Chronicling my world since 2006! This is your source for a mix of sports, pop-culture, history, roads, music, current events, movies, entertainment, and life. Jump on board as we keep moving forward.
If you're not new around here, you know I'm fairly fond of roads. I love a good road trip.
That being said, if you've ever gone with me, then you might know that I have a tendency to switch things up.
I went to Boston this weekend for the annual NENPA convention. It was a somewhat subdued weekend for me, not because I wasn't happy to be there, but because I dealt with some kind of sickness that made my Saturday a little lethargic.
Regarding the awards at the convention banquet, congrats to the winners, including Paul Silverfarb and my friends from the Darien Times among them, along with Aaron Marsh of the New Canaan Advertiser. Good, hardworking colleagues. Great journalists and editors.
Anyway, as I prepared to leave Boston, I decided that I wanted to shunpike my way home. In other words, I didn't want to give the Massachusetts Turnpike a dime (in part because I needed to update my credit card number on my EZ Pass account).
So I hit the road...heading south. Oh I could do 93 to 95 to 9 to 66 to 691 to 84. I could do 93 to 95 to 6 to 384 to 84. I could do 93 to 95 to 287 to the Taconic. I could do 93 to 95 to...
You get the idea.
Here's what I actually did.
I started on I-93 and took it to its very end at I-95 at the south end of what almost makes up a beltway around Boston. Then I took I-95 south, stopping off for gas and a quick visit to the home of the New England Cheatr...oops...the Super Bowl CHAMPION New England Patriots.
Very nice facility, by the way.
I stayed on US 1 and jumped on I-495 before going back to 95 long enough to exit 295 and enter Rhode Island (Destination: Quahog! GIGGIDY!).
I exited 295 at RI route 146, which crossed me BACK into Massachusetts. This is where I really got creative. I looked at my phone, examining different route options and decided to exit at MA route 16. I proceeded west on 16, passing through towns small and not-too-small. I passed the impossible-to-pronounce Lake Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg (you call it corn, but I call it maize). According to Wikipedia, some call it Webster Lake, or Lake Chaubunagungamaug.
That led me to Webster and MA 12 for a short jaunt before proceeding onto MA 197, which took me into Connecticut. I stayed on CT 197 until I connected with CT 171, before finally pulling onto CT 190, which connected with Interstate 84. I behaved and drove the rest of the "real" way home.
Some consider me nuts. I am. But it was still nice to have a little fun. It's why I love to drive.
I don't like ambivalence, least of all in myself. I've been one who - even when I say I don't care about anything - always cares.
And yet...
I've been sitting around thinking otherwise, and that leads me back to Phil Collins.
It got me wondering: is that the greatest ambivalence song?
I will always remember having this song suggested to me as I went through a life event. This isn't about not caring. It's about something completely different.
That memory makes me smile. Sort of. Somebody was looking out for me.
Anyway are there other songs that present such ambivalence? Come Exit 55 cul-de-sac (we certainly don't have a "nation" here)! What other songs am I missing? Is Phil Collins the perfect one?
Let me restate that: I was graced with a child. Sure, I wanted a son because I wanted the last name to carry on, but I wanted a healthy and happy baby.
His mother and I got that and so much more. Along came this beautiful little boy, with eyes that are reminiscent of my dad's, and a smile to match.
What I'm trying to say is that he was a great baby. We were truly blessed.
Thirteen. A teenager. Unreal. Where does the time go? Cliched, I know, but true.
We know the deal by now. He's not a sports fan. Yes, he has pictures of the Yankees and Steelers and Rangers in his room. He's met some athletes, but he couldn't pick them out of a lineup. It's fine. I like that he is himself.
I've loved the moments of talking about Pokemon, Transformers, Minecraft, and Doctor Who. I've loved watching Star Wars with him. I've loved our own things: trains and Waffle House and other silliness.
He's made mistakes. Good. He can learn from them.
But he's also made people laugh. He's shown class, grace, and dignity. He's learned from good people all around him: his grandparents, aunts and uncles,cousins, teachers, friends, and his mother. Hopefully he's picked up a thing or two from his father also.
I'm proud to be his father. Unless you're new around here, you know that.
The days ahead are scary. He's a teenager, and that comes with a whole new set of speed bumps. I just want him to stay grounded and level. I cherish everything with him so much because it changes in a heartbeat. He still likes to have that moment when he is with me and he's going to bed. It's our moment. It won't always last.
My son, so named because we decided "Sam" wouldn't fly (um...Sam...ADAMS?) and given the middle name to honor his grandfather (thus Sean Robert), is a wonderful young man.
I've watched countless Academy Awards ceremonies because I'm a movie buff and a history guy. I love the random nuggets, the montages, the conversation.
I love going on Radio Arts and Leisure, Fridays at one at hanradio.com to talk about movies when I can.
Yes, I can do without the red carpet stuff. I frankly don't care what you're wearing (I have a pair of Calvin Klein "lounge" pants and a Pittsburgh Steelers AFC Champions t-shirt on, if you're wondering). With all due respect, I don't miss Joan Rivers tonight or her daughter (much respect and RIP to Ms. Rivers, of course). I don't remotely care about Robin Roberts, Lara Spencer, Michael Strahan, etc.
Again, no disrespect, but this isn't why I watch. I'm not into the pretty people. I like when they have great performances worth discussing.
So I dig the show itself. I'm one of the few who enjoyed David Letterman and Seth McFarlane in the years they hosted. I love the honoring of the past, fused with the present.
Yet.
We're 43 minutes in as I'm writing, and I'm bored out of my skull. I'm not interested in live-tweeting, blogging, or anything else. It's just not doing it for me so far.
I watched the Grammy's the other night, and it crystalized for me how generally out of touch (Hall and Oates, 1984) I am with current music.
Sure I've heard of some of the names, and maybe even some of the songs, but overall, I'm lost. I'm not the target demo.
Quick side notes: Kanye West made an ass of himself, and in no way should Paul McCartney ever be a backup singer for Kanye or Rhianna.
Anyway, I found myself thinking about music. I still love it in the way that I love baseball. It's one of the passions of my life, whether I'm out of touch or not.
I'm often overwhelmed by my collection (numbering roughly 20,000 songs) so I sometimes don't know what to play, or play the same things occasionally. But I love the power of a song (and the Power of Love, 1985), and those who have read this blog (I hate that term, but it is what it is) know this.
Music takes me places. It reminds me of things. There's a song in my head every morning. It's the secret thing I would have done had I not screwed up my life by going into radio.*
* I didn't really screw up my life by going into radio. Well, maybe.
Of course, it can remind me of bad things also. Jon from R-Va gave me a Bruce Springsteen album in late 2007. I decided, given what was occurring in my life at that time, to give it one play and then shelve it until that era was over. For whatever reason, that's the only time I've ever played that album.
I go through phases. Since the late 2000's, I've largely not listened to U2, The Police, or the Eagles. I have my reasons, and they make sense. It's just the way it goes.
