Category: Uncategorized (Page 17 of 96)

Sometime in the future when I visit my Dad’s house in “the Villages,” it will be because he died. I don’t really expect that to be anytime soon. He’s pretty healthy at 77 and his mind is totally there. Physically he struggles a bit, but that’s because he spends most of his time in front of a television. A Schwinn exercise bike I bought him a few years ago is one of the things less active than Dad in the house. He tried to tell me he rides it, but I called BS on the claim, citing the overall weakness in his legs. “If you were riding that thing you wouldn’t walk like you’re 97,” I asserted. Kyle jumped to his Papa’s defense, but Dad didn’t debate me. So, with little activity and maybe even less will to live since his wife Caroline passed 3 years ago, Leo Joseph Daley still seems relatively healthy, but you just never know. Hey, he could visit my home for a similar reason. You never know.

I imagine I’ll get a call from Dad’s friend and neighbor, Dick Greene. Dick and his wife Kay live right across the street and are wonderful to Dad. They’re dragging him along to “Katie Belle’s” for Thanksgiving dinner next week. They do try to get him out of the house and they keep an eye on him for me. Sometimes Kay will drop me an email if she thinks I need to know something. Kay always types in all caps, but in person, she never shouts, and I’m not about to point our email etiquette to her. I just send her pictures of the grandkids and great-grandkids for Dad, and the occasional thank you note.

Sometimes I’m not the best at observing life around me. I think it’s an attention deficit thing. I’m not going to look it up, but I believe Matthew Broderick as Ferris Beuller said, “Life goes by pretty quickly. If you don’t stop to look around once in a while you might miss it.” The past couple days at Dad’s I looked around. I noticed things. Dad likes to use Styrofoam cups and paper plates. He’s got mugs, glasses and plates, but I just don’t think he likes doing dishes. He didn’t do any while Kyle and I were there. I also noticed the PUR water reservoir I got him is AWOL. In its place are cases of plastic water bottles, the kind made from petroleum. Again, I think he just doesn’t want to wash the glasses.

Dad hasn’t really changed anything in the house since Caroline died. Oh, a friend of hers removed all of her clothes and other personal belongings, but the décor of the house is exactly the same. Most of the prints are of Caroline’s choosing except the Degas “Jockeys” I gave Dad one Christmas. There are pictures of kids from Caroline’s side of the family in the cabinet surrounding the 27” TV. The people in those pictures don’t have any relationship with Dad. Actually, none of that family does, even those who live a few blocks away, but that’s mostly Dad’s choice, I think. As for the still faces in those frames, I believe the fading relics maintain a comforting presence of a past he still aches for. While looking for old pictures this morning as the younger and elder Daley boys slept, I opened the cabinet doors to find VHS tapes, pale yellow plastic flowers and a brown extension cord alone in a bottom cabinet. It too has nothing to do. Dad’s coffee table had the tin cased “Band of Brothers” DVD set I got him a few years ago. I forgot to ask him if he ever watched them.

There are a few things I’ll want including the gifts I’ve sent over the years and many of the photographs (I grabbed some sweet ones to scan and write about). There are even a couple monochrome wedding pictures from 1957. The photographer that day sucked, but I’ll keep them anyway. I’d also like the framed card and golf ball from Dad’s hole in one, but my brother Corey may want that. They played some golf together. Dad’s clubs are still in the garage, along with several pairs of nice golf shoes and dozens of used balls in egg cartons. I’m hoping Dad has a change of heart and decides to lose a few more of those.

Then my next trip down can be to play some golf with the old man.

“Dad, have you ever seen a midnight show?”

My son posed that innocent question seconds after we bought our tix to the Friday midnight showing of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.”

