Category: Uncategorized (Page 90 of 96)

My kids went out for a photo shoot with their Mom yesterday and then Megan got creative with MS Photo Editor. The result was four very cool framed images that really capture their personalities, even for just a moment in time… So here’s Jessica, Megan and Kyle along with some words from Megan… Thank you. I love you.

“So it’s Father’s Day, and we’re supposed to like, worship the ground you walk on and be thankful for all of the awesome stuff you do for us. But I think that’s gay to just say thanks on one day of the year. So, Happy Father’s Day Dad, and thank you for all the times we forget to say thanks and remember how much you really do for us without even thinking.

We love you. Happy Father’s Day ’05”

Just like my my father and his father, I share the human trait of imperfection in the job. I have regrets of deeds and words that my children will either forgive or not. I’ve read the best way to love your children is to love their mother. Unfortunately, that feeling left me a decade ago. Is that an unforgivable sin? Should it be? Maybe it will pass with time, but in 2005 it still manifests as a weight holding a child under water from the air of success.

When she was small, say 3 or 4, she’d spring to action at the words, “Daddy’s home.” No matter where she was or what she was doing, she would dash to the “starting line” at the back door of the old bungalow, and race forward the 20 yards to leap into my arms. Father’s Day was joyous back then when I could do no wrong… Then one day I stopped coming home… Recently the house she grew up in was sold by her mom and step-father, but she didn’t get a final walk-through. “I just wanted to see the view from the back door one last time.”

Back then things finally came to a head with my father and me. We’d been in some conflict over pretty silly things that resulted in me writing “the letter” that unloaded some 30 years of grievances. It was harsh and cruel. I hope I never receive one like it. Maybe I was angry that the day came when I stopped hearing, “Daddy’s home.” The next few years were filled with silence for us. Finally, in the summer of 2003 the ice began to melt for good. We took Kyle to a Sox game. Three generations. The way it should be.

Baseball and the Red Sox was always the common ground we had. When we could talk about nothing else, we could still talk about the Sox. He took me to my first Sox game and also scored us tickets to see Vida Blue and high-school phenom David Clyde back in ’75. We suffered through the World Series that year, then the ’78 debacle, followed by the ’86 meltdown. Any relationship that could survive those was going to last… On October 27th of last year, I took a shuttle out to Dad’s place at “The Villages.” A work conference had ended that day in Orlando. We went out to dinner with my step-mom Caroline, then watched the Sox in game 4 of the World Series under a blood-moon. It was a good night.

Music is a tenuous strand that holds my daughter and I together. She loves Sloan and some of the other music I listen to. I like some of what she listens to, but not that stuff of “nigga’s, hoe’s and bitches.” I don’t get that. At times it seems the gap between us spans galaxies. The anger is raw and vocal, but what doesn’t need to be said is, “Dad, please help me.” At times, I feel I’ve failed her completely, but I won’t quit on her. She has limitless potential. She’s smart, has a wonderful personality (when her head isn’t spinning “Exorcist style”), and is so beautiful. All of these qualities she shares with her sister.

As for the relationship with my own son, it’s a work in progress. I got some feedback recently that I baby him too much and am not preparing him for the “real world.” There’s some truth to that, but the protective instinct is a strong one. He’s a happy child and says, “I love you Daddy” alot. I’ll work on the “real world” stuff.

There are times I wish I could wash it all away… The mistakes, the regrets… but that wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t be life. My reality on this Father’s Day is that the shattered dreams of a child can become a very strong force for the dark side of hate. I can’t change the past, but I will continue to use love and patience and respect to positively influence the future.

Photo By: Johnny Arguedas www.motion-blur.net

Now fully recovered from Sloan-induced sleep deprivation, I’m still glowing with memories of the show Wednesday night. These guys just ooze with talent and professionalism. Early in the show, drummer Andrew Scott’s drums had a big problem, but the band forged ahead and began “Coax Me” sans drums until about halfway through the song when Andrew slammed back in for a jolting finish. No attitudes or pouting, just bringing what’s good about rock music night after night after night.

Recently, paintings by Congo the Chimpanzee were auctioned on the open market in London. In art circles, Congo was known as the “Cézanne of the Simian World.” Picasso owned a Congo.