I mentioned love in the title of this post. I suppose I don't mean love in the traditional sense (so let's not overanalyze this). What I mean is loving to share music with people. When somebody tells me that they really don't know The Black Keys or George Harrison, I'm all about sharing that. I think that's exciting. Maybe it's the educator in me. I don't really know.
I love jumping into a spirited debate about music (or sports and so on). I recently had one regarding one mans list ranking every Billy Joel song. It's a fun exercise.
To his credit, Christopher Bonanos didn't select "Piano Man" as number one, though I'll let you read it for yourself. I thought he gave gems such as "She's Right on Time" no love, and that's the beauty of it. It's subjective.
Chris Kaelin detests Bruce Springsteen (yes, that's the proper spelling). To me, it's further proof that he's nuts, but opinions are valid. Some don't like The Beatles (blasphemy!) but that's their thing. By comparison, I'd be torn as to what I'd rather do: listen to "Shake it Off" on replay or anything by JC Mellancamp. Or just be water tortured.
I don't worship Michael Jackson or Lionel Richie. At the same time, I recognize talent. That's where I suppose the debate takes a turn. At least understand that there's talent. You might not get it, and that's fine. Just understand that some became popular for a reason. I'll never understand New Kids on the Block or Justin Bieber, for instance, but more power to them, I guess.
Yet as time goes by (you must remember this...) opinions change. Tastes change. Many songs in the 80s that I didn't like are remembered fondly now. Though some things never change ("shooting at the walls of heartache" lead me to want to shoot myself).
On a different topic, I've begun to wonder if my concert-attending days are over. I don't have anyone to go with, for one thing, though that's not an end-all, be-all, but I've always believed that, as sacred as I hold music, it's something I want to share with a significant other. I love Paul Silverfarb, for instance. He's a great friend. But he's also happily married to Beth, and should go to shows with her. If I have someone, then OK, we can double date.
I want to share Huey Lewis, or Bruce, or McCartney, with someone. MY someone. Don't you want somebody to love? (Jefferson Airplane)
But there's more. Tickets have become overpriced (I just looked at attending a show by former Yankees outfielder Bernie Williams: $69.50!). Parking is obnoxious. Or transportation in general. I guess what I'm saying is a lot of factors go into it.
Would I like to go see Billy Joel again? Sure. With whom, and will I need a mortgage?
Sometimes I also wonder if, as sad as it is, was my ONE Springsteen show enough? I can't afford the tickets (that's been established) and maybe it's just as well to walk away when I caught him in '99. I didn't deal with Patti Scialfa hatred (yes, it's real) or disgust that Gary US Bonds, Tom Morello, Bruce's political stuff or some other factor out of my control sullied a potentially great night.
Maybe I'm just happy at this point seeing the smaller venues, and supporting people who are just trying. It's nice to see the cover band who is doing their best in a dimly lit bar and the guy who is playing his original stuff trying to get noticed.
Plus so few shows are just about, you know, the music. There are too many examples to cite. I'm a big show up and play type of guy. You play. I'll sing, wobble (I can't dance - Genesis), and hold my love. It works.
I went to great shows. Bruce in '99. Huey in '87 at MSG. Macca in '09 at Citi Field. The Eagles in '94 at Giants Stadium. I didn't go to that many shows (for various reasons) and I'm left to feel I'm not a real fan because I wasn't willing to put myself into a deeper poor house, but I cherish those I went to.
Of course, when you say you're a Bruce fan, you're overall mocked if you dare to say you've seen less than 20. That's a cross for me to deal with. I have my 10 HLN shows and I'm just fine with that. Just see them once, folks. Nobody is every disappointed.
I also went to a few dogs: Sting at Jones Beach and U2 (yep) at MSG in '05. They both had their reasons for being blech, but so it goes.
None of this deters me from loving music. Maybe I'll get back to attending shows. Who knows?
But it won't change. There's magic in the night.
I still love making a mix tape (though now it's a playlist for your iPhone). I'm always reminded of the fabulous book, Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield, and I will never be able to recommend that enough. Though I bought it for someone else at a different time in my life, I remember it hitting on so many pertinent things for me. It's basically the story of his time with someone he loved so dearly.
There are quotes from that book that have stayed with me. These are some good ones:
"It’s the same with people who say, ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ Even people who say this must realize that the exact opposite is true. What doesn’t kill you maims you, cripples you, leaves you weak, makes you whiny and full of yourself at the same time. The more pain, the more pompous you get. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you incredibly annoying."
"Unlike me, Renee was not shy; she was a real people-pleaser. She worried way too much what people thought of her, wore her heart on her sleeve, expected too much from people, and got hurt too easily. She kept other people's secrets like a champ, but told her own too fast. She expected the world not to cheat her and was always surprised when it did."
"I know people for whom music is just background noise. They don’t listen to it. They just consume it. These people have never made a mix-tape for anyone. These people are not my friends. These people have no soul.”
For me, this is probably the money quote:
“I realize that I will never fully understand the millions of bizarre ways that music brings people together.”
So as we glance towards Valentine's Day, the much-loathed and overrated clusterbleep that it is, let us pause to remember the role that music plays in love, in life, in good, and bad times.
I leave you with Frank Sinatra, and arguably one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, as performed by the master of interpretation. These feelings are so known. So relevant. So real. We've probably all had them.
"I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near. In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night that repeats in my ear: Don't you know, you fool? You never can win. Use your mentality. Wake up to reality. But each time I do, just the thought of you, makes me stop before I begin. 'Cause I've got you under my skin."
I sent a Vin Scully quote along last night and it was greeted with a chorus of crickets, which is a fine metaphor for a summers night, listening to the master.
I'm posting one here, before pitchers and catchers report.
“Football is to baseball as blackjack is to bridge. One is the quick jolt. The other the deliberate, slow-paced game of skill, but never was a sport more ideally suited to television than baseball.”
I love football. Love hockey. Love basketball.
Baseball has always been my life.
This winter has just been terrible. Late March can't get here soon enough. I don't have high hopes for the Yankees again, and that's fine (though not really), but the idea of warmer weather and the game that has always fueled me makes me believe maybe there's a light peering through the very back end of this bad tunnel.
Not just because he's a Steeler, or because I saw him play in person the one time I went to the 'Burgh.
There's a father-son connection here, and Sean probably doesn't even remember it.
Before Big Ben Roethlisberger, "The Bus" was Sean's first favorite player. Now, keep in mind that I never - repeat, never - do the face painting thing. But when I went to Pittsburgh (2004 vs. the Redskins), I was told that, to be part of the crew there that day, I had to get something. So I looked, and...
Yup, I got The Bus.
And there's our guy in the backfield, as seen from my seat that day, next to Big Ben.
Anyway, I'm surprised he got in, and I'm really pleased. Congratulations to him and the other inductees.