“Yeah, man. In college we went all the time. To the same show.”
“What show?” asked the now curious Syltherin lover.
“Oh, it was a rock show, my boy.”
“Dad, what the heck was it”? reiterated a now impatient boy.
‘“The Song Remains the Same” with Zep.’ I responded proudly, like that fact bought me some level of cool with Jr. It didn’t. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Too bad, because every image, note and broken bow string of that 1973 performance documentary live permanently in some dark, wet crease of my gray, and for that matter, to this day defines rock and roll for me, but that’s not important right now.

It’s fitting this father-son road vacation will culminate with a midnight show, another new experience for Kyle. This trip has again engaged Kyle with great friends and places. I’m so thankful for the love that has blanketed Kyle throughout “the Dirty South.” Georgia, Dave, Joseph, Paulie, Maddy, Michael and Margaret… Thank you all!

As for me, the road has been different than the 2,200 miles we drove in August of 2009. I’m in a much different place, and the miles have been more affirming than cathartic. There hasn’t been any solitary “Hitching Post” moment. Sharing precious moments of this life with my son, my Dad and my friends has been joyous.

Since the highly successful “South by SouthWest” road trip with Kyle in August of 2009, I’ve been looking forward to the next one. Since sauntering through hot, sticky hair-spray air wasn’t too appealing, we skipped August and opted for a fall road trip from Baltimore-Washington International Airport to Florida’s retirement capital, “The Villages.” Actually that doesn’t sound very scintillating, but we’ve got some stops in between:

Dumfries, VA – Home of Dave, the fabulous Georgia and young Joseph Klug, we’ll celebrate Kyle’s 19th birthday with one of my best friends and his family. Any reader of this space knows of Dave and our 15 year friendship from NEC to Tar Hut Records. I can’t wait to see that big, graying pomp, shit-eatin’ grin, and to hear the words, “Hey man.”

Savannah, GA – After a short visit with the Klug family, it’s a 9 hour backbreaker to lush Savannah for 2 nights, one day, and 2 sets of friends:

• “Paulie” – In April of 2000 this spider monkey of a man approached my new cubelet at Kronos and introduced himself while casting a wary, hairy, “who does this jamoke think he is” eyeball my way. We’ve been friends and racquetball enemies ever since. He falls into the rarefied category of “some of my best friends are Yankee fans,” though sadly he’s had a twitch since October of 2004 and had to retire his racquet. Paulie was my “shrink and a beer” for many of those years and I miss him, although beating a spider monkey at racquetball is a bitch, and all the smashed racquets got kinda expensive. I’ve got some catching up to do with Paulie.
• The Korn Family – Mr. Korn was a participant in the NEC wars of the mid to late 90’s with Dave and me and is a freakin’ smart dude. His wife Maddy is just as smart… um, well, she’s got the advantage of the female thing, so maybe she gets the smart nod. I’m looking forward to great conversation and catching up with them and to be amazed again by their young daughter Elizabeth who Kyle just adores.

The Wizarding World of Harry Potter – Kyle is so fired up to see Harry, Ron, Hermione, and of course Lord Voldemort. With the money Universal is making magically disappear from my wallet, it better be enchanting.

Leo Sr. – Yep, he’s like the Howard Hughes of the Villages except without the money and the freakish long fingernails. His grandson and I will pry him out into the sunlight for a couple days and once again force feed him some life beyond the couch and clicker.

I had to go to the Google to learn the meaning of that phrase my Dad says when he’s really pissed at someone, but I needed it as a title for a post on the spectacular performance of my liver recently in Las Vegas.

It all started innocently enough with a “Sambatini of the day” at SushiSamba in the Palazzo. Well, when the “tini” turned out to be a fluorescent pink with “muddled” fruits, the 11 male co-workers all took turns verbally castrating me with classics like, “Hey Leo, how’s that Vag-tini?” I smiled and said nothing in the din of erupting laughter. I just sipped my fresh, refreshing pink drink like a man. Later, when our waiter sampled us for another round, Pete, the quiet instigator sitting next to me said, “You can’t let them challenge your manhood like that. You need to have another.” I did, and then a third. There’s photographic evidence of my pink thirst quenching I expect to soon see in an email, Facebook post or Powerpoint, so I’ll share it when I get it.

