I’m not sure why the term “Event Horizon” popped into my head. I looked it up and found, “It’s the term scientists use to refer to the edge of the black hole that will suck anything and everything that gets too close to it, into a vortex, making it seemingly disappear forever.” OK. I’m stepping back from the vortex. What I had in mind was not quite that.

Specifically I was thinking about the scene in “Apollo 13” when the astronauts were floating along with little control of their damaged vehicle. Understanding the physics of space flight, the men must have been terrified at their chances. They were literally flying without a net and had to maneuver themselves into an atmospheric “entry window” of only 2 1/2 degrees in a crippled ship neither designed nor tested to pull it off. The paper thin reentry window would be unforgiving. Coming in too steep would incinerate the ship from the friction of the thickening atmosphere. A too shallow entry would skip the crew like a rounded rock off a pond of tranquility, unrecoverably into the blackness of space.

The arc of our lives ocassionally presents these entry windows. Career is a good example. We might think we’re on the right course, a safe course, but really we’ve skipped off into the vacuum without even knowing it. Eventually support systems shut down and we fade away. Do you have the courage to course correct? The correction must be delicately handled, else we burn in the flames of risk realized, but to stay adrift is gutless. You’ve got one shot. Maybe two if you’re lucky. Do you take it and risk for exhilarating reward, or drift off into space with nothing but time to think about what might have been?

My daughter Megan’s birthday was here yesterday, the last day of February three out of every 4 years. Today 23 years of her life are gone, but she hasn’t been cheated. The girl lives and brings life to all around her, especially her family. In many ways she’s “wise beyond her years.” There are times she speaks to me with the wisdom of the big sister I always wanted. Infrequently she speaks to me with the narrowness of a spoiled princess. I know I’m responsible for that. I only hope I’ve influenced the wisdom part.

Recently I read an article stating that at 50, many people shift from a mindset of “What do I want?” to “Why am I here?” Megan still “wants,” but even at 23, she’s much more focused on the “Why am I here?” question. As I watch Megan’s maturity accelerate, I see the answers very clearly. The way she lives her life answers why she’s here:

She’s here to protect and teach and love her daughter, Madison Olivia.
And her brother, Kyle.
And her niece.
And her grandmother’s.
And everyone else she loves.
She’s here to help me be a better person.
And to aggravate me.

Charlie is gone. The dead one. He was a friend of Megan’s who will always be part of her. Not just in the ink drawings of Maddy’s hands he etched in her skin, but forever in her heart. He was unique. And good. His life and sudden death made Megan better.

Today is here for you and me. The moment is all we’re guaranteed. We should use it to protect. To teach. To love.

The clock runs out.

The recess basketball league for 6th graders at the Greenwood Elementary School in 1969 was a 4 team scrum for schoolyard glory. We wouldn’t start Mr. Boyages’ Saturday Youth League for another year, so fundamentally, we were clueless. Aside from one hand (usually right) only dribbling, shooting, and mid-air pig piles for rebounding, we knew little of the game. League action consisted of 15-minute sprints up and down the asphalt court on Greenwood Ave., following a script of run, shoot, miss, foul, run, etc… Game scores were usually in the 4-2, 6-4 range, with double-digit or odd scores a rarity. Not many of us were very good at free throws back then.

Mike Gonnella was the captain of one team and I another. I can’t recall the other captains, but the big news of the Fall ’69 season was the first trade in league history, and me channeling the antithesis of Red Auerbach by making the horrible swap. Leo Murphy was a wizard with the ball. He was a white, 6th-grade version of Marques Haynes, able to dribble circles around hapless defenders. Paul Czarnonka was a big, quiet kid who couldn’t score, but was a rebounding machine. Blinded by flashy ball skills, I traded Czarnonka for Murphy, not realizing that I’d hardly see the ball once the other Leo got his hands on it. And that was only after my now undersized team somehow got possession of it.

After the trade, my team began a tailspin, fueled by bickering over who should have the ball and do the shooting. As captain, I thought it only fair that someone else should work to get a rebound and pass to me at mid-court for an unchallenged dash to the basket and a score at the other end. It all made perfect sense. The x’s and o’s rarely executed according to my script and we were a disorganized, selfish mess. And defense? We didn’t really get that part of the game. And it was hard for me to actually play defense from my spot at mid-court waving my arms while waiting for someone to get me the ball. If it had occurred to me that rebounding and defense wins ballgames, we would have been a better team and I would have avoided a therapy-worthy experience.

The highlight of the hoop year was Parents Night. The 4 teams would get to play on the real court in the gymnasium in front of parents and friends. Even some of the cute girls from class would be there. It was going to be awesome.