Here's a picture of Sean in 2004, the day after I went to Pittsburgh, just because.
Seriously, can't we do away with the Roman numerals? Of course we can't, especially since next year will be so easy.
Super Bowl L.
I digress.
I was pondering whether this was the most unlikable Super Bowl ever. It's close, to be honest, but two years ago, when the Ravens beat the 49ers, was just awful. At least for me. There was nothing to root for. Pull for the Niners to equal the Steelers and stay perfect in the big game? Root for the Ravens, who are the former Cleveland Browns?
It was dreadful. Still, tomorrow night is close, because - and let's be honest here - these are two of the most annoying fan bases in sports.
Seattle. The 12th man.
New England, the loyal fans (since 2001!).
However it is the best matchup, and that's a great thing.
It has great story lines, with Tom Brady either equaling Terry Bradshaw and "Lord" Joe Montana (he who can do no wrong) or dropping to 3-3 in the grand event.
I expect a great game. Or I hope it is.
I do think the Pats will be fairly furious from the whole Deflate Gate thing. I feel like they'll have a running game, which should balance things out for Rob Gronkowski to get open. Richard Sherman is pretty banged up, but you still have to respect the Legion of Boom.
The Seahawks won't go quietly. Russell Wilson is cool, and can be his own balanced attack. Now add in the Beast Mode guy who won't talk to the media, and the 'Hawks will stick around.
There are great coaches on both side. That helps.
This has the makings of a 24-21 game, but I'm going higher, because the magnitude of the game sometimes adds points to it. I still think it stays close though.
To me, it's a pick 'em, but I'm not one to pick against Tom and Bill.
I'll go 31-28, New England.
I'd love to find a way to have them both lose, but it's just not possible.
* No you're not really a loser or have no life. That's me. I mean, really, I breezed through that quiz, only having a brain cloud remembering Matt Hasselbeck, but had enough time to stop, collect myself, take a sip of coffee, and continue. Oh, and what's worse is I did it in order. In. Order. From I to XLVIII. I mean, it's fairly pathetic.
This a picture of a kid. His name is Sean. A cat named Junior is also present. Lastly, there is a sandwich, which is mine.
Junior is inside of a cardboard box (aka "The Junior Jet). Junior, for reasons only Sean Adams V.I. (Vivid Imagination*) can explain, has taken my sandwich away from me, via the Junior Jet.
It seems pictures of kids gets "likes."
So that's that.
*My fellow Flintstones fans will get that reference, however I couldn't find a video to embed.
I had begun a post and, in what has become a bad habit, I stopped and deleted it. It was probably 500 words or so that would have simply brought me grief. Or questions. Likely both.
Yes, that has happened more than a few times here over eight years. It's the nature of the beast when you are essentially an open book/wound.
That being said, boo-frickin-hoo, right? I mean it's not like I'm Oscar Wilde, a fascinating chap whose writing and personal life were both his great pleasure and undoing.
So yeah, I've got that going for me.
Consider this a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing (as I paraphrase Willie the Shake. Damn, this post is eclectic.).
I like Joe Jackson. I always have. I saw his music referenced a few minutes ago, and I've often thought he is vastly underrated.
He put the phrase "Let's play two!" into our national psyche, even if you never knew where that came from.
Baseball was, to him, a great game that brightened his always-sunny outlook.
He could play though. A two-time MVP, he hit 512 home runs, putting up offensive numbers that shortstops weren't supposed to.
He was only the eighth player to surpass 500 home runs.
He led often dreadful Cubs teams through day games at Wrigley Field with an attitude that was happy to be there, and that was a good thing as he would never know a playoff game.
He was inducted into the Hall of Fame
Plus he was my Facebook friend. Yes. You read that correctly.
Find me someone who didn't like Ernie Banks. I'm not sure I'll want to know that person.
Watch him hit home runs number 498, 499, and 500. Such a graceful swing. He runs the bases with his head down. No showmanship.
Man. Somewhere it is a beautiful day. Let's play two, indeed.
I was called Superman yesterday. While I've always been more of a Batman fan from my upbringing of watching Adam West, I appreciated the sentiment.
Yet given I'm a out of shape, white, suburban guy who looks nothing like Christopher Reeve, have no powers of any magnitude (except perhaps for a voice that has a sore throat), and virtually everything is kryptonite to me, it's pretty safe to say that I'm far from the Man of Steel (do the Steelers count? Probably not.).
Oh the thought of swooping in and snagging my Lois Lane is delightful (although not Margot Kidder. Sounded like she had a few many packs of Lucky's back in the day.). Flying away to Metroplis with Sean behind us is a nice fantasy, isn't it? Don't worry, miss. I've got you.
Right.
Then she responds: "You've got me? Who's got you?"
Well we know the answer to that. I'll just go with, "I've got you, babe," mix my metaphors, and be done with the whole thing.
I'd love to be somebody's Superman...or, hell, just man. I'd love to be somebody's number one.
Alas.
This is the kind of thing that wakes me up at two in the morning. Whimsical. Parody. A shame that I even need to explain that.
I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the teams in question. Maybe it's what the NFL has become. Maybe it's Roger Goodell.
Maybe it's none of the above, or all of the above.
Yet I can't remember ever being less interested in a Sunday of conference championship games.
Don't get me wrong. I'll watch. I care, of course.
Is it that I'm in a house of people who have ZERO interest in these games? Could be. I halfheartedly reached out to people to see if they wanted company and got tepid interest, or laughter*.
*I'm officially launching a campaign to see if anyone would enjoy watching the game that is known as being slightly super but could be called "Goodell's Folly" with me. I don't take up much space and will speak when spoken to.
There is something to be said about watching a game with friends and food, though the downside of that is the orgy that Super Bowl Sunday has become (are we allowed to say that?). Indeed that is now a day in which football is a foolish byproduct of Katy Perry, commercials, red carpets, and vapid celebrities**.
**I had a great follow-up comment written here about people fawning over celebs. I'm trying to keep things in the vault so I deleted it. Yay me.
There's no doubt that I'm down on the NFL due to the stupid passing rules and the fact that you can't breathe on a quarterback or receiver without drawing a yellow flag. I miss the balanced game of the 70s into the early 80s before Bill Walsh and the **yawn** "West Coast Offense" turned the game into Joe Montana threw the ball three yards to Jerry Rice, and Rice did the rest.
Still, the game was great through those years. You still had the balance of a great running back combined with, hopefully, a QB who had some guts (a Marino, Favre, Elway, and of course Bradshaw).
Further hurting the NFL (though not in the ratings) is the proliferation of "bad stories." Yeah you know who and what I mean. Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson, among others.
Before you think that my feelings about today has anything to do with the lack of a western-Pennsylvania-based team with three hypocycloids on only one side of their helmet, think again.
Ultimately, I think it's all of the above, combined with the teams participating.