Can you tell which of the pieces below was crafted by the chimp, and which by a descendant of chimps?

After you guess, find out which piece was produced from Congo’s pallette…

The soggy heat hung in heavy layers like grains of colored sand in a clear, long-necked bottle from the local fair. Each layer weighing on the one below and smothering all air. Silent. Stifling. Motionless. It’s presence makes everything more difficult. Mowing the lawn becomes an epic struggle for survival, like climbing a mountain. I made it.

It seeped into the gym to assist those seeking to work up a sweat. I was soaking in perspiration only ten minutes into a 30 minute climb on the Stairmaster. It was hard to hold the handles as they were slippery with sweat, and there was nary a dry inch of clothing to wipe my soaked hands.

The heat whispered sweetly, “just quit. A nice cool shower is waiting…” No. I was determined to complete 150 floors, or 150 reps of “the 12-step club.” The music helped. It doesn’t feel the heat. Green Day rocked. The E-Street Band plowed through the sweat. I wanted to wring out my shirt like the Boss, but thought, “now that’s just gross.”

The numbers of the timer read 24.59. Five minutes to go. Ryan Adams shrieked, “note to self: don’t dieeeeeeeeeeee.” The five minutes blew by. As I stepped off the descending pedals, I staggered a bit, just like Mike Tyson last night before he quit what should be his last fight. But won’t be.

In New England, whether it’s the heat, humidity, rain, cold or snow, we bitch. Megan just walked in the door and said, “It’s disgusting out. It’s heavy and wet. You can feel it.” Yeah, but what about the beach and the grill and the Drive-In (yep, we still have one) and golf and baseball? Baseball… Gotta go. Sox at Wrigley in 42 minutes…

A couple weeks ago, I began experiencing numbness in the tips of my pinky and ring finger of my right hand. I had been spending many hours manipulating a mouse on several Powerpoint presentations, and the repetitive motions had caused a flare-up of a long lived spasm in the rhumboid muscle on my right side. I thought that was the cause; that somehow the tension in my upper back was now affecting my right hand. It wasn’t painful, so I pressed on. As it got worse, spreading up the two fingers and into the outside of my wrist and forearm, I joked that if it began to affect my sex life, I’d go see a doctor… That was the joke that masked the fear. What the hell was this? Some had speculated arthritis in my spine was closing down on the nerve. MRI’s were discussed… Cortisone shots… Epidurals to the spine… Surgery??? I thought about how Lou Gehrig’s demise began with mild symptoms… ALS? I got a little freaked. What would happen to my children? I hadn’t gotten around to getting that Will done… I made a doctor’s appointment.

As I sat in the examination room, I reflected on the options again. The nurse broke a cuff on my arm, then said my blood pressure was “very good” at 118/86. I waited. It was hot and humid and the air conditioner must have called in sick. I could hear the roofers outside applying an new coat of grey shingles. The doctor entered the room and greeted each other with a traditional grasping of hands. I’ve now known George for almost 20 years. He is a decent man. Very much a “country doctor,” one of a shrinking tribe facing extinction. He checked my neck, arms and fingers. He said, “You have two options.” I cringed. “One,” he continued, “is that I can spend a bunch of your insurance company’s money and do more tests to confirm my thinking, or you can buy and wear an elbow pad for about a month.” “Hmmm… an elbow pad” I mused. “I’ll get one just like Big Papi.”

Constant pressure on my elbow from working the mouse and striking “The Thinker” pose had compressed the ulnar nerve and caused the numbness. The “nervis ulnaris,” as we say in the Latin Club, runs from the spinal cord down the arm all the way to the fingers. When you hit your “funny bone” and find how not funny it is, that’s Mr. Ulnar saying hello.

I’m relieved and trying to think a little less…

I was wrong. Hmmm… That’s refreshing, isn’t it? Wouldn’t the world be a better place if more people could simply say that instead of throwing up a flourescent green smokescreen of spin to obfuscate the truth?

In my June 1 post called “Dead Presidents,” I stated that Mark Felt, aka “Deep Throat” of the Watergate scandal, had uttered the famous line “follow the money.” In fact, he did not. Hal Holbrook, who played Felt in the movie “All the President’s Men,” did recite the line, but it was put in his mouth by Hollywood screenwriter William Goldman.