The Greenwood Elementary School is a two-story brick structure built in 1897. It is located on Main Street, just a few hundred yards north of the Melrose line. In the center of the building sits the two-story auditorium, with a stage, balcony, and a basketball court. When I attended, the old “fallout shelter” signs still glared inside and outside the building. The place was immaculate, including hardwood hallways and linoleum tiled classrooms. The windows were towering and the grey radiators were accented Pollock-like with the bright hues of melted crayons. Even in the basement when weather forced us indoors for gym, the shiny, grey lead-painted floor was a pristine surface for crawl-on-your-back “crab” soccer or my favorite, dodgeball.

I’m sure there were other occasions, but I recall only 3 times being in the auditorium. We saw a movie once. I’m not sure if it was “Reefer Madness,” but I think it was some sort of propaganda for young minds. The second time was for 6th grade “graduation.” Parents Night is the one I’ll never forget. The place was packed. My mom was there. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. G were in the house, along with many other parents I knew then, but forget today. And girls. Girls were there. I was on a mission.

Maybe it was nerves, but the game started with more frenzy than our usual recess tilt. We were zipping all around the hardwood floor, the ball bouncing off feet, knees, and anything else available to render our exhibition anything but resembling basketball. Once we settled down, our opponents began to score at a furious pace. It was 2-0, then 4-zip. I had to do something. After another bucket made it 6-0, someone from my team finally had the sense to “run the offense” and fling the round ball to mid-court into my flailing arms. I caught the ball flat-footed but quickly accelerated to a full gazelle-like stride ready to emphatically get my team back in the game. The massive crowd began to rise in anticipation. The noise grew. Would I do a reverse jam and hang on the rim for style points? The din got louder, but it didn’t feel right. As I crossed the foul line stripe ready to go airborne for the hoop paparazzi, I was struck with dread. The crowd was howling with laughter.

I wasn’t dribbling.

– If you still have the @aol.com suffix on your email and you work in tech, you’re embarrassing yourself.

– The Super Bowl condensed: Madge caught her fall, Welker not the ball.

– Gloria Ferrer crushes her latest Pinot Noir.

– I’ve dusted off the man-cave project plan.

– Mmmmm… kale.

– Tuesday night I played the Toy Story “Memory Game” with Maddy. Let’s just say the mind of this particular 4 year old is wicked shaahhp. She whooped the old man, 26-16.

– Unless things change, it’s the 4th quarter in America. Once the 1% have all the toys and the middle-class can’t consume anymore, it’s over.

– Don’t be a wimp. Get your cancer screenings. Yeah, you.

– Son Volt’s “Trace” is a desert island disc for me. Masterpiece.

– I wonder what Mitt Romney’s taxes looked like when he wasn’t feeling entitled to the Oval Office.

– Ask yourself: “Is Karl Rove looking out for me?”

– And… “Do I want Newt Gingrich anywhere near the launch codes for our nukes?”

– I believe Rick Santorum could be the “not-Romney” who wins the Republican nomination. Of course he’s wrong about everything, but there’s a refreshing purity to his wrongness.

– You can expect all the social “wedge issues” like the new one, contraceptives, plus gay marriage and abortion to be front and center for the Republicans this year. It’s all they have.

– I respect Tim Thomas’s right to be wrong.

– It’s sad, but the Celtics-Lakers game last night was largely ignored.

– Hey, it’s “make up for being a schmuck the rest of the year” day Tuesday. Don’t forget Hallmark and the flowers…

One huge, developing irony of the Citizens United decision is that all the corporate and 1% fueled cash flowing into right-wing Super-Pacs (Political Action Committees) will nominate a Republican poster boy from that privileged world who cannot be elected.

The Citizens United decision handed down by the U.S. Supreme Court in January of 2010, held that the First Amendment protection of free speech prohibits the government from limiting political campaign spending by corporations and unions. In other words, corporations and those who run them can spend limitlessly on political advertising to influence elections. Of course the right-wing is also simultaneously gutting Democrat leaning unions wherever they can get away with it, like Wisconsin and Indiana, but that’s a topic for another day.

The impact of this limitless cash flow was evident in the recent Republican primary in Florida. Days before the Florida vote, “angry muffin” and former Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich stomped previously favored Mitt Romney in South Carolina, primarily on the strength of his Mano y Mano debate performances against Mr. Romney and the “elite media,” whatever that is. With the critical Florida primary just days away after the stunning SC upset, the Romney campaign and Super-Pacs supporting him opened the cash spigots and outspent Mr. Gingrich by $4.5 to $1 in the Sunshine State, most of it on negative ads savaging Mr. Gingrich on his censure as Speaker of the House and his work as “a historian” on behalf of 2008 meltdown villian Freddie Mac that earned his firm $1.6M. The ads worked and Romney won by nearly 15%. It’s easy to beat up a guy weighed down by a politically sordid past like Mr. Speaker.