Seattle Seahawks. I had a moment a few weeks ago, when a saw that a now-former Facebook friend made a snide remark about the Steelers losing. Yes, I said "former" friend. Not my finest spot. That being said, I'm sort of done with the 'Hawks. They're not Jim Zorn or Dave Krieg or Steve Largent. They're the whiny franchise who hasn't gotten over Pittsburgh 21, Seattle 10 in Folly Game number 40, as they and others believe the striped shirts were out to steal the game from them. It's Richard Sherman running his mouth. It's the great Russell Wilson and "Go Hawks." It's not that I dislike them, or their 12th man. It's that we saw them last year. That's enough.
Green Bay Packers. Their are similarities between the Steelers, the Giants, and the Packers. Then there is the "best fans in the league" stuff. There is also the cheesehead and the Lambeau Leap. You can hear John Facenda's voice when you even think about them. Yet I can't get past early 2011. I can't get past the loss in Jerry World to Discount Double Check and company. No, they've had their time also. I could find myself pulling for them later, but I'm not invested. Shawn Sailer likes them. That doesn't hurt.
New England Patriots. Here's the thing. I love watching greatness, and Tom Brady is brilliant. Best quarterback ever? No, I'll take Johnny Unitas. I'll take Dan Marino. After that, we start talking about what era a player played in. Bill Belichick, love him or hate him, is amazing. He's not Vince Lombardi, but he's very high on he list of greats. Incidentally, I just heard Chris "Mad Dog" Russo give little respect to Chuck Noll. The less I say, the better, especially since I like the Doggie. Yet I think we can all agree we're past pulling for the Pats, if we ever pulled for them at all.
Indianapolis Colts. This, friends, is the closest I can come to jumping on a bandwagon. Andrew Luck is the man. Chuck Pagano? How can one not want to be "Chuckstrong?" They're the lesser of the evils. They are also the heaviest underdog in my mind.
So there you have it. I guess in the end, I'm going to hope for two compelling games, as well as a good super game (no trademark needed). I just don't have the passion for it. Maybe it will happen. For now, I'm happier watching Rangers/Penguins with the great Doc Emrick.
There was once a true, honest-to-sports-loving-goodness outlet store in New Haven, CT. It was a Starter store (oh yeah, we are so talking the 90s) that had tons of off-price irregulars and out of date items.
In the world of sports, that means players that have retired or moved to another team.
I was in there with my sister and her kids when I came across a rack of Steelers jerseys. I mean, essentially, the real deal. Not a knock-off or "replica." This was right near the time that Reebok and Nike would begin to rule the NFL uniform contract. Starter wasn't quite the same after that.
There, on that rack, were a small selection of players, including Rod Woodson, the Hall of Fame defensive back who had just left the Steelers and would finish his career with the 49ers, Ravens, and Raiders.
The jersey, a white one, cost $20, a bargain even in the late 90s. I swooped in.
Back then, as now, I was pretty diligent at switching out clothes between the warm and cold weather. We would bag things up and put them into the attic (for the record, I use either a large suitcase or plastic tubs now).
I tended to not keep the football jerseys out in the warm weather, unless they were the mesh kind (which I'll wear to mow the law, thus justifying my creamsicle Tampa Bay Bucs Josh Freeman number five. Something has to justify it.).
So come spring, the gloves, winter hats, scarves, and heavier clothing would go into a bag. Sometimes those bags would sit at a small cutout near the front door of the apartment.
Sometimes, garbage bags would sit there -- a sign that I, the lazy husband, needed to take said garbage down to the dumpster.
One time, I grabbed a garbage bag and took the walk down to toss out the trash.
A few hours later (could be more, I don't remember now), Sean's mother (though this was pre-Sean) asked me about the garbage bag in question.
"I threw it out," I said, as a feeling of pride of a job well done combined with a quizzical pang ran through me.
She gasped and looked somewhat sick.
You know where this is going, right? I ran to the dumpster, knowing that it was gone. Indeed it was.
Yup. Goodbye hats. Gloves. Goodbye Vermont Flannel Company comfy pants that I bought at The Big E. Goodbye other items that I would wear during the cold months.
Goodbye number 26 Rod Woodson jersey, minus the 1994 "75th anniversary" patch that he is wearing in the picture below, above the "six."
Many of the other items got replaced. Not the jersey.
A big shout out of thanks to Sean Patrick Bowley at GameTimeCt for including me (along with Chris Erway, and Chris Kaelin) in their All-State football team videos. I'm honored to be included.
Check them out. This is the defensive video. While you should watch the whole thing, you can hear me at 10:07, and Chris Erway and I are on at 11:18.
On the offensive side of the ball, I'm on at 1:33, and Chris "Kato" Kaelin appears at 4:57.
This is a great reminder of what has been created at HAN, and how proud I am of the quality of broadcasters that are assembled around me.
Last up, I can't forget the work of my HAN colleague Steve Buono, who posted this video at the Darien Times. Thanks, Steve. We are on the air at 3:50 today. I have to go get ready!
Wait. That's not true. There's always something bubbling in my mind. Yet in my current state, I'm making the stronger effort to keep things in the cartoon bubble.
That's a nice way of saying that I'm not just going to say it. At least that's the goal. That doesn't mean I will succeed.
Oh that doesn't mean I'm some loose cannon. Sure I get on the air and pontificate and so on, and that's part of the gig. But I can't just say what's on my mind, even when well-intentioned.
Anyway, I'm just writing to write. Just trying to stay active here.
I'm laying low for a few days, but I got a good reminder that, truly, we never walk alone.
We should always remember that we have friends, family, coworkers, and more who are there for us. Sometimes we (I) get so damn lonely and lost that it's easy to forget.
I know. I've worn you out with Huey Lewis and the News over the years here. I'm doing it again. I keep having "Forest For the Trees," an album track that has a powerful message that's been in my head a lot recently. That might get posted here eventually. I noticed the HLN Facebook page put this video up of the boys doing "I Never Walk Alone," another track from Fore! (1986, in case you're wondering).
So here they are, from the Fore! tour (yes, I saw it - twice). This was the second song they did, after opening with "Jacob's Ladder."
Sorry that there's often a down feeling to what's written here. It's often raw, and believe me, more gets written and deleted. I never used to do that, but I do it now. The reasons are varied. The words might be too personal. They might hurt or cause confusion to others. The tone just comes off wrong.
This has been a problem for some time now.
So this morning, I want to tell you. No, I NEED to tell you: Yesterday was a great day.
It wasn't perfect. I was supposed to have dinner with Sean last night, and thanks to traffic and circumstances, I ran too late. It got canceled.
I have friends that are hurting or confused. Friends who lost loved ones. Yet I hope I helped them get through it.
There were small moments of smiles. Bigger moments of laughter. Boisterous laughter. Moments when my smile - the wonderful gift that my father bestowed on me - was just glowing.
There was Paul Silverfarb and I, reenacting a scene from Tuesday night at the Webster Bank Arena, when a clueless person just stared at us. The laughter coming from those who watched us as we recreated the moment was priceless.
