Scott Thinks She Can Dance

If you're hip on pop culture, you know that the dancing version of American Idol is called "So You Think You Can Dance". Also known as 'SYTYCD'. Tuesday night is this season's FINALE show to decide the winner, December 15, 2009 at 8 pm (EST and PST) on FOX. At home, we all watch this show religiously because Simon is into dancing big time, and it's just very uplifting and entertaining. The choreography is often original and the dancing is often spectacular. Remarkably, a 19 year old woman from Simon's own dance studio ("Dancenter") here in Capitola, California has made the finals! Her name is Ellenore Scott. We are of course rooting for her to win! But we need your help. Your job is to watch the show, find out what number number to dial to vote for her (it will be toll free, something like 1-888-836-76XX) , and then dial that number when the show ends, and then keep hitting redial for the next two hours. That's right. Pile on. There are 5 other finalists and it's going to be a tough race. But if Springfield Vermont can win the National "Home of the Simpsons" beauty (?) contest, Ellenore can win this one! If you know me, you know I can't dance a lick, but Ellenore sure can. Please tune in, enjoy a great show, and vote for your favorite dancer (ahem, Ellenore!). Thanks!


pic - Ellenore is kneeling in the back row, second from the left. The Dancenter Director, Ruth Fisher, is second from the right. (source: Santa Cruz Sentinel)

pic - Ellenore at Dancenter at age 13, is in the far lower left. (source: santacruzlive.com)

Here's Ellenore's solo at the Las Vegas audition. ENJOY!



Here are some articles, pics and links with short bios, videos and links to her own website.

SantaCruzLive
http://www.santacruzlive.com/blogs/epicenter/2009/12/11/santa-cruzs-ellenore-scott-goes-for-dance-glory/

Santa Cruz Sentinel by Wallace Baine
http://www.santacruzsentinel.com/localnews/ci_13988162

...now don't forget to tune in and VOTE FOR ELLENORE!
(thanks again and happy holidays!)

More Than Numbers on a Scoreboard

This week in The Springfield Reporter is an article written about Paul Kendall. Paul is the coach of this year's Vermont high school state soccer champions. Yep, that's right. The Springfield High School Cosmos won another one! Soccer to go along with football and basketball state titles all in the past year. Congratulations Cosmos! Title-Town, again!

Since The Reporter still isn't published online, here is the article verbatim from the Nov 18, 2009 Springfield Reporter back page 20, Sports section. No byline was given, but Thank You to whoever wrote it.

------------------------------------------------

WINNING A STATE TITLE

It's More than Just What Happens on the Field,
And Numbers on the Scoreboard

In his seven years as coach of the Springfield Cosmos boys soccer team, Paul Kendall has racked up a lot of wins. But it took a deeply disappointing loss - one of only two losses his team sustained this season enroute to a Division II title - for the coach to realize the true meaning of winning.

The Cosmos October 18 loss to the Hartford Hurricanes, a team they had beaten earlier in the season, left Kendall despondent. The following day, he opened his journal to put down his thoughts. And he wrote down the question, "Why do I coach?" It was in thinking of the real answer to that question that he realized: athletic success comes down to more than wins and losses.

"Why do I coach? What am I here for? What's my purpose - to win a state championship?" he wrote.

"Or - To teach a kid manners, to see to it that a player has food at night, to help a child be nice to his parents... to care for, to love these great young men.... to influence, to change, make better, a young man's life?"

Kendall's first goal had been to win the state title: the loss drove home that the goal may not be realized, that only one team can be state champions, and those who fall short are not failures. All that was really in his control is that it be a good year for his players - all his players - and that meant more than just on the field.

What that meant for Kendall was the total package: the fitness and desire to be successful on the field; and the personal and family stability necessary to be successful on the field and off.

"There's more to it than just on the field," the coach says. And he saw his role not just as coach on the field, but as a coach in their lives, coaching them not just as soccer players, but as individuals. That meant keeping an eye on their academic success, their social life, even their family life.

And he did not have to do all that alone, as his team leaders helped their teammates keep all facets of their lives in focus. "This year was just a great year for that," Kendall says. "All those things came together."

Kendall told his players early on that tensions in their school and family lives can affect their performance on the field.

"It's a difficult time for some of the kids. It's tough times out there," Kendall says.

A couple of his players come from split families, and they didn't always know where they would be sleeping at night. Others come from families deeply affected by the recession, and didn't know if they would have one nutritious meal in a week.

Kendall and his assistant coaches quite often provided when parents couldn't. They made sure no one was excluded from a pre-season camp held in central Vermont, even though there were a few players who could not afford the fees. The coaches often had to chip in so no one went hungry during the traditional hamburger stops after away games. And Kendall bought some groceries for a player who had eaten nothing but ramen noodles for a week.

More importantly, Kendall says, the team bought into the concept that every individual is important, and team members took it upon themselves to help their teammates in difficult times.

Kendall knows that on more than one occasion, players took teammates into their homes so they knew they would have a place to sleep.

And then there was a teacher in-service day - a day off for students - when the team captains took a player who was struggling academically to the school, and waited while he wrote two papers so he could raise two failing grades and stay eligible for athletics.

And there was a championship medal for senior Cooper Nelson, who could not be on the team this year because of a foot injury. His former teammates made sure he shared in the Cosmos glory.

Kendall has always stressed to his players their responsibility to others, not just their teammates, but to the program and the community. Everything they do on the field and off, is a reflection not just on themselves but on Cosmos soccer.

That's why he has always had his players go out into the community in small groups and perform service projects. Each season, at least one practice session is given up, and players go out to pick up trash, maintain public playgrounds, or work at the Family Center.

And each Saturday, many players volunteer as coaches with the youth soccer program, an activity they especially enjoy.

In total, Kendall estimates his players performed over 150 hours of community service this fall.

Kendall feel the work in the community makes the kids feel more a part of the community, and thus more inclined to be responsible citizens.

"Kids will be kids. Kids will mess up," Kendall says. And in his seven years of coaching, there have been a few minor incidents. But everything came together this year, with the older players helping impress on the younger that, perhaps they should not go to this party the night before a game, that maybe the coaches institution of a curfew the night before a playoff is not arbitrary, but could mean the difference between a win and a loss that will be remembered the rest of one's life.

Perhaps the biggest success of the program is that "The kids help to monitor themselves," Kendall says.

Kendall has long involvement in scouting, and he brings his Scout values to the team, particularly the tenet "Do a good deed daily". He said it was rewarding to have players come to him and tell him how they helped their mothers do this or that, that they were looking for ways to help others.

But no good deed goes unpunished, as Kendall has learned. Religion is a big part of Kendall's life, and his suggestion to players that they attend church with their parents was criticized by some parents. Kendall's goal was not to promote any religion, just the values that universal to all denominations.

Kendall does not want to be portrayed as the savior of Springfield soccer. He is quick to point out he is not proud of everything he has done as coach. He has sometimes taken the games too seriously, lost his cool, yelled at players during games when he felt they were not playing to potential.

But the years of coming to understand what some of Springfield's youth are up against, and the epiphany following the Hartford loss, helped put it all in perspective: they made him realize winning isn't everything, that winning isn't the end, but the means of helping kids experience some success in their lives.

And for Kendall, that, even more than the title, was the season's greatest success.

(c) Springfield Reporter November 18, 2009
------------------------------------------------

For me, the story behind the trophy that Paul Kendall tells is more than a feel-good triumph just in time for turkey dinner. It really hit home. Some of it echos what I wrote exactly one year ago when I posted this blog entry (http://floforall.blogspot.com/2008/11/thanksgiving-springfield-reporter.html) - about The Reporter and a long-awaited Vermont high school state football championship. About how kids struggles at home can deeply affect their lives in school and on the field. How sports can take the role of 'family', let kids experience success in their lives, give them a positive outlet and a stake in the community. Kids like those today who struggle - but go on to win a state championship trophies.

Maybe you're thinking it sounds a little bit melodramatic, with the Disney ending and all. But lemme tell ya... I know a kid who went 1-8 in the fall of his senior year at SHS about three decades ago, who still had something to hold on to. And that something was (and still is) much bigger and longer lasting than that lonely number '1' in the win column.

