funnier to do two pastel polos with collars up, white jean shorts, striped tube socks topped at the knee, and Wayfarers. I may even throw a sweater around my neck and carry a John McEnroe racket...or even drive up in a canary yellow MG with a feathered butt cut. Either way, I'll share the pics.

The Fog

Although this is an extremely personal subject, I feel compelled to open myself up and divulge a bit of my true identity. Beneath a jovial and fun-loving exterior, I am tortured by a debilitating condition I refer to as “The Fog”; although, the medical profession will call it Attention Deficit Disorder. I have been aware since my mid teens but I suspect it has been with me since birth. I’m not sure if mine is a medical condition, or just an annoyance that I have learned to live with, but it has the potential to wreak havoc on my daily life. Take the writing of this blog entry as a descriptive example. I am typing away, spilling out my thoughts, when suddenly I type the word “tortured”. I keep typing, without realizing what I am writing or where the written word is headed. My thoughts are in another world. The word “tortured” has made me think of prisoners at the Hanoi Hilton, then of the napalm that was utilized during the Vietnam War, giant explosions of super hot gas…cool, then of the movie Apocalypse Now, Robert Duvall, the movie Days of Thunder, stock cars, the death of Dale Earnhardt, then an old neighbor that drove a dark green Ford Explorer with a #3 bumper sticker, my old pal JJ Wilson who drove a green explorer, University Commons, and so on. It’s like the six thousand degrees of Eli. Before I know it, I have typed an entire paragraph about which I have no idea. I hold down the delete key and backtrack…trying to refocus. Then the process starts over again. The fog will strike at anytime, day or night. I can be in the car on my way to run an errand, say to pick up a gallon of milk at Braum’s. I will lose track of space and time then suddenly realize I have driven to Target, parked, entered the store and began shopping the electronics section before I realize I am at the wrong place. Then I think how much I want to go to Best Buy and look at a new iPod. Never mind there is a case of iPods one aisle over. Milk, what milk? You can only imagine how this condition can make for an extremely unproductive day at the office. I am thankful that I spend very little time sitting in my office and the majority of time in the field. Sticky notes and a day keeper are vital for me to remain focused throughout the day. But there are times when the fog rolls in so thick that all the 3M and Franklin Covey products in the world won’t make a bit of difference. Those are the days I feel are wasted. I have toyed with the idea of seeking some medical advice, but an earlier post will enlighten you to my issues there. I also do not want to utilize a stimulant to help fight a war I have been covertly and successfully attacking for 20 years. I realized I was not alone in my fight when I read an article several years ago by a contributing editor to Men’s Journal magazine. Ok I admit it, he is the one who renamed ADD, calling it “the fog”, but that is exactly what it is and so now I have adopted the same name. When traveling, I am most vulnerable to thought disruption and experience extremes of good and bad. One day, I am completely with it…highly motivated, productive, and in sync with the outside world…the next; I cannot complete a single thought and spend the day being 100% reactive, knowingly procrastinating to provide for a better time in which to be productive. So the moral of the story, if you are engaged in a conversation with me and I am staring blankly into your eyes, it’s not because I am intrigued by our banter. I have developed a technique for masking the inner workings of my brain during moments where I have no control of my thoughts. I stare because I care. And please don’t be surprised to hear me ask you to repeat most of what you just said. Maybe I should have a signal to communicate whether I am in, or whether I have stepped away from my mind for a few minutes. That would save us both some time. So, here’s hoping the fog burns off quickly, clear skies are ahead, and thoughts are coherent!

ROCK ON!