People needed clarity. They needed smiles. They needed to roar.
On the radio, we had good programming. Coffee Break did its thing. We aired the inauguration of Governor Malloy of Connecticut. Then Paul and I did a whirlwind Nutmeg Sports.
There were moments with friends new and old. There were no fights. No big debates. No disputes, and limited stress.
It was cold, but to my knowledge, everyone is OK. Oh but it is cold.
There were stolen moments that can't have a price put on them.
There were texts exchanged with Sean, explaining to him things that are going on, and seeing his natural humor come through without trying to. Also his concern for friends and, of course, his dad.
It wasn't a perfect day. We didn't solve the problems of the world. We didn't cure cancer. We still have big issues, from the murder of innocent journalists at a satirical paper in France, to the continued unease in New York as the mayor continues to grapple with his police force.
All of it is real.
Yet for one day, I didn't feel like griping. I didn't need to tell you what grinds my gears.
I just wanted to tell you that it was a great day. Full of laughter, understanding, and more.
Sports has a sadness hanging over it today. Stuart Scott, the ESPN anchor, died early today at the age of 49.
Scott battled cancer three times. He leaves two daughters behind.
I'm struggling with this news today. To be blunt, and fair, I was never a fan of his work. But in reading everything this morning, and in everything I've heard about him in the past, he was a quality, great guy. He was the kind of guy I imagine I could have talked sports with for hours. I almost imagine he was the kind of guy who I could have had a great conversation with about broadcasting styles.
It's playoff time here at Robcasting* Central, as the Steelers host the Ravens. The guys I root for are losing, 10-9.
*Robcasting was created by the great Kaitlin Bradshaw, my HAN colleague. I like such wordplay, nicknames, etc. She actually used it as a hashtag on Twitter, so #Robcasting it is.
I tend to be a bit more unleashed when I watch a game alone, and so it is here tonight. I'm dealing with a mix of disgust and WHAT THE **** as I'm watching. I'd rather be watching with friends.
A few peeps were texting and messaging me early on, but that has quieted down. So I try to occupy my brain by watching social media silliness, and taking the occasional Sean visit so that he can tell me some random fact about Pokemon.
He also informed me that he likes Lord of the Rings. That's a new one on me.
Yes, he's mini me, and yet not.
Lord of the Rings for him, Lord of the Super Bowl Rings for me. Similar in some regards.
Anyway, I'm rambling. I'm good at that. At least I'm not babbling with the things that reside in the deep crevices of my noodle. Makes for great, funny, snarky posts, but normally causes me trouble.
Second half begins...now...
PS - I just screamed at the TV as the ball was fumbled. So there's that.
I had family with me for the past few days. That can be a scary concept, but there's something about niece Kristy, husband Hector, and kids Evelyn, Eleanor, and Izzy that seems to work.
Seriously, five days with the same family test people, but we survived as well as when we visited them back in August in North Carolina.
They left today. As usual, I was saddened. I suck at goodbye's. They stay with me.
You see, I know time flies. Those kids won't be kids forever. Hell, their mother grew up, and she and her sisters were like little sisters to me.
Plus Roxy (America's Dog) is getting older, and there are few dogs - hell, few animals - I enjoy being around so much.
My inner psychiatrist would say that it's probably a fear of loss that makes me struggle with saying goodbye. Yeah, that's fair, but it's more. It's also that there was life with everyone around. Hector and I watched football together. I enjoy talking to Kristy, as we're both parents now of course. And the kids. Man, kids are great.
It also meant Sean came back to me in a week that he would have normally not.
Conversely it meant that I had to bow out of going to Long Island to start 2015 (or end 2014).
We had to compromise for the week and make sleeping arrangements. We made it work.
They're gone now, and I'm stretched out watching Modern Family.
This is, most likely, the 81st and final post for 2014.
I'm ready to be done with this year. In fact, I was ready just after Thanksgiving. That happens sometimes, but I'm not sure I've felt it this intensely.
Twenty-fourteen was, like every year, a mix of good and bad. Sure there was great stuff, and I don't mean to imply otherwise. The beast known as HAN Radio was nurtured this year.
There is a lot to be proud of. There is a lot to improve on. Like me, it's a work in progress.
Of course, I also worked harder than I probably ever have before, and that was often to my own detriment. At times, it was purely to keep my mind occupied. At other times, it was because I needed to. No complaints though. This is a great labor of love, and as anyone knows: it beats the alternative.
Personally, I loved and lost and loved again. Perhaps not in that order but the sentiment is fairly accurate.
I stressed. I obsessed. I was depressed. I found success.
I saw friends come and go. Even if it might have been for the best, I still didn't like it when I lost them. I loved the friendships that grew. Those who remain in my closest circle generally get it with me.
I stayed true to what I am, like it or not. I remained passionate, stubborn, open-minded, flexible.
I adapted. I compromised. Sometimes I don't think that goes both ways.
I found my voice and lost it. And I was probably never prouder of that voice.
I was never one to lose sleep, yet I feel like I lost more sleep in 2014 than I ever have as I agonized and over-analyzed.
Despite, bluntly (and not to whine or bum you out) some of the deepest stress and depression I've ever known, I don't know that I'd change a whole lot of what happened in the past 364-plus days.
Oh I can sit here and make the BS resolutions...exercise, eat better, go out more, push harder for better financial security, keep an eye on my stress level, etc. It's all foolish to me. I don't need January 1st for any of that to happen. Any day will do fine, thank you very much.
I can resolve to write more. Sure. I quite agree that these 81 posts weren't enough. I hope - sincerely - that you do as well.
I thank those who encouraged me to stay on the horse. Mick McGowan, Jon Field, Susan Shultz, and a few others spring to mind when I think of those who tell me to keep going here. Damn the stats. Who cares who is reading? Just. Keep. Writing.
I'm embarrassed to write, and have been ever since I joined Hersam Acorn, but I continue to. I've said that before, but Susan and John Kovach have been emphatically behind me, saying, "You belong."
John always says, "We'll get you through it." He hasn't been wrong.
Susan wrote a gorgeous editorial in the Darien Times about resolutions. That's a great writer (um, hello? The Blacksmith?).
*****
I argue with myself about social media. I try to step away, then realize that it's a big part of my professional and personal life. To Chris Erway, Chris Kaelin, and Ryan DeMaria, it's how I stay in touch with them on a near-daily basis.
But I do love the interaction. The "likes" mean so much to me, and I've told a few of you that personally. Not the person who likes everything that is posted. I have those, and my mom and aunt mean well and, besides, they're my mom and aunt.
That's why, when my friends step up with support, I know it's real. They review it and don't just do it by rote. They don't simply like everything just because, and I won't do that to them either.