Happy Thanksgiving! As I try to count my blessings out here on the left coast, win or lose, I'm grateful to everyone in the community that helped me grow up (at least a little bit, don'cha'know...) in the 05156.

The Body Issue

Jan 30, 2010

In October 2009, my good friend Mike sent this hilarious Rick Reilly article from ESPN The Magazine - The Body Issue. Rick Reilly rocks. I wish I could write like him. His article inspired me to write my own Body Issue. So here's my rebuttal, something I've been meaning to get off my chest, if you will.

WARNING:
This is not for the faint of heart. Sorry, no pictures or videos in this installment. You'll thank me later.

Riverside Junior High - Gym Class Locker Room - 1974

The first thing that comes to mind is the Junior High School locker room scene. In Junior High gym class, we all changed and dressed in one room, and showered in one big shower room together, too. Since our bodies all take on lots of changes during those Junior High years, we really could have used some privacy right about then - but there we were, buck naked right at the point where our proverbial caterpillars were turning into butterflies. Or something. It was confusing. Some of us were very self-conscious because we had developed much more quickly than others; and some were very self-conscious for exactly the opposite reason. Then there was the Spanish Inquisition of "gay"ness <-not that there's anything wrong with that (the standard Seinfeld disclaimer applies throughout here)). Some claimed that you must be "gay" if you were behaving in a self-conscious or shy manner; and some claimed you must be "gay" if you were not. You couldn't win. Or lose. I don't know. Like I said, confusing. I remember hearing a heated locker room argument about which was more natural - circumcision or not. Hmmm, isn't it obvious? In any case, we all attained our sexual identity in adulthood, and we now know one thing for sure: inevitably some of us were and are indeed gay. And I'm OK with that. It's OK to be gay. It's all good. I mean that. Really! I've always wondered what the Jr. High girls gym class was going through in those days. Surely, it's best I do not know (and stop calling me Shirley). Ba-da-boom...

Riverside Jr. High - Hole In The Wall Locker Room - 1977

During High School, I was part of a deliciously cliché locker room tradition which I hold myself personally responsible for ruining. Yeah, one of many minor regrets. I claimed my varsity basketball locker at Riverside gym directly against a cinder block wall that separated us from the girl's locker room. There was a hole drilled neatly into the corner of one of the cinder blocks a few feet over my locker. (I did not drill that hole. Honest, your honor.) Through that hole you could peek through and see down into the well-lit, warm and steamy confines of the girls locker room on the other side. It was a feast for the eyes of a hormone riddled teenager and I discretely enjoyed it mostly to myself for several weeks into the season. Then I made the mistake of showing off and sharing a particularly bountiful evening of viewing with some underclassmen. I didn't know it, but the word got out and spread through the grape vine. The next week I was horrified to see that the hole had been filled and capped. The jig was up. I don't know who drilled the hole in the first place, but I can't thank them enough. I'm only sorry the cover was blown, and the holiest of all holes had been unceremoniously wrapped in a cement chastity belt.

Springfield High School - They Call it the "Streak" - 1978
High School in the 70's also means one other fine tradition: streaking. My homies from the 'hood (and you know who you are), would camp out in the front yard during the summer, wait until the middle of the night, disrobe except for our sneakers, and sneak off onto the quiet, mostly untraveled rural roads of our neighborhood. We ran the entire length of Summer Street and back up Wall Street (not *that* Wall St, full of more debauchery than you will ever read here). It seemed like at least a couple of miles streaking. Our white butts we were occasionally flashed by the headlights of a car coming up over a hill and we would run like the dickens (so to speak) into the cover of the nearby shrubbery. And you know what? It's true, you really can run faster naked. Anyway, we talked seriously of streaking down to the local bakery when it opened at 5a.m. for fresh donuts. Cooler minds prevailed and we never did execute what would have been a classic Bart Simpson moment decades before our hometown actually became the official Springfield Home of the Simpsons.

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? (Physics prof Don Tiernan insisted yes). So, is it streaking if no one sees you (except perhaps a late night drunken driver who isn't even sure what he's seeing)? Debatable.

But there is no debate on the greatest streaking exhibition of my High School era. It was my junior year, and again, the scene of the crime was Riverside Gym. It was a cold, snowy December night but the bleachers were packed for the basketball showdown with the arch-rival Bellow Falls (real name!) Terriers. Most of the town was there to bare witness (so to speak). I was on the varsity hoop team, riding the end of the bench with no hope of playing in the first half, mostly lost daydreaming about the cheerleaders to my right. As the first half ended, we jogged off the court into the locker room - and once again I daydreamed, lamenting the filling of the locker room peep hole for the umpteenth time. The mood in the locker room was subdued and serious as we quickly devoured the juicy, fresh-cut oranges and toweled off. While we awaited second half strategy from Coach Wyman, even through closed doors, we suddenly heard a loud eruption of roars and screams from out in the gym. We looked at each other. What had happened? There had never been a halftime show at any of our games that had ever brought anything but mild, enthusiastic and polite applause.

When we ran back out onto the court we all looked around in wonder. There was a huge buzz in the stands. People were smiling, stealing glances at each other, wide-eyed, pointing and gesturing and very excited. The whole place was giddy with that "did you see what I saw?!" feeling of community disbelief.

Apparently this is what had happened: Two unidentified white males were the culprits. In my town, this ruled out nobody. They wore ski masks and running shoes and that was all. Their naked bodies covered only in green painted slogans. It said "GO" on one cheek, "COSMOS" on the other. By all accounts, they were evidently big supporters of the team. They had disrobed in the lobby men's room, ran through the lobby, and both arm's raised in victory they raced out onto the court and then through the padded blue double doors at the back of gym. A getaway car awaited to whisk them away. It was a well-planned, well-executed streak and they had pulled it off!

Everyone who was anyone in town saw it - except for the those unlucky few of us on the basketball team. Many of the people I would have suspected were actually with me in that locker room with me, so I had no idea who it was. We only heard second-hand that two of our bravest, boldest classmates had bared their third-leg and taken one (off) for the team. Ski masks, halftime, green paint and birthday suits. Legends are made of those.

I didn't get all the details of this in my original recounting of events, butt I recently caught up with one of the culprits and he shared his tail (so to ... you know, speak):

""

Here are a few things on the grand escapade.

It was Valentines day 1978, cold as heck, and I think the game was against Bellows Falls. The characters were me and G. as the streakers, ES drove the getaway care and i think HS drove the decoy, KJ was supposed to photogragh but was flirting with a girl at the time so no pictures were taken. As G and I entered the gym at top speed, the BF cheerleader pyramid collapsed...all I saw was wide eyes and none looking above our waists. Going up the snow-covered hill to the getaway car I encountered a briar bush in the darkness....have a cool scar as a reminder! The letter expelling me from school proudly hangs in my office along side my retired fire helmet and other symbols of an adventurous life. I used to have a tape of the radio broadcast but lost it in my travels...it was so funny..the announcer couldn't stop laughing and the audience was just wild.

How did this change my life? I was completely terrified but did it anyway because I said I would....it started off as a whim but ended up as a lesson about honor. I think that is why my parents weren't mad at me...

""

quote - DC. Thanks, DC, you'll always be my hero!

Syracuse University - Big Man On Campus - 1979

It's the first few weeks of my freshman year at Syracuse University. I don't do any organized sports anymore and I feel odd not sweating every single day. So I'm sitting in the weight room and working out on the 'universal gym'. I put the pin under the plate that says 130 and struggle to bench press it a few times before giving up. I only weigh 135, but I will gain 20 pounds over the next few months, compliments three full meals a day at the all-you-can-eat dining hall. I feel great about benching 130. I get up and accidentally-on-purpose leave the pin to mark my accomplishment. I stretch and watch in utter amazement. A black man not much taller than me approaches the bench press. He's wearing a tank top and his body is layered with muscles I didn't even know existed. His broad shoulders cut a V of ropey muscle down his back to an impossibly narrow waist. His thigh muscles bulge. This guy is ripped. He bends over, removes the pin from 130 and puts it all the way on the bottom of the stack of metal plates. 300? I don't even know. That's alien territory to most mere mortals. He lies down on the bench, grips the bar, takes one breath, and pumps the entire stack about around ten times. Maybe more, I don't know, I lost track. I'm in complete awe of this man's body and strength.