Finally, after 2 months of anticipation, BUZZFEST arrived on Friday the 13th! We loaded up the MV (the grocery-getting, people-moving van of mini) and drove to OKC for a whirlwind 24 hrs. Now leading up to the beloved event, which I attended with my friend Jeff and his son Cody (the concert virgin), I had to mentally psyche myself for what was about to transpire. Afterall, I had not been to a concert since college (the first time). There was hairstyle to decide, wardrobe planning, much listening to the bands on my iPod to help memorize words I may have either forgotten or just never knew. I had GF drop me off at Hot Topic to buy a shirt. She parked down the lane from the door so no one would see me get out of the ghastly minivan. I was totally 12 again, a 33 year old with the heart of a sixth grader. I bought a Social Distortion tshirt, sewed the belt loops back onto my favorite pair of faded jeans, donned my Chuck Taylor all-stars (also newly purchased) and tried in vain to mohawk my hair. Totally posing! I know I looked ridiculous, but I just did not care. Except for the act of stuffing my ears with cotton to prevent permanent hearing damage, I was totally young again.

Doors opened at 5pm, we were there at 5:03. We had awesome seats, the beer stand was just up the ramp, and the bathroom was right outside the door. The lineup included a local band that won a contest (so great I forgot their name), Saosin, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Buckcherry, Papa Roach, and finally AFI. I bought a Buckcherry tshirt...the Crazy B*tch Tour 2007. I helped support the Moore High School band by frequenting their Bud Light stand (run by parents of course). I had a hot dog, like I was at an OU game...and it was by far the very best hot dog I have ever had! Like ever! I spent a little time people watching, which is a sport in and of itself at an event like this. It was just as colorful as the Toughman Contest, although with a slightly darker (clothing, not skin) flavor. I had to laugh when a conservative cowboy type dad entered with his daughter of about 14 and her friend, both completely gothed out. That poor guy had no idea what he was getting into. I later saw him in the bathroom, asked if he was having a good time, he said "sure is loud, can you even understand what they are singing?", well no, but that's not the point.

OHMIGAH! We totally rocked as the night progressed, no doubt I was fueled by liquid courage, poor Cody had to endure two old guys trying to be young...Oh to have been a fly on the rail watching us! We hear "let's see those phones" and a wave of electric blue light fills the arena...where have I been and what happened to lighters? We watched the mosh pit swirl and dudes beat the hell out of each other, crowd surfers fall on their heads, I can't imagine them being able to hoist my fat self up on top of the crowd, much less get passed around...they woulda dropped me like a useless penny. And Cody got to witness a concert rite of passage, the inevitable flash from an adoring female fan! Make that two adoring female fans, but we decided only one counts, the other should have left it to the imagination. We were so proud. So today, after an entire weekend to recuperate, I am still sore. My arms are sore, my stomach still hurts, my ears are still ringing. But there is a smile on my face. I can still hang. Battered by age, and stress, a little excess cargo weight, and time...I can still rock out...if only for a few minutes at a time, it tends to give me a headache.

Turn Your Head And Cough

The phrase I most dread when visiting the doctor's office. I finally broke down, at the behest of my wife, and took my still throbbing ear to the local voodoo clinic on Easter eve. The clinical diagnosis: "Cool, that is one gnarly ear infection." Now I like to think that I work pretty hard for my meager paycheck, and because of such, I like to think that the medical advice I solicit is actually worthy of my dime. Seeing as how the early blooms on my money tree froze last week with the late snow storm, I am fresh out of spare change. So here I am, reminiscing on day 4 of Levaquin about the trials and tribulations of my rounds with the doctor's office. Like the time I thought I had appendicitis, they thought it was a hernia, but turned out to be a pulled muscle. More dimes. The dreaded SNIP last fall. Ooh. Still hurts, but money WELL spent. Teflon coated packs in my nose from sinus surgery, twice. Sleep study and CPAP titration. Which is an eerie feeling being filmed while you sleep, when at your most vulnerable, and only they know what is expelled (verbal and otherwise) while conquering dreamland. Waking up from surgery and spouting off who knows what to the first available ear. Many many dimes. I think out of all the glorious medical moments, my new most dreaded phrase: "Step up on the scale." Now there is no need to rub it in. No need for lecture. I still maintain it is by fault of the mirror in my bathroom. You know how anorexia creates for the afflicted the illusion of being plump even in the face of a mirror of skin and bones? Well, my mirror is the antithesis of anorexia. I see myself and think "ooh, I look good today, must have been my will power's victory over that Nutty Cone last night." But then the voodoo clinic witch doctor spells out the cold, hard, bitter truth. It is time to buy a new mirror. Finally, money well spent.