I had misunderstandings this year. Too many of them. To those on the receiving end, I'm sorry. Deeply. Understand where I'm often coming from. Again, I'm a passionate, emotional person. I take this stuff all very personally, and feel it when I hurt or upset someone, even if it wasn't the meaning. Most of what I do is well-intentioned, trying to be the big brother, or the understanding friend. I want to see people succeed, and I don't want to see loved-ones anchored with bad news around them.
It gets overwhelming to think about what didn't get done, and what I want to do. I don't need a shiny new year for any of that.
*****
I hate New Year's Eve. Let me restate that: I. HATE. NEW. YEAR'S. EVE. I hate the ball. Carson Daly? Ryan Seacrest? Anderson Cooper? Get lost. I detest the whole thing.
For me, I want music, The Honeymooners on channel 11, and good people to be with.
But mostly, I don't see the need to celebrate because we aren't even close to finding peace, and I feel like we're a little further away than ever. But I stand firm in supporting our troops, our firemen, and yes, our police. There are bad apples in every bunch, but these are the people who keep us safe. They should be applauded. Thanked. Supported.
Peace. Jesus, is it that tough?
I know what I want in 2015. I don't know if it's obtainable, but I know it. I can feel it, and it's strong.
I'll still be me at 12:01. Nothing will have changed. The same things that I said out loud to my fathers' grave on Christmas morning will still be real. We just keep trying - as we have for a long time - to keep moving forward.
Thank you - all of you - for everything in 2014. Onward.
If tonight is your thing, enjoy. I'll see you on the flip side.
Maybe a Star Wars bed would help me sleep? Wander, the mind does.
So I've been awake since about 3:15 or so.
Actually, that's not true. I dozed off around 11:30, following a Christmas of four movies:
- Silver Linings Playbook (very good)
- That Thing You Do (Tom Hanks and harmless 60s nostalgia)
- We're the Miller's (brash, bold, funny)
- The Perks of Being A Wallflower (pretty remarkable)
I'm not going to lie. That capped off the most introspective Christmas ever (I'm not complaining; it's a fact). The day featured a roughly two-hour walk around the cemetery my father is buried in, in which I stumbled upon gravestones from the 1700s.
I stood at my fathers grave for a stretch, just talking and thinking.
A Jehovah's Witness approached me at one point and said, "I know this is a private time, but I want to give you some literature."
I thanked him politely, but was probably just as thankful that he left as quickly as he approached.
Anyway, I've been awake off and on since 12:30, and consistently since 3:15. That was my original point.
I gave up a few minutes ago and grabbed my iPad. I scrolled through the selfies, family portraits, pictures of gifts, and deep thoughts from Christmas, 2014.
Having enough of that, I pondered something.
I have people in my life who say to call anytime. Never wanting to be a burden, I rarely do. Thus I really didn't communicate with anyone yesterday. I mean, it was Christmas. You all had much better things to do.
But what if I really needed to talk, say, now?
I know I'd answer the phone. There would be a reason that someone would be calling at 4:39 in the morning. Maybe the call would be placed by mistake, or it would be real.
I'd answer. Who else would?
I'm babbling. Deep thoughts in the depth of the night.
Maybe there are more movies on worth watching now.
It's officially Christmas morning as I'm typing. We have just past midnight, and I don't know that I have much more to add than to wish you and yours the best Christmas possible.
We have a lot of work to do, of course. It's a very concerning, strange time. For tonight, and later today, we'll put that all aside in the name of peace and joy.
That picture above. That's it for me.
So from us guys (Sean and Rob), Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Well here we are: Christmas Eve and all that jazz.
I keep saying a secluded island would be nice for the month of December, and maybe one day (no, not likely).
It's a shame what the holidays have done to so many. It seems to wear us out. It seems to break us down with the crass consumerism of it all.
It bursts at the seams with stress of family and work.
It seems, most of all, to be an incredibly depressing time of year.
I try to watch it through Sean's eyes. It was he who decorated the Christmas tree, while I was unwrapping things to hang, etc. He worked diligently to get the train under the tree, just the way he likes it.
He's the one who is saddened over the like deluge of rain that will hit tonight and tomorrow. He would love to have a white Christmas, while I have no interest in shoveling, plowing, blowing, and driving in it.
I'll take the island, please. Or Florida.
Ah, Florida. The place where I spent every Christmas from 1969 until 1975. We were all together - mother, father, sister, brother, and the young blogger. We were with our fraternal grandparents right near Tarpon Springs. Thus we bottle the memories of youth.
You didn't wear anything but your "Sunday best" back then on Christmas.
Progress, I guess.
I fought the good fight for years. I would always wear a nice sweater or button-down shirt, business-casual or even dress pants, and dress shoes. Heck, some years even featured a tie, either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.
Now? Nope. I finally caved. I saw everybody else was doing what they did. I saw time had marched on, and I was sitting on my front porch, imploring everyone to leave my strands of grass alone.
Maybe a nice pair of jeans will do. Maybe not. But put it this way: I feel no pressure.
Tomorrow morning, as has become the "new normal," I will drop Sean off. Then I'll probably watch movies (the 24 Hours of A Christmas Story always sounds good).
Maybe, just like the Parker's in the movie, I'll get Chinese food.
"They were, quite simply, assassinated," said Police Commissioner Bill Bratton.
There probably aren't any words, yet allow me to write a few.
The media will give it a special name, of course. It's what we do.
Channel 11 has already gone with "Ambush in Brooklyn." No fancy name, no hard-hitting graphic, helps it make any sense. If anything, it seems useless.
For the love of God. TWO cops are dead, and the suspect said it was coming on Instagram.
"I'm putting wings on pigs today," he wrote.
Oh there was more than that, including hashtags that indicated these murders would be revenge for the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.
Think about it. This guy shot his girlfriend in Baltimore, then came to Bed-Stuy. He had that much time to ponder what he was doing. Cold-blooded is perhaps the nicest way to put it.
Sickening.
Of course, the always-upstanding Al Sharpton said he is "outraged." Jesus, way to step out on that limb there. Then again, ol' Al and I have never been on the same page, so why should I be surprised?
The same mayor, who said tonight, "Now is not the time for politics." Yeah, well too bad, pal. You put yourself there. You can't cherry-pick it.
While I should just stay out of it, I can't. I know police officers, and love them. What happened today was a clear message, and it's not a good one.
Let's be quite clear here: black lives should matter. Eric Garner's life should matter. Michael Brown's life should matter.
Yet so should mine. My mother's. My son's.
And cops lives matter also. They put their lives on the line every day, whether it's in Ferguson, New York City, or Carmel.
Is this hard to understand?
I understood the need to protest what happened in Missouri and on Staten Island, albeit peacefully. I don't - and won't - understand looting, destruction, and violence.
To me, tonight, the protest card is revoked. Done.
Will LeBron James wear a pro-police T-shirt? Will members of the Rams, Jets, Giants - whatever - take the field in NYPD caps?
Will there be editorials in local papers denouncing the behavior tonight?
Or is it all just agenda-driven?
Who is advocating for the police? Rallies? Protests? Will we see those?