From the classy SushiSamba, we rolled over to the “Carnival Court,” a dive under a big tent in the shadow of the low-rent Imperial Palace. At Carnival they’ll pour shots directly into your mouth right from the bottle while you’re seated next to a hooker with dirty clothes. We chose to remain standing. The place had a stage and the cover band was blaring “Lick it Up” by KISS when we walked in, but in spite of the rock, I passed on round 1. After initially declining a round 2 beverage a mere 90 seconds after round 1 was delivered, I moseyed up to the bar and ordered my live band beverage, a Maker’s Mark on the rocks. I dipped into my billfold and extended a $10. “Twelve dollars” send me back in for a deuce and a tip. After two more Maker’s, I made the case that I was now “even.” I contended the three Maker’s neutralized the 3 Vag-tini’s and I was once again a man. I was concerned we might have a hung jury, but it was pretty cold out there, so that wasn’t a problem and I was begrudging accepted back into the male majority. One more Maker’s and a Jaegerbomb later I was on the dance floor with the 5 remaining male cohorts and the one female who regrettably joined us. Oh, and I swear there were Marines’ in full dress blues grinding each other, but I didn’t think an inquiry on “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” to young, drunk Marines’ was a good call at 2AM.

The one rule of company tradeshows is, “No matter how much fun you have the night before, the next morning you gotta’ answer the bell.” I did and was on the Expo floor by the opening at 8:30. Yes, AM. I actually didn’t feel too bad. We did suffer one casualty, and that individual is still MIA (Missing In Alcohol). Maybe they ate some bad sushi…

Btw, Merriam-Webster provides this background on the term “lilly-livered:”

“The basis of the word “lily-livered” lies in an old belief. Years ago, people thought that health and temperament were the products of a balance or imbalance of four bodily fluids, or humors: blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile. It was believed that a deficiency of yellow bile, or choler, the humor that governed anger, spirit, and courage, would leave a person’s liver colorless or white. Someone with this deficiency, and so white-livered, would be spiritless and a coward. “Lily-livered” and “white-livered” have been used synonymously since the 16th century, but “lily-livered” is now the more common expression, probably because of its alliteration.”

Comfortable, productive air travel these days is an empty middle seat and a person in front of you who doesn’t recline.  Fifteen rows deep on the aisle of this foil wrapped paper towel tube is where a Southwest draw of B13 put me, and the Gaslight Anthem Dave recently sent me is stirring.

I’m still processing last night’s high school reunion that wasn’t mine, and really resembled more the gathering of a fan club. I think the party favors may have been a one word thesaurus of “smart,” because variants of it were what I heard all night from the many I chatted with. The descriptive verbs weren’t all about intelligence. One woman shared with me how she was helped after the death of her husband to draw strength and embrace her new independence, even though it was involuntary and unwanted. Yeah, that one was about heart. I was moved and provided a deeper understanding, but not at all surprised. That one brief conversation was my reason for being there. Well, plus hanging with my pal Glenn.

Now, failing to fall back, I’m an hour shy of the sleep I might have enjoyed and destined for another few days in Vegas, this time for our annual Customer conference, this year at the MGM Grand where the advice I read about playing Blackjack there was, “Don’t sit down.” Screw it. I’m taking their money. As HAL9000 would robotically say, “I can feel it.”

“Give me the fever that just won’t quit.”

There are people who pass through our lives and we sometimes don’t know why until they’re a disappearing speck on the horizon, the kind you can barely see behind the atmospheric waves coming off the ground, but you keep watching until you’re sure they’re gone. That’s the point though. The impression of those people never leaves you, because they touched you with something enduring. A life’s lesson. Like mutual respect.