Eardrum: Huhh? Say Again?? Whaaat?

Earaches and sinus infections, they suck. I have both, the worst I have had since I had two surgeries to correct such afflictions. That was money well spent. Clogged ears, throbbing headache, pulsating eardrums, the drip (nasal, get your mind out of the gutter), scratchy throat, the lung capacity of a 70 year old smoker, vertigo...yeah life is a bowl of cherries this week. So how do I recoup and make myself feel better? By flying to Phoenix on good ol' Southwest, not for pleasure I might add. The family vacationers, screaming babies, nosy toddlers, pushy snow birds, cranky business travelers, too-chipper-for-their-own-good flight attendants, schmoopy honeymooners; eh so I'm cranky myself, sue me. I think it will be no problem, I can ignore the pain and misery that comes with issues of the head. Then they seal the door. We taxi, takeoff, then climb...OH DEAR LORD IN HEAVEN. I am seriously coming out of my seat writhing in pain until finally my inner hearing sanctum succumbs to the pressure. Not kidding, there was an explosion in my head the equivalent of St. Helens or blowing a Bose speaker. I beg and plead for said flight attendants to bestow upon me some drugs: Tylenol, Morphine, or I would have even taken Midol or a blow to the head to put me out of my misery. I could have sworn there was some significant cerebral hemorrhaging going on. For 156 minutes I endure the pain and the pressure which I equate to passing a kidney stone or, dare I say it, CHILDBIRTH (yeah that was quickly squelched by my unsympathetic wife). If only you could take the eardrum to Best Buy for repair. I'm sure I will have to endure more pain until I break down and go to a doctor...more money well spent, but hey, if it takes away the pain, bring it on. I SAID BRING IT ON, NO NO, BRING, ah never mind.

Nakedness and Memory Loss

It's late, so bear with me for two seconds while I digress into two polar opposite topics. I think the older I get the more my memory is impaired, whew now that was profound. But what's funny is I can remember the most obscure movie lines from 1987 and the details of the bus ride where I almost got my ass kicked by Reagan Foley in the 7th grade or any classic memory sparked by a song lyric from WE ARE THE WORLD. Why is it, if I can still recall all of this very foundation building depth to my being, that I cannot remember I have a standing haircut appointment every other Friday at 4? I am fearful that Lindsey (she's my haircut guru) may fire me. I am taking to pinning notes to my shirt as a throw back to my fascination with 80's memories...wish me luck, and a reminder wouldn't hurt.

I am by nature not the most modest person when it comes to nudity...no snickering in the peanut gallery. I make no provisions for hiding the fact that I go to the bathroom, shower, change, yada yada...in front of my kids. So the older they get, the more I start to consider limits and boundaries. I have no idea what fascinates a child about a grown man taking a pee and recently I have started to feel a bit awkward. Me thinks I am in uncharted waters here. While having this discussion with friends one night (obviously with drinks) our good friend Sharon enlightened us with a pretty good clue as to the appropriate time for you to begin using discretion in your nakedness. A friend of hers, while wrapping her head in a towel and proceeding with the female beauty regimen at the vanity in the buff, was approached by her three year old son. He strolled into the bathroom, looked her up and down, and very matter of fact asked "Mom, can I pet your fur?" It was time.