Later on, in the locker room, I get a glimpse of this man in the Full Monty. If he had pointed to his own babymaker and asked me "you know what this is", I would have had to reply: "A penis. Only bigger."Later I learned that this perfect specimen of a man is Art Monk. Star receiver for the Syracuse Football team, future Washington Redskin and NFL Hall-of-Famer.

Waikiki Hawai'i - Hotel Penthouse - 1985
In Hawai'i, I hung out with an Aussie chick from the International Youth Hostel. Her name was "Pahky" and she was uninhibited. That action quickly rubbed off on me. In her Aussie way, everything was "heaps" of fun and she would agree with me with an "Ahh yeah" that would melt my heart. We would go 'au naturel' on those warm Waikiki beach nights into empty lifeguard towers or in unattended hotel hot tubs. One night, we were buck naked in a jacuzzi on the top floor of a skyscraper luxury hotel right on the beach. We weren't supposed to be there, and Pahky and I got busted by a rent-a-cop shining a bright flashlight in our faces. The 'cop' was loud and indignant, and ordered us to get dressed and follow him down to the "basement lock-up". Being me, I immediately panicked. I'm thinking drunk tank with my girl. Oooh. Pahky played it so cool. She put on her skimpy dress but left her breasts exposed. She smiled at the cop, gave him a coy pose, and told him seductively, "quick! take my mug shot". I cracked up, but he ordered us to follow him to the elevator. The cop remained stoic, but staring, as she got on the elevator bare-breasted. We were giggling. She pressed up against me while he pressed the elevator button for the Basement - not the Lobby. I gulped. As we descended I got a bad feeling, but she just stood there in all her glory and smiled at the rent-a-cop. When we reached the basement, he turns and just grins at her. Then he turns and sneers at me and says, "I never want to see YOU in this building again!" He gets off the elevator, turns around and presses the Lobby button for us. We burst out laughing. Pahky covers herself before we exit into the lobby. As we retold the story back at the Waikiki Youth Hostel we laugh so hard, we cried.

Ito Japan - Hot Spring Public Bath - 1985

It's my first week working in a small beach tourist / fishing village in Japan. My traditional Japanese apartment, with tatami mat floors and a slew toilet has no shower or bath. I'm told to bathe at the local sento 温泉 "onsen" (natural hot springs public bath) just down the road, right on the ocean. I grab a change of clothes and head down to the sento. I walk in the front door and there's an old lady sitting high up on a desk just inside the door. She doesn't make eye contact. I pay my "hyaku en" (100 yen, less then a dollar back then) and she hands me a small hand towel and a white bath towel. There are two entrances. The one to the left is marked 男 "otoko" and one to the right marked　女 "onna". I know this. I go left into the men's side. There is a small locker room with tiny cubbies. I disrobe, put my clothes in a cubbie, cover myself with the hand towel, grab a round, shallow plastic bucket to use to wash myself and head for the bathing area. I slide a wooden door which opens into a very large, completely tiled bath area.

In the middle is a long shallow pool filled with steaming hot water from the local natural hot spring (think: sub-volcanic heat) and filled with locals sitting and relaxing. Along the walls are a long line of pairs of hot and cold faucets only a foot off the floor. Men are squatting near them, soaping themselves up and rinsing themselves off. The routine is to squat near a faucet with your bucket, wet yourself with hot water, soap up completely using the hand towel, rinse off thoroughly, rinse off the hand towel thoroughly, and only then get up and go and lower yourself slowly into the incredibly hot pool and relax, then when your ready to go, get up and rinse / cool off in some cold water from the faucets, and go back into the locker room to dry off and change.

I know all this. I stand up above the scene in the open sliding door and wait too long. The air is hot and humid, and the lights are bright. There is no where to hide. There is chatter, talking and some laughing, water running and splashing. Every little sound echos off the tiled walls, and it all blends together. Every one is a local Japanese - but me. I'm well aware of this, too. But no one openly looks at me, the Japanese are masters of privacy in a very crowded public space. No one looks, but I just know everyone sees me. I think of Jr. High gym class. I muster up some courage. I spot an open faucet in the far corner, step down on the hot, wet, tiled floor of the sento, and my two bare feet unstable. I'm terribly self-conscious so I keep my hand towel and bucket down below my waist and this doesn't help my balance. I keep my head up and my eyes on the open faucets. I take two or three steps and lose my footing in a stream of hot soapy water. My hands wave up wildly and I step far forward trying to catch my balance, but it is no use. My back leg slips out from under me and I lose it. Suddenly, I am airborne. CRASH! The sound echos loudly, like a gun shot. I land on my back, my head cracks back against the hard tile and my bucket pounds loudly off the floor and goes bouncing away. I am stunned. The people around me are stunned. The place goes silent. Am I hurt? I don't know. They don't know. I lay there looking up into steamy bright light. I am OK, but I briefly consider feigning being unconscious so I won't have to face anybody. Two old men, stark naked are standing over me. They are concerned. I open my eyes and slide and squirm to get up on one knee at least. My bucket and hand towel are pushed back within arms length. I struggle to gain my composure. My back is OK, my head is throbbing but coherent, but my pride is shredded beyond repair. The place has gone completely silent. I unfold from the floor and half stand, half squat. A pair of faucets has opened up immediately behind me and I squat waddle the few feet over to them. My back is now to the entire scene. There are murmurs and comments and water starting to flow and splash behind me again. I feel somehow safe and invisible in the steam and the echos. I can't understand what's being said around me anyway. Just as well.

I've never been very flexible and squatting for any period of time is hard for me. I do my best and wet, soap and rinse my body. My elbow is cut open and bleeding in the heat. My ego is beyond cleansing. But I do feel better. Nothing like washing up immediately after a mortifying experience like this. I know I can't go into the public pool bleeding, and certainly don't want to. I rise, keep my back to the hot spring pool, and keep one hand on the wall as I inch my way back to the sliding door. I climb back up, don't wait to cool off and dry off as quickly as possible. It's futile. I'm still sweating like crazy as I pull my clothes on. I walk out, slide on my sandals, and escape into the December night. The cool coastal air feels fantastic on my face and in my lungs. I have never felt so alive and so happy just to be alive and unharmed.

The sento is my only way to bathe. I have to return there again, night after night. Nothing can shame me more than that first grand entrance, so I manage. I get it down and get in to a routine. The men's sento is full every night of local fisherman (it's a fishing village), laborers, dignitaries, riff-raff, great-grandfathers, grandfathers, young fathers, teenagers and young boys. This is a place where you see the naked male human form in every state possible. The humanity of it is stark, wet, well-lit and as real as it gets. There is no where to hide here, so there isn't a better community building exercise imaginable than this. Here, I feel I've discovered a remarkable secret to the Japanese society and their world-renowned group culture and peaceful co-existence. It doesn't take me long to feel part of the whole scene and unselfconscious. I'm sure it took the locals much less time, despite my original crashing of the party and my unmistakable 'foreignness'. The fact that I soon become just another human part of this scene makes me feel accepted and at home.

A few weeks later I am sitting in the hot pool up to my neck. I'm soaking in the super hot water that is almost unbearable - but warms me to the bone. I try to stay there in the hot pool as long as possible before I can't stand it any longer and have to lift myself out on the edge to cool off. I practice writing the Japanese hiragana alphabet with my finger on the floor of the pool as I sit there. I write all the characters, and pull myself our and sit on the ledge of the pool with legs still dangling in the water. I'm naked and think nothing of it. I'm dripping wet with sweat as well the hot water. (I don't think Japanese people sweat.) I'm relaxed and I lean back on with my hands supporting me. My legs are spread out into the water and between my legs I'm hanging flaccid but not shriveled (just the opposite of what all me are like men from being very cold).