Al Sharpton will surely advocate for the police, right? Not. A. Chance. EVER. Apparently, neither will Mayor de Blasio, unless needed to save his own political career.
It's a strange, scary time.
Tonight, hug your kids. Your family. Express condolences and thanks to a police officer. There are so many great ones, just trying to keep us safe and do an honorable job. I get that you might want to express something on social media - I mean, come on, I'm here - but think. Think a lot. Then think again. Then, after you've thought one more time, hit send.
Remember.
They were two innocent cops sitting in a patrol car.
Sean and his dad. Traditions live. December 22, 2012
Traditions. I've always believed in them, to the point of being told I can be a "get off my lawn" type of guy. Seems strong, but OK.
I've tried to go The Big E every year, but came up short this year. Oktoberfest at Hunter Mountain? I got there in, er, October. I love Opening Day in baseball and calling a football game every Thanksgiving.
Traditions change, of course (baseball has done a phenomenal job screwing up Opening Day).
Traditions also end. One of those will die tonight.
Every year for over a decade or so, my family and I have gathered to visit the Christmas display of Rick and Joan Setti in Norwalk, CT. The group has changed over the years (people come and go) but a core group has gone for a long time now.
Yes, there's been a missed date here and there. For instance, I was laid up with kidney stones in 2010, so Sean went with the rest of the family. My mom missed last year due to her open heart surgery, but a group went on Christmas Eve, as a snap decision, with the snow falling furiously.
The Setti's have decided that it's time to stop the display. According to a report in the Norwalk Daily Voice, they're not moving to Florida, as was rumored. They're just stopping because they think it's time. It's a lot of work, and you know that if you've ever been there. The number of miniature houses, wooden figures, and lights are staggering.
The couple will have their Christmas village featured on an ABC Family channel show called "The Great Christmas Light Fight" on Monday, Dec. 22. Their Facebook page has more, including the possibility of an eventual tag sale.
Selfishly, I'm sad. This night - this display - could often melt the heart of a six-foot tall Grinch. What's worse is that Sean is sad.
This is all he's known. We first brought him when he was tiny. When he had parents that brought him. Later, his dad made sure to get him there. The general routine, which grew out of my sister going with her kids, became our tradition.
Later tonight, we will meet at Post Corner Pizza in Darien. This part was my idea, since we needed a spot to grab dinner. There will be pizza, salad, laughter, figuring out how to pay the bill, and we will all leave stuffed. From there, we'll make the drive to Norwalk to visit the display. Oh sure, some years the visit might have been shorter than others due to cold weather, snow, etc. Yet we went - without fail.
The night will finish just as a night of viewing Christmas lights should: at Stew Leonard's in Norwalk for ice cream (after walking around the store, of course). I have to have to cup of coffee to sip as we stroll and look for any taste samples (cookies, donuts, etc).
I noticed, as we made the plans for tonight, most of Laura's kids are going (all grown and out of high school now). They might not have pushed to go in another year, but we all know tonight will be special. I know Michael would love to bring his girlfriend and baby to see it, but he'll be thinking of us in Arizona. Mom is going, and that is a blessing. My niece Stephanie is joining us also, as always.
And Sean.
I suggested ways we could carry the torch next year to him, but he was succinct: "It just won't be the same."
He's quite right there. It won't. We can find other light displays (of course, the Guinness record-breaking drive-around ERDAJT in LaGrangeville, NY is phenomenal) but something will be missing.
Yet it's of course more than that, and any parent should agree. This is the end. Sean is 12, and different days are approaching. That wonder, that innocence, that willingness to hang with his "old man" and the family will likely be gone. There is a sadness that will hang over tonight.
I hope to run into other friends tonight, so that they can see this before it goes away. I hope we find other things to do but we all know that there will always be that nostalgia when we think about Rick and Joan's house in Norwalk.
Things don't come easy for families. Some members have no interest in going. Yet it was always nice to have something - this thing - that most of us agreed on.
Thanks to the Setti's for this wonderful tradition. We won't try to change your mind, but you'll forgive us if there is a long look, and maybe a tear, as we say good bye.
Yesterday, I made an attempt to post something. Anything.
A friend, one of my closest confidants on the planet (among several in the close circle of Robland, a small enclave of Friendlyville*), reached out to me and patted me on the back for just getting back on the horse, so to speak.
* Friendlyville was the dirt under my parent's deck. Several of my neighbors and I created a whole town down there with rocks and plastic shovels and Tonka trucks. The good old days of filthy pants, a wiffle ball game, lots of sweat, and a cold drink. Magical.
My friend knows me as well as anyone, and I can't argue the truth: that by posting something, I'd begin to conquer whatever gremlin had crawled inside of me. Well clearly something is working because I'm here again. Still gremlins to beat though.
I need to get to the point.
In our modern-day world of tweets, blogs, Facebook (evil and otherwise), Snapchat, Instagram, and so on, we get so many characters. We write, and context is lost before the vultures circle. Or we have our moment that gets filmed or reported and, again, you don't know the whole story.
Think of the Doughnut Inn story from July, in which a four-year-old child was "banned" from the store. Ah, that was one side. Not so fast.
My great friend Kait Shea hammered the story home. Interestingly, the fury died on the vine after. Incidentally, the comments on Kait's story are, well, read for yourself. Typical. Yet a little research would have indicated there was more than met the eye. We have countless other examples, and if you don't think the recent situations in Ferguson and Staten Island aren't examples, then you're not paying attention.
But let's just rush to judgement - the same thing we've cursed about for hundreds of years. Tony Stewart thanks you.
Oh by the way, Doughnut Inn is still blissfully open on Connecticut route 25 in Monroe. I drive past it all the time. The coffee's great.
Earlier today, over on Gawker, I read a fascinating story by Sam Biddle on the Justine Sacco tweet of a year ago. Oh, you don't remember it? You will.
It appears that Ms. Sacco wasn't a racist monster. She tweeted something - a parody, basically, sans emoticon - and had her career (and her life) were nearly destroyed.
This is the firestorm we live in, from Mr. Imus and "hoes" (Don't. Get. Me. Started.) to anything and everything in between, we are always just a minor flub away from personal disaster.
We all experience it to a degree. We all know these constant misunderstandings - small or not. I truly believe that. Personally, it happens a lot with me. Whether it's a tweet, text, ichat, or blog post, more often than not I have the tongue firmly planted in cheek, demonstrating my love of the fantastical.
An example: I've told you about my friend Susan Shultz's novella The Blacksmith. It is brilliant, and is just the beginning for her. I've already seen a few lines from the next novella. Wow. (Oh, and The Blacksmith is still just $.99 from Full Fathom Five Digital. So do your friend a favor and buy buy buy!)
Anyway, my silly mood went off the rails earlier this week, and I concocted a Broadway musical version of the novella. Susan would rather have her lead character make a souffle of her than ever see that happen, but even she admitted that it was rather funny. The whole conversation went via ichat, which is our standard around HAN.