Frank Rich reports in the New York Times, “journalists everywhere – from The New York Times to The Economist to The Washington Post itself – would soon start attributing this classic line of dialogue to the newly unmasked Deep Throat, W. Mark Felt.” No, wait. That’s spin. I screwed up. I recollected (something the President’s men didn’t do very well during the hearings…) the line from the movie and attributed it to Mr. Felt. My bad.

Mr. Goldman also wrote the screenplay for “Marathon Man,” and one of my all-time favorites, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

I’m sorry.

The Star Trek series defines CDD as “A disease which continually breaks down and destroys the cellular structure of humanoid bodies.” The trekkie definition goes on to state, “Can be controlled through a complex series of fissure induced particle beams that are focused on the infected areas. There is no known cure.”

I’m concerned my cellphone is afflicted and Verizon is not focusing enough “fissure induced particle beams” on the affected area. Maybe it’s just me, but very often when I flip open my cellphone to make a call, the signal strength indicator quickly changes from this: to this .
It sometimes seems all I have to do is look at those bars to make them shrink into oblivion. Maybe I intimidate them. Just like humans, cellphones talk, listen, and can be incredibly irritating.

Often during conversations on heavily traveled routes 2 or 495, calls drop. In those cases, the little darling shoots three loud high-pitched screeching beeps piercing into my eardrum to announce “CALL WAS LOST.” Thanks. It is during those instances when I feel the urge to fire the little silver devil skipping across a body of water until the ending of inertia allows a slow sinking death in a watery grave. A “high, hard one” into a brick wall would probably also work in this situation.

Those impulsive actions of course would be stupidity, for if you ever experience a lost, stolen or broken phone, your friendly carrier will charge you full retail price to replace it. The $19.99 specials are such only when you sign your life to them for one or two year agreements. Full-retail is likely $199.00 or more. The wireless companies sell razor blades, not razors.

J.D. Power & Associates reports approximately one out of three cellphone calls had quality problems of some kind in 2004, including no signal, dropped calls, interference, echoes and voice distortion. Most problems are due to an inadequate number of cell towers and radios connected to the towers. Of course there’s a balance between perfect service and the cost to provide it that the carriers must manage, but the fact that most of them don’t allow “roaming” onto competitors networks hinders better service.

“Can you hear me now?” Uh, no.

Although I enjoyed “Ellie-Mae” just like the next guy, and even was intrigued by Miss Hathaway, I now rue the day Jedd Clampett missed that little critter and struck oil. Sure, he and his kinfolk got a ce-ment pond in Beverly Hills, but you and I got the habit.

Recently, Boston’s WBUR and National Public Radio’s “The Connection,” hosted by Dick Gordon had a 3 part audio series called “Addicted to Oil.” Guests include Tom Friedman, foreign affairs columnist for The New York Times and Robert McFarlane, former National Security Advisor under President Reagan. It’s worth your time to listen.

Lying Down Oil by Gil Marosi

Obviously, any fan of rock music knows that a band formed while some of its members were studying at the Nova Scotia School of Art and Design should not be missed. Well, Sloan is one of those bands and they’re comin’ to getcha. For me, seeing Sloan live is a recharging experience, kinda like what an electric car feels like after a nice long rush of AC current. The music of this Canadian band has been described as “Beatlesque power pop” and is filled with devastating Joe Frazier-like left hooks. Amazon.com music editor, Peter Hilgendorf calls Sloan “God’s gift to rock and roll,” while comparing them to, “The Beatles, the Kinks, the Who, Led Zeppelin, Big Star, Kiss, Cheap Trick, the Clash, the Replacements, the Young Fresh Fellows, and the Beach Boys (when Mike Love was out at the dry cleaner’s).”

Last summer my daughter Megan caught a left hook or two from Sloan through their record, “Action Pact.” 2004 became the Summer of Sloan, and it peaked when she got to see them live at the Hampton Beach Casino Ballroom. It was a great day full of fun. I long for days like that to return…

One of the bands mega-hits (yeah, it sold like a billion…) is “If it Feels Good, Do It.” It does, so do it. Go See Sloan!