Two muscular young men still submerged in the pool up their necks move toward me. They sidle up right next to me now and are looking at me, smiling. They have lots of tattoos on their necks and shoulders and back. Colorful, but I can't make them out under water. I sense they want to tell me something. They assume I don't speak Japanese at all, which is mostly true. I assume they don't speak English, which is true. With just his head still out of the water, one of them slides to edge of the pool right between legs and looks up at me. We make eye contact. Then his eyes pointedly glance down between my legs and then back to my face. I look down at myself, and then back at him. I cock my head. He smiles and pulls his buddy over next to him. His buddy stands up out of the water and towers over me. He's tall and covered in beautiful tattoos of red flowers, some kanji characters and a large bird. He's completely exposed with his hands on his hips before me and grinning. His buddy is still in the water but he is looking at me intently. We make eye contact, and he turns his head away this time to look between his buddies legs. He stares for a second, then turns his head to stare between my legs. I follow the same visual path and the message is clear. His tattooed friend is bigger. Much bigger. I'm the (stereotypically bigger) white guy but here's a Japanese guy with a much bigger, fatter, swinging babymaker. I make eye contact with them both, look down at myself and then up at the manhood standing before me. I nod at his specimen in contrition, look up and say one of the few words I know, but it is perfectly appropriate 大きいね! "ookii neh!" (translation: big, huh!). They both smile wide with mock surprise and nod their heads slowly in agreement, clearly satisfied but clearly a bit surprised and pleased that I've spoken their language. I smile in acceptance. The bigger one crouches down back into the water and the two buddies are elbowing each other under the water as slide away from me. I can hear them laughing. It doesn't bother me at all. I spread my legs a bit further apart, lean my head back and let out a small snicker through my nose into the steamy room and think, it's a small world we live in. Smaller for some than others.

Tokyo - Hash House Harriers Hazing - 1992

I've joined a new company in Tokyo. My new boss is American and he is a runner so he asks me if I want to join his running group in Tokyo. Tokyo is a very crowded city with busy narrow streets. Running in Tokyo? How can this be? I tell him I love to run but can't imagine it in Tokyo. He says simply, "Oh just show up. You're in for a treat!"

The group is called the Hash House Harriers. Weird name, world-wide loosely knit organization. We meet at 9pm at a train station just wearing running shorts, shoes, t-shirts. There are men and women, and there are some Japanese but mostly foreigners. I don't know anyone but my new boss (who I barely know). We would get to know each other real well...

Here's how the Hash works:
One runner is the Hare. He leads the run and sets the trail by leaving piles of chalk and chalked arrows on the streets. Everyone else 'chases' the hare and follows the run. There is backtracking and group teamwork involved. If you are hot on the trail you shout "ON-ON" while you're running so those behind you can follow quickly behind without looking for the clues you've already found. If you're lost you shout out "ARE YOU?" and hope to hear someone reply "ON-ON" so you can follow their voice. Confusing but fun and really builds comaraderie. The faster you can run the harder you have to work and the more blind alleys you run into. The goal is to get everyone to finish, not just yourself, so you may end up running back to retrieve groups hopelessly lost. It's not a race, it's a social event. I ran about 10 times more than what I expected. We end up in a bar. (aside: The motto of the Santa Cruz Chapter of HHH is "We're Drinkers With A Running Problem.")

The run is always followed by a heavy beer drinking session. In Tokyo it the run ended at at an 居酒屋 "izakaya" (bar) in Shinjuku. So about 20 of us sweating men and women sit there on the floor around a low table and eat and drink and just have a great time.

On this night, there are three first-timers, including me. First timers must learn a Hasher song and sing it solo for the group. This particular ditty is to the tune of some well-know children's song (which I do not know), but the Hash lyrics are R-rated.
It goes like this:

""
Do your balls hang low?
Can you touch 'em with your toe?
Can you tie 'em in a knot?
Can you tie 'em in a bow?
Do you get a funny feeling,
When you bounce 'em off the ceiling?
Oh, you'll never be a HASHER
If your BALLS hang low!!!
--

Do your tits hang low?
Can you touch 'em with your toe?
Can you tie 'em in a knot?
Can you tie 'em in a bow?
Do you get a funny feeling,
When you bounce 'em off the ceiling?
Oh, you'll never be a HASHER
If your TITS hang low!!!
""

Now each first-timer has to stand up and sing it (in English of course).

Directly across from me is a cute young Japanese woman who is a fellow first-timer. Ladies first, I insist. She stand up alone and her voice is sweet. Remarkably she nails it with only a little help, heavily accented, but spot on. Everyone pounds the table and cheers for her while she raises her arms in triumph. They pull her back down to the table and make her chug a beer.

Next up is a gaijin guy at the other end of the table and he is already wasted. He doesn't get past the first line. They help him through the whole thing - which gives me a chance to get it down pat. Lucky me! When he's done they pound the table and cheer while he raises his arms in mock triumph. They reach up and pull him back down make him chug a beer.

I'm next and last. I stand up in my place next to the table in the crowded room. My singing voice is less than stellar but not heavily accented. I'm not completely sober either, which helps, and my new boss is sitting there smiling, getting a kick out of it. So I belt out the whole thing with gusto. Everyone pounds the table and cheers. I grin and raise my hands in triumph and dance in place. Two or three people reach up - and then it happens. Instead of pulling me back down to the floor, they grab only my running shorts (and cotton underwear with it) and pull them all the way down to my ankles. I'm standing there with my arms in the air, naked below the waist, giving the group a Full Monty. There are screams of delight, giggling and boisterous laughing. The table uproots and food and drinks are spilled. People are literally rolling on the floor laughing their asses off. (aside: Whenever I see ROTFLMAO, I think of this scene.)

I turn bright red. I bend over (to more applause!) and struggle to pull my sweat-soaked raveled-up shorts and undies back on. They're not on all the way up but I sit down as fast as I can. I'm still partially exposed when a full mug of beer is pushed into my hands. They clap in unison and chant "chug-chug-chug". I forget all about the shorts and bring the mug to my mouth.

I've had a few good beers in my day, but let me tell you.

That beer right there, right then. That beer tasted GREAT!

The "End"

The Alumnus Among Us

First, here's a little number sung by the wonderful UC Santa Cruz A Cappella Group called 'Cloud 9'. I've seen them sing several times in downtown SC here on the left coast and they are a lot of fun. This little diddy is dedicated to all my homies. You know who you be. We grew up together and now I just want you to know that I really hope we grow old together...

"Grow Old With You"



In June 2004 I went back to my hometown of Springfield, Vermont to attend my 25th High School Reunion and the annual alumni weekend. It's a truly unique and wonderful small hometown tradition where we get to walk the parade route right through the center of a town that never seems to change. I brought a small album of pictures to show off my family. I showed anyone who would look. I had a blast spending some great times reconnecting with some lifelong buddies and renewing some old but not forgotten friendships. My brother was there and impressed some folks playing his guitar and singing better than his idol, Neil Young himself. It was great and I was so glad to meet up with happy folks who had both stayed in town and left. I was very proud of where I am from, and was very proud of my family and where my life had taken me at that point. Too proud, perhaps.

In June 2007 I went back to alumni weekend with much trepidation. Honestly I didn't really want to go, but felt I needed to - I needed to make this step and start to live life again. A new life that had been changed forever. It was a very hard thing for me to do because I was wary of meeting up with so many people I haven't seen in 20+ years. There's always that initial uncomfortable meeting where I recognize the person (but can't remember their name!) or can't recognize them at all (and definitely should!). But that's no big deal. It's the ensuing conversation that follows. "How have you been?" "Do you have a family and how old are your kids?" How do I answer these questions honestly? And then there's the folks I had seen three years earlier. They may expect the same person, but it wasn't me anymore. What to say to them? I was terrified of these conversations and allowing people to see the new me, the heartbroken one who was crushed and prone to tears at any moment.

"Once in a while you get shown the light
In the strangest of places if you look at it right."

- Quoted lyrics from Scarlet Begonias by Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia.