On Friday afternoon I received a quick email reminding me of a co-worker’s last day. I made a mental note to call him on the ride to the Cape. After getting his voicemail, I told Joyce how this man always opened any conversation with inquiries about Megan or Jessica or Maddy or Kyle. He knew their names. And while I know it was a core competency of his job to know those names and what motivated people, I’ve known few people with his ability to make those exchanges so real. I told her how that effort to know me and always ask about my family made me willing to “run through a wall” for him.

Oh, and I did. I spent a few weekends running through walls that began with a program request on a Friday afternoon and a rollout on Monday morning. My efforts were never taken for granted. They were always recognized. I’ve had the privilege of working for and with quite a few people like that at Kronos, including the guy in the corner office who often asks employees at every level, “Hey, how’s it going?” Then stays there to hear the answer and invest his time in conversation. Maybe that’s the secret to our success at Kronos. Mutual respect.

I got home tonight in the dark joke of dwindling daylight. I scraped useless flyers and political ads from my non-virtual mailbox. There was one small envelope worth opening. The blue, cursive note read:

Leo,

You’re a good man, an excellent father and grandfather.

We have done a lot of quality work together.

I will miss you.

Good luck!

I’ll miss you too. You let me know if you ever have a wall that needs running through.

A Facebook friend recently wrote, “Leo…you have been oddly silent on all things Political of late… you can’t be happy with our President…you must feel let down and misled…? No?”

Yes.  I do feel let down and misled. I’m dismayed at where my country is right now and I’m terrified at the future prospects of my children and grandchildren, but I’m not without hope.

I enthusiastically supported Barack Obama financially and rhetorically beginning way back in October of 2006, but the hope and change I voted for wilted against right wing buzz word lies like “death panels” to kill real healthcare reform and “another Washington bureaucracy” to neuter real controls on Wall Street thieves. So what’s changed? Well, the big Healthcare insurance companies are finding loopholes to slither through and the gluttons led by Goldman Saks will again reward themselves with bonus billions for their selfless contribution to economic growth and prosperity in the country during 2010.

The guy I voted for deserves a good piece of the blame. Most importantly, he tried to compromise with Republicans who were, and are, bent on destroying him, and don’t seem to care if the country goes down with him. That led to weak legislation when bold action was needed. In healthcare, he did not fight for a public option, which in my opinion would have created real competition for insurers to drive down costs. Of course it would be cynical for me to think this is because of all the campaign contributions Mr. Obama received from the industry as a Senator prior to his historic 2008 run. As for financial reform, that was pretty much dead when Wall Street insiders like Timothy Geithner and Larry Summers were named Obama’s key economic advisors.  Hey, with all the money pouring into all candidates coffers from Wall Street, a legislative solution to that particular national abscess is unlikely.

I used to love the online political debate, but changing life priorities and lost faith that either party really represents “we the people” has put me on the sidelines. Bickering back and forth in a cyber psycho chamber about whether Glenn Beck is a lunatic is a waste of my time and influences no positive change. I guess the whole thing has left me bitter and clinging to my puns.

One thing I haven’t lost faith in is the entrepreneurial creativity and passion of many in this country. I work with people every day that embody my faith that we’ll evolve and we’ll re-invent and we’ll find a way.

Uncle Albert helped us understand time is relative, and I’m here to tell you 12 years is a freakin’ long time; yet I have a feeling the next twelve solar circles are going to test Professor Einstein’s theories on the speed of life.

Last week I was a world away, embracing all that is fake in Las Vegas. The only thing real there is the plight of the 15% unemployed and of homeowners who have seen abode values drop a median 58.4% since the market peak in 2006. On the Strip, the pain is numbed by the botox of a bogus Manhattan skyline, an Eiffel effigy, and of course enough double D’s to deem the place Silicone Valley.

In the appropriately named “Mirage,” a couple work pals and I smooth talked our way past a bouncer who looked like Warren Sapp at the Beatles-themed “Revolution” club, and proceeded to party like rock stars with the other 6 tourists who were there on a Monday night. Still, the place was cool with psychedelic animations projected on the walls and everything Beatles pouring out of a crystal clear sound system.