Meanwhile, back in the country, the demographics of general election voters continue to move away from what the Republicans represent: the wealthy and large corporations. The gap between the rich and the so called “middle class” continues to widen, and many of the “99%” non-rich see the Republicans defending the disparity with their shielding of Bush era tax cuts for the rich, their assault on unions, and their targeting of programs like Medicare that are part of the “social safety net” that keeps many vulnerable Americans from falling into medical expense induced poverty.

After South Carolina, the “Republican establishment,” as Mr. Gingrich calls them, freaked. In their minds, the former Speaker had too much political baggage, but more importantly, they saw him as too volitile, and one thing the 1% doesn’t tolerate is uncertainty and surprises. They prefer Mr. Romney’s vanilla to the nuttiness of Mr. Gingrich’s Rocky Road. So they buried Newt Gingrich in a grave smeared with money.

That brings us back to the choice of the 1%, Willard Mitt Romney. He of the multiple homes, multiple off-shore accounts and multiple tax deductions. He lives in a world that makes him unable to measure the impact of his words on working people before they leave his mouth. He’s “not concerned about the very poor. We have a safety net there.” Earlier in the campaign he said, “I like firing people,” and when discussing speaking fees he’s received he indicated they earned him “not very much.” His financial disclosures indicate Mr. Romney’s speaking fees were $347,327 in the one year covered. That’s “not very much” to a very small percentage of the electorate. I figure about 1%.

Regardless of how much money pours into Romney coffers, what is the message he and his Super-Pac’s will communicate through their new First Amendment right? Will his years at Bain Capital really stand up to scrutiny of Mr. Romney as a job creator? Will his offshore tax havens and meager tax payments on millions in income position him favorably as an advocate for working people? How about his intent to repeal the “Affordable Care Act,” or “Obamacare” as the right likes to call it? It’s so close to the healthcare plan he negotiated as Governor of Massachusetts that his argument is mostly moot. How about the “weak on national defense” thing? Someone should tell Mitt about Osama Bin Laden and Moammar Gadhafi. Maybe they can pour millions into negative ads about the “corrupt” Obama Administration. They’ve got nothing. Oh, wait. Maybe Mitt’s latest endorser, The Donald, will release the findings of his investigation into Obama’s birth certificate… Mr. Romney would have been well served by leaving a most obnoxious rich guy, Mr. Trump, his combover and his ego standing at the political alter, but he just doesn’t get it.

Sorry. In spite of Mitt Romney’s entitled life, Citizens United, Super Pac’s and the Koch Brothers, this election won’t be bought.

My friend Peter Gonnella said that to me many years ago. Twenty? Thirty? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I never forgot it and occasionally remember it. My only recollection besides the words is that he said with a wink, but there’s always some sincerity in sarcasm, and all the sons of Tony and Barbara had a bias for action. They always seemed to get the summer job. Get the loose ball. Get the girl. I remember as a kid, my mom saying, “I wish you’d be more aggressive like the Gonnella’s.” Even within the past few years, she sent me a birthday instant message echoing the same theme:

“I wish your dreams come true and the drive to go after them.”

On Sunday I attended a writer’s workshop, “Plotting the Novel,” courtesy of a gift certificate from Joyce. The day was intended for those working on a novel, a working class I currently do not belong to. So as we explored the protagonist, their flaw and the cause of it, their wound, I used the exercise to analyze the protagonist of my life story. What’s my flaw? As I’ve endulged before, it’s fear. I’ll leave it at that for now. While it’s easy to identify the flaw of my character and the “incremental perbutations” (John Barth) that have, and continue to emanate from it, it’s not easy to fix. It’s not like I can just get big steel balls implanted, it’s more about everyday choices in handling adversity, regardless of scope.

It’s a blessing to have choices. Should I spend the money to finish my “mancave” project? Should I write a book? Should I lay it on the line? Should I fight for what I want? Taking action on any of these choices involves risk. Spending money means less financial security for my family. What if my book sucks? What if I’m rejected or lose? What if?

I wanted to attend “Planning Your Book,” but procrastination (see “incremental perbutations” above) delayed taking the step and the gift expired. The good folks at Grub Street in Boston reanimated the gift until the end of January, so I had to choose. I was up against it. “Plotting the Novel” was the best course not already sold out. I took it and learned something about myself.