Well, I went at the urging of my lifelong buddies and the support I got from my old (and renewed) friends in Vermont was simply overwhelming. They hugged me and wouldn't let go. They said they were happy to see me, and they meant it. They looked me in the eye and I let them see inside. They let me 'talk about it' - or not. They got me to play frisbee again, to feel the joy of companionship and communication. To belong and feel unconditional love again. They accepted me and didn't judge me or pretend I was someone else I wasn't anymore. It was a kind of healing that I could never do alone. Sure it was hard, but it was so good to know I'll always have not just a place, but a real community, to call "home". There's a Porch off of Park Street that is the essence of hometown hospitality. I was offered a place to sleep on the floor or couch a few feet off the porch. I felt safe there. I know I can never possibly repay this kindness. But I can try.

A year later, I had to go back again in June 2008, and it was even better.

(e)pic - The four horsemen of the mountain bike apocalypse.

June 23, 2009
After a long, rewarding June of watching Simon graduate from 8th grade ("Sudent of the Year"!) and watching his wonderful dance performances with my extended family (as Simon's age group likes to say - Epic!) it is once again Vermont vacation time. I get up at 5am excited and anxious and can't sleep anyway. One more 6am phone call with Dublin provides some luck o' th' Irish in my system, I pack in a panic, drive over the hill and park at work and take five different trains before reaching the San Francisco Airport. Public transport isn't what it could be.

The direct flight to Boston is completely full. So is my mind and my stomach. Both hurt and feel like they are overflowing. On the plane, I sit next to a young guy who can't help but tell me about his great job. He's a salesman for a wine wholesaler and he flies around the world to wine countries and schmoozes with the vintners. He gets high. He meets beautiful women. He misses his wife and young children, but someone has to make the cake he says. I tell him I'm impressed. But my head is pounding. He asks me about my family. I hesitate, feeling trapped on the plane, but then tell him, including the loss of Charlie. He bows his head and says "that's horrible". Then he tells me of the four hard years he spent in the marines. Everyone has a story of heartbreak, it seems. My head is ready to explode as the plane lands in the rain in Boston.

My buds have me covered. J.O'D meets me at the exit while DP is circling the airport avoiding the extortionist airport parking fee and waiting to pick us up. He's a Parker, after all. We head straight for the Boston Beer Works. It's Tuesday night, the Sox are on the road so the place is mostly empty. Time to get this party started! We order beer and food, and my mind says YES! but my body says NO! I go to the men's room and lose it. Purge everything in my system. I'm sweating and have the chills. We leave the bar early. I'm greeted at DP's house with a warm, smiling hug from his wife. It feels unreal. The guest room in the basement is ready and I fall into the hide-a-bed, shivering and shaking, feeling fragile. The newly refurbished house and DP's sleeping family looms over me. I feel like it's all going to crash, tumbling down on top of me. I want to get up and go for a walk, but I'm just too tired. Sleep comes this night, mercifully.

The next day we drive to southern NH to the home of my oldest friend, JM. JM treats me a much-needed ginger ale and introduces me to his two beautiful kids. It's still raining but I feel much better now. His daughter is about to go to Tanzania to work with AIDS orphans. Wow. I give her a Family Blessing ring (Near or apart, Always in the heart) and I want to talk with her for hours, but J.O'D arrives. I hand out small gifts, Spock and Kirk talking bobbleheads, signed UP book, beer drinking t-shirts. The road beckons.

We arrive in the White Mountains at a luxurious condo. Plushy carpet, dishwasher, jacuzzi, satellite TV, beds for everyone. We go shopping for the hike the next day. I would buy a power bar or two and be done with it, but we go nuts. JM makes a delicious dinner of BBQ marinated steak tips, salad, rice. I sit and eat and eat and eat, inhaling the food, finally fueling my body. We play cards and drink beer all night. For poker chips, we use colored beads from a little girl's red heart-shaped box. John comes back from all-in two or three times and wins. DP and I lose three straight in cribbage and can't f'n believe it. I retire to the top bunk of a bunkbed and, oblivious to the snoring and farting below me, sleep well all the same.

The four of us wake up and discover somehow that Spock has spent the night in the freezer and has gone silent. He can't tell us "You are, after all, essentially illogical." any more, but the night in the freezer proves it. We gear up, and head out to conquer three four-thousand peaks in the White Mountains. I've got a bad ankle but am not slowed by it. There's some huffing and puffing on the way up but we stick together and come out of the woods from our hike together and in one piece. We all agree. It was Epic!

pic - Mount Tom to Field to Willey. What relief!



(e)pic - hiking buds, towering head and shoulders over me at The End. I compensate with bigger socks.

It's time to reward ourselves so we go out to eat. As we're seated I get a text message from Simon. [Michael Jackson Died!] It is news to us. MJ is only a couple years older than us. He lived a hard life no doubt, and he probably never got to go on a quiet hike in the mountains. I think he could've used that. We toast to The Thriller giver. We drink and play cribbage again and revenge is sweet nectar when we leave them in the dead hole.

The next day we're on the road in the rain to a rendezvous at the Long Trail Brewery. As the reunion takes shape and folks show up from far and wide the rain stops, the sky clears, the sun shines on the back deck. Everyone's face is aglow. Yoga poses are struck...

pic - variations of the trout stream yoga pose.

Hugs are shared. The LTB souvenir shop does a brisk business, coolers are restocked with beer and we head for Springfield - Home of The Simpson's, Home of the Cosmos: State Champions in Football and Basketball, Home of the Springfield State Prison, or just Home.

pic - The family sitcom cartoon capital of the world?

Ahhhh. On The Porch, the usual suspects have climbed the little grassy slope and sit and rest and reunite. From the Porch you can see Riverside and the Plaza lights and the ambulances race to the hospital just around the corner. It is all there. I intend to go across town to our class of '79 BBQ but I never make it. A certain K2 character shows up and although we have not hugged in 30 years, this one is truly special. We share a common childhood, but more than that we now share a sense of loss and grief and survival that only we could know intimately. It is hard sometimes to put some things in words, but the look in the eyes tells it all. It is a reunion of the hardest kind for members of a club that no one, no one, would ever want to be a part of, but I am so glad he came. I give him a Family blessing ring - Near or apart, Always in the heart. K2 clutches it and I hope he doesn't cry, because I know I will. I want to.

pic - sacred ground, On The Porch.

The night bleeds on. It is a time warp in many ways. I hear the story of a 50th birthday hike up Mount Ascutney in the dead of winter. A hike that could very well have ended badly. But the hikers endure and survive and have a story to tell for the next 50 years. It is great to hear the stories that end well. For obvious reasons, those are the only stories that are told. The night bleeds on until everyone finally disperses. The parade is the next morning. My mind is racing as I sprawl on the floor just off the porch but can't possibly sleep. I sleepwalk into town and dream anyway about reuniting with an old friend. A friend in need who becomes a dear friend, indeed. The porch posse thinks I've gone AWOL like in the recent movie The Hangover, but I'm not hung over, and not locked out on the roof of the house. They're concerned and I think they checked the roof. I feel sheepish, but not too ba'aaaaad.

"As I was walkin' 'round Grosvenor Square
Not a chill to the winter but a nip to the air,
From the other direction, she was calling my eye,
It could be an illusion, but I might as well try, might as well try.


She had rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes.
And I knew without askin' she was into the blues.
She wore scarlet begonias tucked into her curls,
I knew right away she was not like other girls, other girls.
"

The Alumni Parade starts in the parking lot of an abandoned machine tool factory at the edge of town. The main streets are closed and the whole town will come out and line the streets to watch the spectacle. The locals from our class of '79 have outdone themselves again this 30th reunion by building a large colorful float with spinning masks depicting those twin tricksters of stage and life - Comedy and Tragedy. The "Mardi Gras" theme is perfect, because we get to dress in colorful beads, masks and crazy green wigs. Perhaps no one will recognize me. Perhaps that's not all bad. The parade will wind straight through the center of town. People recognize me anyway. The parade route is somewhat of a mess with bridge construction going on and a burned out shell of a large, historic building just off the town square. No one minds. The view of the Black River falls and rapids, and of the Congregational and Methodist churches is classic small town New England post card material. The empty brick factories just a reminder of the boom days that built this town and brought us together in a truly great place to grow up.

pic - Class of '79 remembers Gerry and Karen. Little do we know, in less than a week, sadly we'll be adding another classmate to the list in the purple heart.


pic - Mardi Gras in SpringVegas.