As I sipped a $15 Maker’s on the rocks courtesy of Joey D, I floated off on a musical cloud until snapped back into my seat with the words of a 24 year old Paul McCartney. I’m sure when he and John Lennon wrote the song, the subject seemed light years away. Well, it was 40 for them. Two nights later it became 12 for me.

“Will you still need me,
will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four?”

I imagine it wasn’t very aerodynamic, and it floated like a knuckle-ball captured by one of those new, super slo-mo cameras, rotating only about one full revolution before the squared, red and white wax-paper gallon of Hood milk suddenly sped up and exploded white wet all over the bright, green, yellow and black flowered wallpaper in the kitchen of my life in May, 1970. At the time, I didn’t realize my decent throwing arm was inherited from my mother, or that she possibly was a former mustachioed East-German shot-putter, but my young mother of barely 30 years fired that thing at my ducking dad. I had been awoken by the yelling and crept down the 3 left turns of the attic stairs from my room, somehow defying gravity enough to minimize the revealing squeaks of every cracked, grey deck-painted step. Just as I craned my head into the short hallway toward the kitchen, I witnessed the identified flying object.

My mother was crying and yelling “GET OUT,” among other things she’d probably deny today, but I don’t recall hearing anything out of my dad, nor do I know to this day what caused the conflict on that night. I just know that enduring image of a flying milk carton punctuated my family’s last night in our house together. The next day Mom drove my two younger brothers and me to Auntie Judy’s for the first day of the worst summer of my life. I imagine it wasn’t too great for Mom or Dad either.

Yeah, just hearing Mick belt out that lyric toward the end of the epic “Moonlight Mile,” gave me title to a story about getting there. Man, what a song. I’ll find it for you on the youtube.

My road of life’s beautiful faces and landscapes, steep, but brief, inclines, and long, wonderful drives is nearing 52. (Jeez, the guy next to me on the plane is working on a PowerPoint featuring a freakin’ fighter helicopter and shit blowing up. No, wait. One of mine just had a computer server blowing up AND sharks! Nevermind…) Anyway, before we were interrupted by my ADD, we were rag-top cruising down the ro-oo-oad with Sir Mick. Yesterday we held our now annual Maddy-Day party where friends and family come to celebrate the little blond’s party and sort of acknowledge it’s my birthday too by gifting us at a ratio of about 15 to 1. In fact, yesterday it was one, but the one was a cool Kindle from Megan! Maddy got a bunch of pink stuff including a Dora backpack, wonderful books, and a sweet farting dog! What’s best about it is that it farts in several different styles. Among other “air boofs,” there’s a short, quick, “oops, I didn’t mean for that one to slip out,” and a long, “lift one ass cheek and smile triumphantly” ripper.

Now where was I? Oh, on Saturday, Joyce and I burned some road during 3 great walks along pavement, beach sand and dirt. Somewhere across the morning hard-top I asked her to push me. No, not a literal shove, but more like the “behind every successful man is a woman” push. In 2010, that’s really kind of sexist, but it fits. Besides, she acknowledged needing to be pushed as well in spite of all her successes, so maybe it’s more like the U2 song. “We get to carry each other.” Oh, how I love irony and it showed up a few hours later when my girl gave me the gift of a writer’s workshop at Grub Street in Boston! I guess I didn’t have to request the push…

Last night as I searched for Kindle titles while next to me, Megan giggled while uploading about 400 of the day’s images to Facebook, I also remembered the one audible.com credit I had, so the search widened from written to spoken word. “On Writing” by Stephen King was highly recommended by nearly 400 audible listeners, but not being a King fan, I was a bit skeptical. I browsed the comments, and read Stephen King’s simple advice, “If you want to be a writer, read a lot and write a lot. There aren’t any shortcuts I’m aware of.” I thought about how one gift would help me read more and one would help me write more, and hopefully better. I clicked the download button.

Thanks girls, for your help carrying me down the road and making it stunning.