Automotive Schizophrenia

When we first moved to Arkansas, I drove a nice Yukon, comfortable, big, rode like a Caddy. In the spring following our arrival (04), I decided that with all the travel I was doing, the big Yuhoe was sitting at the airport 70% of the time feeling lonely and neglected. So I drove to Tulsa to trade it for a little Toyota Tacoma. That truck was great...there was no worrying about where it went and what it was doing...it was one tough little bullet for a regular cab 4 banger. It carried the Yamaha through some nasty terrain in the Ozark National Forest and never even batted an eye. Then how do I repay it? Well, I quit traveling so much and was spending more and more time with the little guy so I traded it for something bigger and more comfortable and not paid for. Thus begins the journey which I have now diagnosed as a classic case of Car Buying Schizophrenia...look it up, it's real. The silver Taco became the white 02 GMC, which was really nice, I have never had my own car that was loaded with leather and HEATED SEATS! However, something about that purchase always haunted me no matter how enticed by the leather I may have been. So I kicked it to the curb last July and decided that if I was going to have a truck payment, then I wanted a new one with warranty and my own scratches. Well, it is now March and a new year. And a new (old) 4Runner. I know, it is sick and twisted. But, it will soon be paid for and I will be back in the bliss of the old silver Taco.

Mont-y Memories

While my GF and two cherubs are spending a few days of spring break at CC and Pappa's house, I woke up thinking this morning of all the life lessons I learned at The Mont. The Mont, for those who don't know, is the quintessential patio of life. On a balmy Sunday evening in early June 1994, shortly before the much anticipated release of The Lion King, six friends began a legacy. Door Jamb, Marianne, Cherry, Coaster, Blue Star, and me Drummer Boy witnessed the genesis of the Sunday Drinking Club (Sigma Delta Chi). Ah the magic, the highly insightful philosophical discussions, the humanity. I am by nature a very nostalgic person which means I am a keeper of memories and somewhat ungrounded to reality. Because of this, I hold many treasures in boxes scattered around my house, garage, attic...you name it. At the prodding of my beautiful and practically minded wife, I have managed to whittle those memories into two densely packed containers. During this process I came across a book titled AN URBAN AFFAIR. This title and even its author have no bearing, but the book itself is sacred. It sits within the bookshelf of our family room as a silent reminder. You see, this book was used to keep meeting minutes each Sunday. The group would sing the high praise of Hakuna Matata and fill the pages with Sharpie ramblings, some illegible. I started thumbing through the book this morning and I was laughing so hard I had tears and stomach cramps. There was a fair amount of drama, like super sleuthing past the Sig Ep house late at night to see if Marianne's ex was out with a girl affectionately known as Claymation, or the 89ers baseball game night, or any Wednesday night at Incahoots...whew those were the days. Isn't it funny how the older we get, the harder we cling to those days? Maybe its just me. The ability for us to make memories is the reason we live. Each day we look forward to the next great memory until one day when we are old and gray looking at the book of life and hopefully saying, YEE-HAW that was good! Sunday will be here before we know it, perhaps a reunion is long overdue!

Lenten Addictions

It's the second year I have given up my addiction to Diet Dr. Pepper for Lent. So tonight I am sipping on the remains of my Sonic Raspberry Iced Tea and about to pop open a Diet Peach Snapple (I know, it's like giving up liquor to start smoking, but cut me some slack I'm being spiritual here). If you have never found yourself imbibing in a Snapple, then you have no idea of the excitement one can find when popping the top to reveal the "REAL FACT" hidden on the underside of the lid. Today, I learned that a hummingbird's heart beats 1400 times a minute. This is some really useful stuff. It is almost as exhilarating as Laffy Taffy jokes or Bazooka Joe cartoons. This brings me to my point: my desire to sacrifice one addiction has created a new equally addictive concoction which contradicts the purpose of the sacrificial addiction. But it sure is fun...for 40 days each year, I expand my collection of useless trivia. I bet you didn't know Manhattan is the only borough in NYC that does not have a Main Street. You would have, if you had read Real Fact #266.

The Obligatory Welcome

Bienvenue ! Les boissons sont de ce côté-ci. The drinks are here. Hmm, my high school French and the lackey 5 hours I had freshman year are FINALLY paying off. Thanks Mrs. Dobbs! This little corner of cyber land is dedicated to my random thoughts, insights, anecdotes...and general what-not. Enjoy my free therapy!