"Wind in the willows playing' tea for two;
The sky was yellow and the sun was blue,
Strangers stoppin' strangers just to shake their hand,
Everybody's playing in the heart of gold band, heart of gold band."

It still is a great place to grow up, though. Case in point: My sister did it again. She showed up and had her good friends arrange for me to meet with Grant White after the alumni parade. Grant is the the town sports hero and #22 for Cosmos I wrote about in March. Grant was riding on the lead float in the parade celebrating the State Championships one last time. He waited around for our float to cruise in to Riverside and was kind enough to come over and meet and talk with me and my classmates. We were old folks wearing our Mardi Gras costumes and I can only imagine what he was thinking... I guess I sort of expected a confident, maybe even cocky, testosterone-fueled teenager with the star lights shining out of his eyes. But his boyish charm and humble soft-spoken demeanor were genuine and he was patient as we circled him and took pictures with the local legend. Even though he was definitely taller than I expected, at 6'3" he sure looked like he was still growing. I heard Chops say what was on my mind - let's play a game of pickup over at the outdoor courts next to the river. We're still playing, we can play too! We talked about the possibility of a Christmas break alumni game. All the ex-Comos think it would be a hoot. I learned that Grant chose his jersey #22 because it was his older sister Katie's number. Apparently she was quite a Cosmo as well. However tangentially, I feel pride in being a small part of that little fraternity, if only in my mind. Grant said he will play both sports a local prep school and said he also likes to write. He was a writer for The Green Horn, the high school newspaper. I tell him I've started writing a lot lately, too. He smiles. He's seen my blog about him. He was really patient and relaxed with us and didn't rush off. We wished him luck and he ambled away, all long legs and arms and a heart of gold, to a future only time will tell. Even if he never throws another tight spiral or drains another three, I'm a fan for life of this #22.

pic - Grant is wearing a ball cap. I'm holding a green wig.

I am sleep deprived, but all the better for it. I crash and am mortified to completely miss the Dirty Burt pool side bash. Our class dinner is that night. At least I won't fall asleep or pass out in the corner. Not a bad thing.

We have our class dinner at the Elk's club. Our class organizers have done a great job for us all. They are the unsung heroes of this weekend. We sing their praises after dinner. They deserve it. THANKS! I socialize with more than a few people who are going through various stages of divorce - and others who or extremely happy, some in their second marriage. A lot can happen in thirty years, no matter who you are. Things change. Life goes on - or not. You got to wonder who will be around and it what shape in thirty years from now. Life is short. I'm 5'10" on a big hair day. Some folks look really great - dynamite in fact. Others I can hardly recognize. The little reunions that happen in the back room near the bar are fascinating, intoxicating at times. The energy level is really high. I think the whole evening is cathartic for many, for many reasons. We're all really taking it one day at a time, I believe. This point in time has many shades of gray and color for each of us. Each story is unique and I think of my classmates like one would of their own children - I just want them to be happy. There are people who have become elk ranchers, bank VPs, veterinarians, artists, paramedics, mothers, grandmothers(!), fathers, construction workers, truck drivers, agribusinessmen, computer geeks, salesmen, repairmen; people with open wallets for more and more drinks, people with open hearts, broken hearts, lonely hearts, warm hearts, hearts gone cold and hearts of gold. The band heats up and is actually pretty good. People are out on the dance floor, shaking it and letting go. I get to dance with a cheerleader I had a crush on in sixth grade. My bad ankle doesn't hurt a bit.

"Well there ain't nothing wrong with the way she moves,
Scarlet begonias or a touch of the blues.
And there's nothing wrong with the look that's in her eyes,
Had to learn the hard way to let her pass by, let her pass by"

The next morning I take DP and his mom and aunt to breakfast. I believe his mom is the biggest Carl Yastrzemski fan in the world. No exaggeration - she has an oil painting portrait of #8 in her living room. Her granddaughter is a waitress at our restaurant, and she is adorable. The older generation is still holding the fort, and the next generation is growing up.

Which leads me to one more A Cappella number by Cloud 9. This is my favorite Journey song of all time - someday I'll write about why... Dedicate to all those "small town girls" - and to the "city" boys born and raised in South Vermont.

"Don't Stop Believing"


"Some will win,
Some will lose,
Some are born,
to sing the blues"

The Black River Blues.

= = = = = =

Postscript:

This blog is dedicated to the memory of Martin Scott Jasinski, Class of '79. As kids during the summer months, he and his brothers and I would play whiffle ball in front of their house on Litchfield Street. After 30 years Scott and I connected on facebook just this year. In March he said he wasn't going to the reunion but he wanted me to tell him about it. I promised him I would. After the weekend I posted some pics on facebook, but it took time for me to collect my thoughts. Before I was able to publish this blog and share it with him, I learned, on facebook, that he had suddenly, tragically, passed away from a heart attack at his home in Las Vegas on July 1st. He was not yet 48 years old. I still owe him that email and feel terrible I did not reply sooner. I'm so sorry. If there is someone waiting to hear from you, I suggest you get in touch. Because life is precious, life is short, and you never know...

I hope this somehow reaches you, Scott, and that it helps you Rest In Peace.



pic - Scott Jasinski, 9/21/61 - 7/1/09. You are missed. (source - Scott's facebook profile pic)

test blog from cell

Maundy Thursday - Another Day

"Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos"

Thursday, April 9, 2009 is a full moon and Maundy Thursday.

I didn't sleep well again last night. I sat up and stared at a photograph of my beautiful cousin Beth. In the picture, she is tan and smiling with long brown hair that hangs down to her bright green shirt. Her eyes look calm and happy. Beth and I were born the same year and she should be my age now. But she's not. Beth died in Rhode Island exactly four years ago yesterday, and no matter what anyone says, I know it was partly my fault. I feel bad to be alive when she is not. It's not fair. I wish I could tell her to her face how sorry I am. I can't stop thinking of the situation that led to her death, and how I bought a ticket to fly out to her funeral but I didn't get on the plane. I couldn't get on that plane. I can't stop thinking. I can't stop. I can't.

(pic) - My cousin Beth.

I awake to the sound of a bunny rabbit stomping his feet in a cage next to my bed. It is not the Easter Bunny. It is the Yawny Bunny we are keeping for some friends. He wants some attention. I roll over and he jumps on top of his wooden house inside the cage. I hold a treat for him through the cage wires. He takes it in his big front teeth but I don't let go. He pulls. I resist. He pulls again and again and again. He is strong and just playing with me. Finally he chomps all the way down and bites it off. He munches it greedily while I get ready to 'work from home'.



I have an important phone call with the Dublin, Ireland office at 7:30 am PST. We need to synch up before they go away for the long Easter holiday weekend. I try to log on to my office network but no luck. No internet connectivity at all. I try to reboot and reset modems and routers to fix the problem. When the meeting time arrives I try to call in on my cell phone, but there is no service. I try the home landline phone. No service. I turn on the radio and hear that "telephone and internet service is down over three counties and there is no ETA on restoration of service". I rush out to a local coffee shop to see if they have any wifi connectivity. No luck. While I wait for my brewbar coffee to drip I hear all kinds of rumors at the downtown coffee hole:

• A Korean missile took out our communications satellite! No, it was a massive solar flare.
  
• The State of California didn't (couldn't!) pay it's phone bill and the phone companies are shutting us off! No, the phone companies are shutting down because of the depression.
  
• A terrorist attack is starting on the west coast and will spread east daily until Easter Sunday! No, it's God's Will, and we are finally being punished for all our sins and God wants us to stop plugging in, damn it, and start listening to HIM before it's too late.
  
• Ahhhh, downtown. Keep Santa Cruz Weird ... Amen!

(pic) - Charlie wore this t-shirt in the last Wharf-to-Wharf we ran together in 2004.

As it turns out, it was an act of sabotage. Possibly by disgruntled AT&T Union workers suddenly without a contract. We are in a communications blackout. I've missed the important meeting with the Irish office and they are probably wondering where the heck I am. I have no way of contacting them. I look around. There are no little green Leprachauns to help me.