Conversely, if we somehow misread the whole thing (again, it happens all the time), it could have gotten weird, but laughter prevailed and all was well. But one things gets out of context, or one sentence - one word - dripping in too much snark? It can be game on. For anyone.
It's sad that we live in a time where an emoticon - a smiley face or whatever - is the key. I had somebody say that to me several years ago, when they were becoming "the standard."
Sigh. Yet it's true. Now would have helped Justine Sacco? Probably not, and I suppose that brings us back to the old thing about thinking twice (at least) before pressing "send."
I'm also often wonderfully misread in person. Don't ask me how. I've perfected it and it's my recipe.
So do we come back around to if we are too sensitive? (We are) Do we need to just take a step back? (We do, and we won't)
We all know we're too overworked, overtaxed, overstressed, and so on. The kids need to be bathed, fed, and put to sleep. The bills need to be paid. The plumbing needs to be fixed. Plus we all need an hour to watch Real Housewives of Ridgefield.**
Sorry, folks. I know there are three or four of you (and I owe you each a beverage or grape drink* for it) who regularly read the idiocy I post here.
* Those who enjoy grape drink know who they are, specifically when they got it in the Jeffseon Valley Mall.
Lately, I haven't felt it. Not because I have wanted to.
Just because, well, I don't know.
I've tried. Goodness knows, I've tried. I've written at least four posts in the past few weeks before deleting each of them. I've tried to find some anger with the NFL (still legit, as I think the product has suffered and I've lost some interest), and other things rattling around in my noggin.
Yet I felt like each post was rudderless. Just lost.
I felt it back when I wrote after Thanksgiving night. I thought I had made a cogent post regarding shopping that night, while not defending the actual action. I'm not really in favor of it, to be honest, but it was nice to spend that time with my sister..
After I hit publish, I thought about deleting it. Somewhere in the process from brain to fingertips, it just didn't fly.
Each post since then has suffered from the same thing.
Have I lost my fastball? Hell, did I ever HAVE a fastball? Am I a bigger wreck than even I thought?
Maybe. Honestly, I'm not quite sure.
I want better here. I want to keep writing. I think about it for a few minutes every day but normally those thoughts occur away from the keyboard.
I have topics but I can't seem to get them quite clear. Thus I frequently add to the reasons that I think I suck at life.
I've been told I'm bogged down. I have too much stress and too much on my mind. I can't argue. I try, but I can't.
Worst is that I feel like I'm hurting people I care about via my posts, and I have no interest in doing so. Lots of things are written here with tongue firmly planted in cheek, in the hopes of recognizing there is a lot of parody and sarcasm on this blog.
Daily conversations product topics and, yet, I feel like damage can be done if I bring them here.
Yet when you lose faith in your writing, what's next?
I feel like I have nothing to say. Nothing even remotely interesting. Even if I did, what scares me the most is that I can't articulate it.
Anyway, I'm babbling. All in the name of getting another scintillating post up. I'll shut up now.,
Laughing. That's best way to think of him. My dad is 56 in this picture, with granddaughters Laura, Kristy, and Stephanie in front of him. A 17-year-old future blogger is at far left. Christmas Eve, 1985.
December 10, 2014 would have been my father's 85th birthday. Thinking of him as 85 years old is as strange to me as it was at 80, 75, 70, etc.
To me, to anyone, he'll always be 59. That's what life does to you. You're thought of as we knew you.
But I wonder. I wonder what the past 25 plus years would have been like. How do things change? That's how strong the impact of his loss has been felt. Lives were change forever.
I know. I've no doubt discussed this all here before. I wonder what he would have thought of the grandkids he never met. What would he have thought of career choices, spouses, splits, triumphs, and tragedies?
How would he have reacted to the '96 Yankees? Would it have been a father-son bonding moment or no big deal?
What would he have thought of my radio work?
Would he have an iPad? Would I have loaded it with countless music? Would he have an email address or care about social media?
Would there have been a retirement?
Would modern technology have given him comfort, instead of the constant physical pain he lived in?
It reminds me of a story. A story of, arguably, the saddest night of my life, until he passed away in 1989.
I was probably eight or nine. We're talking, roughly, 1977. The pain in his legs was miserable one night, and though he was usually the soundest sleeper not named "Sean Adams," he couldn't sleep on this night.
I'd heard him snore before. I'd heard him moan in pain, but generally sleep through it. This night was different.
I heard him in the living room with my mother. The pain, by my young ears, seemed unbearable. He moaned. He groaned.
He sobbed.
My mother was consoling. Comforting. But on this night, there was nothing but despair from the old man.
I couldn't sleep. I don't remember anything of my siblings, who may or may not have been home, as they were both deeper into their later teens.
I came out of my room at one point, only to be shooed back into it. While the pain was very apparent, it was still easier with me out of sight.
What sticks out at me - what really has stayed with me all these years - was him talking about not being able to take me to ballgames.
I went to two Yankees games with my dad. We went as a family in 1972 and 1973. They beat the Orioles in '72, and the Royals the next year. A guy named Murcer had a double off of Jim Palmer in that first game.
The hook of baseball struck and it's never left.
Indeed, my dad would get me to games and other events whenever possible. So I went to Yankee Stadium with relatives. Friends. Other fathers.
This is not some sob story. I loved whatever time I had with him, and never resented any of that stuff. I just wanted to make his pain go away. He made sure my mom and his kids came first. Physically, he simply could not be comfortable at a game. You can say maybe he should have swallowed his pride for a wheelchair or whatever, but I'm not going to question that.
It was a different time. A different world. A different life. And I won't let the passage of time make things appear 20/20.
There's an awful picture of us, taken on the day of my graduation from high school. Long story short: he didn't go. The pain of knowing he's not going is apparent in his face.
I smiled. I knew he was proud of me, and he was my dad. Sure, I was sad he didn't go, but I understood. I can still recall calling the house before the ceremony began to see if he was coming.
I think about him every day. Every. Day. I probably mention him more than I should, and have often apologized in case you're sick of reading about him.
His impact on my life can't be measured. I want to believe we go somewhere special when we die. I'd like to think, maybe, he's watching Patton, or listening to The Drum Battle (he always said Gene Krupa was better than Buddy Rich).
Most importantly. He's in my heart, and by telling you about him, I often hope you'll love him just a little.
Happy 85th, Pop.
*****
December 10th holds another significance this year. My friend Susan Shultz, editor of the Darien Times, wife, mother of Lucy and Annabelle, is the author of The Blacksmith: Tales From the Graveyard, Novella 1.
I expect you to say, "Rob. She's your friend. You're just supporting her." There is truth in that. I read it because my friend asked me to.
I was blown away. It's deep. Complex. Even, shall we say, mature.
So go visit the website, via her publisher, Full Fathom Five, and support a very talented person.
.jpg)
_(3600301569).jpg)