For all of us, our gift will expire. No need to fear that. It’s a certainty. It’s all the little decisions we make between now and then that will determine whether we’ll have regrets when the clock runs out. So don’t hold back. Don’t be afraid. I wish your dreams come true and the drive to go after them. Or as my friend Peter said, “Just do something, even if it’s wrong.” I hope he’s lived his life that way and will have no regrets.

I’m leaving you, Facebook. It’s not you; it’s me. You’re really fun and I have a great time with you. I always look forward to the next time I’ll see you, but it’s just not going anywhere.

Seriously, I’m out. I want to write a book, and in the time I’ve spent on Facebook just in the past couple years, I could have written one. Recently it occurred to me I was wasting good (well, in my opinion) material on Facebook that could be in a binding, or at a minimum, in my blog. When a song just kept bouncing off my cranial walls, I wrote, “This song has been a cave drawing in my head since ’95. It recently dripped off the grey walls to the top of my mental turntable.” I don’t know. Maybe that wasn’t even Facebook-worthy. It didn’t get any comments or even “Likes.” Hey, I liked it.

Anyway, part of this is an exercise in self-discipline. I’m not even sure I can do it. Surely there will be times I’ll be like an amputee reaching for that Android or iPad app, but they won’t be there. I’m severing them. Friends and loved ones have quit drinking, smoking and heroin. I can quit Facebook.

I’ll miss it. I’ll miss the humor of Mike Yarnall, Megan, Molly and Liz, but I live with Megan, and sometimes work with Molly and Liz. Mike, please keep in touch. I’ll miss the Joyce’s, Work and Play, but I see them both and one never posts anyway. I’ll miss the immediacy of commenting a funny (again, my opinion) one liner on a friends post. I’ll miss seeing Boston grow up. Nat and Rod, please send pictures! I won’t miss dog and cat posts. Or the whining.

So, my Facebook “friends,” if we really are friends, you know how to reach me… Do it.

Oh, one more thing. I’ll never forget Rocky Point is a safe place to visit…

“Things are said one by one
Before you know it’s all gone”
Can we still be friends?
– Todd Rundgren

Monday night I saw Santa. Yeah, the old guy was walking better too, now that he’s got the the new hip. He dropped in on the Boston Christmas Pops show at Symphony Hall. I sat there among the privledged as a guest of a firm that provides outplacement services to corporations for their ex-employees who have been placed… out. They are very nice people, and I’ve had a wonderful time the past two years as Joyce’s +1. During a break, I chatted with fellow invitee Herb, about the endurance of the instruments being played so wonderfully before us. The timeless tools played by today’s elite violinists, for example, are essentially the same design as those produced in the mid 1600’s to mid 1700’s. For the very few fortunate that play a Stradivarius, they are exactly the same. Priceless for their quality and uniqueness, they cannot be improved. The orchestra creating such beautiful noise was making it with tools of wood and horsehair created hundreds of years ago. I wondered if much of our modern stuff would endure like that.

It was not lost on me that we sat very near neighborhoods of people who lived in the shadow of Symphony Hall, but would never enter it. It reminded me of a recent NPR story about mall Santa’s being coached this year to temper the expectations of children sitting on their knee, based on visual cues from parents unable to meet them. That’s got to be a very difficult moment for parents, but the Santa’s in the story ease the moment with empathy. Among those children, many of them won’t be disappointed if there’s not particular “stuff” under the tree as long as they have mom or dad or both or any loving “family” to share the feeling of Christmas with. Christmas really is a feeling we all long for, but often find elusive. To some, it’s a feeling of faith, a belief that something glorious and good happened on that day. To others, it’s a feeling born of family, traditions and togetherness like you might see in a Norman Rockwell painting. To many it’s both.

Christmastime can also haul out a big red sack of emotions we dig through trying to find sense in the darkness among the skeletons, fears and unfulfilled wishes. One morning this week Megan said, “I wish our family could be normal and just have a normal Christmas.” My response threw doubt on the term “normal family” and I suggested most families have their share of ex-spouses, egg nog abusers, social misfits and fugitives from justice. Megan laughed and quickly turned to the kids… Maddy, her brother, her niece and nephew(s). “I want them to have experiences, and I want them to have a good Christmas.” My daughter “walks the talk” that many others only talk, and talk, and talk. She’ll have all the little ones this weekend.

As the string section played an other worldly “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” Joyce leaned over and whispered in my ear so sweet, “You know, Kyle would love this.” She said the same thing last year and I didn’t act on it. Not this time. This Sunday’s “Boys Day” in Boston will feature lunch, a little shopping and the 3:00 performance of the Christmas Pops.

Whatever Christmas is to you, I hope what you choose to make of it endures.