I look in my planner. I have a busy schedule for the day. I have physical therapy for my hurt ankle in the morning. I have other meetings and emails to answer and phone calls to attend. I have a major deadline to meet. I have to watch my UVM Catamounts beat the BU Terriers in the Frozen Four collegiate hockey semifinals. I have to go to Monterey with Simon and his dance class and watch a performance by the Lula Washington Dance Troupe. Actually, the last two I "want" to do. The others I "have" to do. I need to figure out how to get this all done.

I drive south down the coast, down highway 1 toward Monterey. I listen to my audiobook of "My Good Friend Leonard" by James Frey all the way down. He's the controversial "Million Little Pieces" guy. His writing style is contagious. You might have noticed. I get off at the Monterey exit and the Hyatt Hotel is right in front of me. I pull in to the parking lot. The hotel is nice. Swanky nice, and the lobby is even nicer. Outside the back wall of windows in lobby is a golf course. I sit down and plug-in and logon to their wifi network. I order a coffee. It comes and it is Starbucks coffee and it is good. The waitress brings me free refills for the next five hours while I sit their and work. I really do work. I call in to meetings. The jazz muzak is somehow very motivating. As James Frey might say, I get shit done.

It's 5:30 pm PST. I've overcome the major communications blackout. Now it is game time. UVM vs. Boston U. for the right to play in the NCAA Division 1 Hockey Championship game. I graduated from UVM in the early 80's. I watched a lot of live Catamounts hockey at Gutterson field house. I still have in my possession a UVM game puck from 1982 I caught in the stands. The deflected puck went over the back glass and was going to hit one of my best friends in the head. But he was making out with a co-ed to his left and never saw it. I caught it on the fly instead. I got the puck. He got lucky. It was win-win.

I want to watch the Cats win it all. I can't not watch it.

I walk down the hall from the hotel lobby. The Hyatt has an amazing bar called Knuckle's Historical Sports Bar with fifteen HD TV's. There is an autographed picture of Joe Kapp on their Monterey Bay Hall of Fame Wall. Cool. I go to the bar and ask the bartender to put on the game. He changes the channel on the TV right in front of me. I order a pitcher of beer and it's only about $5 because it is happy hour. There are free peanuts and popcorn available. I am stoked.

The game begins and UVM falls behind 2-0 in the first period. I eat the free peanuts and drink a lot because the peanuts are salty, or because I am not happy with the score. The second period goes much better and UVM comes back to take a 3-2 lead that is short-lived. BU ties it up just before the end of the period. The Dance performance is going to start in fifteen minutes but I order another beer. I'm not going anywhere.

During the intermission, the ESPN2 broadcast cuts to Sports News about Nick Adenhart, 22, a pitcher for the LA Angels who has been killed in a car accident by a drunk driver the night before. You never know. The Sports News blurb does not tell us that two other young people were killed as well. Only the pro athlete's death makes the news. The Sports News does not mention that over 3,653 people have been killed by drunk drivers in the USA so far this year, a little over three months into 2009. But 3,653 is just a number - more than the number of people killed on 9/11. Nick Adenhart was a promising young pitcher who threw six shutout innings last night. But 3,653 families are grieving because otherwise non-violent people drink and then drive a two ton block of steel on wheels out of control. In the past four years, more Americans died due to alcohol related fatalities (65,020) than the total of American military personell killed or missing during the entire Vietnam war (60,860). I know these statistics. Don't ask me why. These are what you might call 'sobering statistics'. I think about James Frey.

I stop drinking.

The third period starts. It is a great game. When UVM scores a great goal I leap off my barstool and shout out loud "YEAH!" over the din of the busy dinner time crowd. I feel a brief hush as all eyes turn toward me for a split second. I am the only one watching this game. I am the only one who cares. I feel awkward and alone, but only for a second. Then I don't care. UVM is now up 4-3 with little over seven minutes left in the game.

A couple minutes later I hear the rest of the patrons around me at the bar all groan loudly in unison. Ooooh!! They're all watching the SF Giants play the Milwaukee Brewers. I don't care about baseball or about these teams right now. But something bad has happened. I look over at the other TVs and watch the replays. Two outs in the bottom of the ninth in a 7-1 ballgame. A Giants pitcher is hit in the head with a line drive and goes down. We all sit and watch it shown over and over from every angle.



(vid) - Joe Martinez hit in the head. He went to Boston College, not BU. You never know.

Ouch!

Then I look back at the hockey game and BU ties the game. Ouch. A minute or so later they go ahead. UVM pulls the goalie but it's too late. BU wins 5-4. Ouch.

I get in my car. It is raining and I'm in unfamiliar territory and I'm late for the Lula Washington dance performance at CSUMB World Theater. I'm sure I am driving legally, but I drive very carefully anyway. I turn on the sports talks radio. I am reminded of Nick Adenhart again and again and again.

I make it to the show just in time for intermission. Simon is in the lobby and I give one of his friends money for cookies. I drink some coffee. The show starts again and it is beautiful and creative and heartbreaking and lovely. Black women in white outfits carrying tennis rackets dance to some smooth jazz. They are acting & dancing out a tennis match. It is a tribute to the Williams' sisters and it is inspiring. Next there are men and women in hippy costumes dancing to 60's music and acting out the era: free love, civil rights and Peace protests, psychadelics, rock 'n roll. Very creative, nostalgic and moving. Near the end they recite dates and names of the assassinations while Bob Dylan's "Blowin' In The Wind" plays in the background:

• John F. Kennedy '63
• Malcolm X '65
• Martin Luther King '68
• Robert F. Kennedy '68

The very last thing they say is:

• 1969: The world watches on TV while Neil Armstrong puts an American flag on the moon.
  

(vid) - One Giant Leap For Mankind. (Reaaally?)

Whoa. Outside in the parking lot there is actually full moon peaking through the overcast. A little ashamed, I look closely for the flag. I gulp.

On the way home I turn on the sports radio again. A sports talk radio announcer starts talking about the Angel's Adenhart and other tragic baseball deaths. He mentions the '86 Red Sox, and I turn up the sound. What? Who could he be talking about? Not Bill Buckner! He is still alive and redeemed. No, it's not the Red Sox. It's the Angels. The Red Sox beat the Angels in the '86 ALDS. The Angels led the series 3-1 and were 1 strike away from their first ever World Series. But Angel's reliever Donnie Moore gave up a two run homer to Dave Henderson of the Sox on a 2-2 count in the bottom of the ninth in Anaheim. (The Sox went on to win the series 4-3, and then had their own hearts broken against the Mets...) But the story is much more tragic than a any box score can tell. Donnie Moore was booed mercilessly by the Angels fans the following year and was the scapegoat for the 1-strike-away loss. Donnie Moore lost his edge, lost his mind, became severely depressed. Donnie Moore tried to kill his wife and then shot himself in front of his sons in 1989.

I'm shocked. I did not know this. (I was living in Singapore then). I am stunned. I think of Bill Buckner and Red Sox Nation. I cringe. I gulp again. And again I am reminded that sports is only a game.

On the way home Simon says he really loved the Lula Washington show. I tell him, so did I.

I smile. What I don't tell him is that I'm really glad that he likes dancing so much, and not sports. But I am.

April 1st, 2009 - A Day In The Life

In the random spirit of Facebook's "25 Random Facts About Me", here are "10 random facts'" which may (or may not) have happened to me on this day of fibbing. Not exactly a Letterman's Top 10 List, I know. All this happened to me today. Really. And oh, how I wish some of them were really not true, and it is all just a bad April Fool's joke:

1. I drove to the Stanford Medical Center Eye Clinic and was told again, without irony, "let's wait and see what the other doctor has to say..."

(pic) - anyone see what I'm saying here?

2. I drove up next to my dream car, a charcoal coloered Tesla Roadster (fully electric sports car that costs $100,000) driven by a young woman on Sand Hill Road in Palo Alto. She didn't acknowledge me when I rolled down the window of my Prius and gave her the thumbs up. I felt so dissed and disappointed.

(pic) - a charcoal colored Tesla Roadster.

3. On this day in history, someone very close to me was born and someone very close to me was found dead.



4. I sent an email to a childhood friend asking him if I could sleep over at his house this weekend. I addressed him as "Regular Gila" (In this case, gila is pronounced "GHEE-la", not "HE-la").

(pic) - Gila said yes, we'd love to have you!


5. When I set my Fantasy Golf selections for the week, I chose all the golfers whose first name is Charlie, Charley or Charles.

(pic) - Charley Hoffman escapes 'the beach'.

6. We ate dinner at a local vegetarian restaurant that used to be called "McDharma's" but they were sued by the fast food giant McDonald's for name infringement. So they removed the "Mc".



7. I was confirmed as a Facebook friend from a former SHS football teammate who is an actor who has played major roles in TV shows such as "The Shield", "Saving Grace" and "Cold Case". His wife is expecting their first child soon.

(pic) - the famous actor who shall remain anonymous and his lovely wife.

8. I called someone in Bangalore, India in the middle of the night (my time) to interview them for a job that would basically make my 'Globalization Manager' job the victim of globalization.



9. In Simon's room, I fed a purple snack to a real live pet rabbit that we are taking care of for a couple who is now in Thailand. This couple is expecting their first child in July. I'm very happy for them, but I can't stop worrying that another way of saying "they're pregnant" is "their rabbit died".

(pic) - caption says "* No actual rabbits were harmed in this pregnancy test."

10. I put fresh cut flowers (yellow and green mums, as well as a lei and a drumstick with a peace sign ring on it) at the beach near a sign that says "In Memory of Charlie Harrison". I go there every week. This time I was upset and distracted and I tripped over the curb and reinjured my badly sprained left ankle. It hurt like hell. I had to sit down and then I couldn't stop myself from crying. Not because of my ankle.


(pic) - flowers at the beach, circa April 2005.

Jason, Caesar and Superman do Friday the 13th

Written on Friday, March 13, 2009.

It's Friday the 13th! It's the day to look over your shoulder, just a split second too late, to see a madman wearing a hockey goalie mask brandishing a huge butcher knife. Can you see it? Hear it? Listen. Violins screech wildly! A tragically cute blonde screams! Her hot red blood splatters! Yeah, I can still hear it, too.

(pic) - Goalie masked Jason caught in the act. This is definitely high-sticking and he'll get a double minor (4 minutes) for drawing blood.

But don't forget the rest of the story (may Paul Harvey also rest in peace. Good day.). The hockey mask man is mad, crazy-killer-slasher mad, for vengeance because he's come back from the dead. Because he was a helpless little kid left to drown in Crystal Lake while the teenage camp counselors were bonking in the bunk house all those summers ago... I really hate to say it, but I now know exactly how Jason feels. Yeah, that's right. Better look behind you.


(pic) - Jason on-shore. The tables turned.

But that's only a tale from Hollyworld. In the real world, today also being called "Pink Friday" here in Santa Cruz County as the pink slips go out today to thousands of public school teachers being cut due to the economic crisis and California's pathetic budget woes. Folks are wearing pink in solidarity of the teachers being let go. It is one sad state of affairs. Charlie's favorite color was pink. Every time I see the color I think of him and his pink Chuck Taylor converse. Makes it even sadder.

(pic) - Pink Friday logo. (source: http://pinkfriday.ning.com/)

Two days after Friday the 13th it will be the ominous Ides of March. Julius Caesar was warned to beware the Ides of March, but he had just declared himself Roman Emperor for Life and wasn't afraid of anything. Well, after the dramatic act of tyrannicide took him down, we learn that no matter how in control we may seem (Emperor of the World for Life. - not enough), maybe we should be afraid. Very afraid.

(pic) - Tyrannicide of Caesar, 44 BC.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not superstitious at all. I'm just paranoid. This past week the sea claimed a 30 year old man and a local teenager. The 17 year old 's memory is being honored by his friends and family. Los Gatos High School tragically lost three students this year. One boy collapsed and died on campus. Another in a car accident. The school community is in shock with grief and there are memorials and counselors at hand. I actually know Los Gatos HS well. Their track is home to the infamous Dammit Run , a 5 miler that runs up the face of the Lexington reservoir dam, over a mountain and back to the HS. Charlie won first place in the Boy's 13 and Under Division in 2003, crushing the Impey brothers by over 2 minutes.

(pic) - Charlie with his first place medal from the 2003 Dammit Run in Los Gatos.

The rough year at LGHS reminds that during my senior year at Springfield HS we lost a classmate in a car accident. Her name is Karen Sargent. I knew her, but didn't know her well; just knew she had brilliant black hair and a big bright white smile. At the time, I honestly had no clue of the pain some of my classmates and her family were suffering. I am really very sorry for that. I am really sorry for their loss. I don't remember anyone at school talking to us about it. A real-life learning lesson was lost on me. In retrospect, a lesson I dearly could have used. So as my 30th HS reunion approaches and then when I blogged about Cosmos #22, I dug out my HS yearbook. There is a full page tribute to Karen.



(pic) - Karen's memoriam. (source: SHS Yearbook 1979)

(pic) - Charlie's memoriam. (source Santa Cruz HS Yearbook 2005)

I also glanced through the Senior Quotes printed below the pictures of each one of the graduating class of 1979. Terry Barton, a close friend of Karen's, senior quote grabs me. It says it all:
"All the wealth in the world could not buy a friend or pay for the loss of one." Amen.

(pic) - Terry Barton. (source: SHS Yearbook 1979)

My own Senior quote?
"Any day you don't get killed is a good one."
I cringe. How would Karen's friends and family have taken that? After the events of my life thus far, it takes my breath away. I cringe again.


(pic) - Scott Harrison. Why so serious? you might ask (source: SHS Yearbook 1979)

My senior quote is taken word-for-word from a techno-thriller novel called "Weather War". I remember reading those words and the feeling of simple truth in them. They hit a chord inside and stuck with me, so I stuck them in the yearbook. Primarily, I chose that quote because I had some rough times of my own in HS and made some incredibly stupid mistakes and had some of my own near-miss car accidents that could have easily killed me and / or my closest friends. But we somehow survived each day, and so we better just count it as a 'good' and be thankful for that.

If you don't agree that "Any day you don't get killed is a good one." then you must be a very lucky person. A local young man Charlie must have run against in cross country, Jerry Maccallister, is a C4 quadriplegic since Jan 2, 2009. But he is alive and there is hope. And ultimately that is all that is needed to sustain us: life and hope. This week I just finished listening to an audio book that I plan to give to the Maccallisters. It's called, Nothing Is Impossible, written and read by vent-dependent, C2 quadriplegic Christopher Reeve. The book covers the range of emotions: depression, suicide, despair, gratitude, helplessness, progress, love, fight and hope. It is also a political plea to allow embryonic stem cell research to help find a way to regenerate spinal tissue. It is sobering and realistic, too, and I sometimes wonder if the gift will not be wanted. The last chapter starts with this quote:

""Hope is itself a species of happiness, and, perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords: but, like all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must be expiated by pain; and expectations improperly indulged must end in disappointment.""
- Samuel Johnson

Yep, there's some tough love in this book.

The final paragraph of the book is superb. So I will just leave you with Hollyworld's own Superman's words, and assure you I will pass it on to Jerry. Read them slow and think about the meaning of each word:

""When the unthinkable happens, the lighthouse is Hope. Once we find it, we must cling to it with absolute determination... Hope must be as real, and built on the same solid foundation, as a lighthouse; in that way it is different from optimism or wishful thinking. When we have Hope, we discover powers within ourselves we may have never known - the power to make sacrifices, to endure, to heal, and to love. Once we choose Hope, everything is possible. We are all on this sea together. But the lighthouse is always there, ready to show us the way home.""
-- Christoper Reeve

(pic) - The cover of the audiobook by Christopher Reeve quoted above. If you look closely you can see the ventilator tube sticking out of his throat. The hardest part of this book is readin it knowing that Reeve died on October 10, 2004, two years after it was written. Nothing and nobody lasts forever, but as long as there is hope...

Posted March 16, 2009.