Last Tuesday I donned a blue patterned noose and attended a fundraising event at the Vesper Country Club in Tyngsboro. As I arrived and walked down the deck stairs to the poolside patio, the golden near-solstice reflecting off the Merrimack River  eclipsed the sunshine I was seeking. A waitress glided by balancing a tray of martini’s and I lessened her burden by one Cosmo. (Hey, it was a ‘Martini Spring Fling” and dry Bombay Sapphire wasn’t on the menu…) I soon spotted some co-workers including “K-Fic” who immediately reminded me I was there to do Barb’s bidding… Ugh. Barb was deeply involved in this United Way “Summer Experiences in Greater Lowell,” a charity that helps some 3,000 children participate in quality summer programs. She secured Kronos as the lead sponsor and then called in every favor she could to collect cool silent auction items that now surrounded the patio. I walked along the long row of white papered tables and read each of the descriptions carefully put together to effectively market the auction items. There were lakeside mansion and luxury hotel weekends, golf getaways, Sox and Pats tickets. I kept walking and scanning… Then I saw it. I was “authorized” to go high, and while I wasn’t sure I could bid at all, I had to. Barb wanted the Derek Jeter ball… I needed another Cosmo. After a long sip I tabled the drink and then bid the minimum $50 with a shaky hand. I quickly moved down the table to avoid association with what many attendees would consider an evil orb. “What the…” I couldn’t believe it. I was looking at a group of items with “Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology” the centerpiece. I just smiled. I knew Barb was behind it, and somewhere vacationing in Maui, I’m sure she was wondering what that moment would be like. It was magic. With no reservations I bid $100.

The speakers gathered on the deck with one of the charity co-chairs welcoming and introducing guests, including US Representative Niki Tsongas. After a few speeches, including the best one of the evening by a local young man and beneficiary of the program, the second co-chair stepped to the podium… Whoa. A stunning brunette. I do recall she said “thank you” to many people and used quite a few hand signals. I think she may have signaled a double dribble on a guest slurping their Appletini, but I wasn’t sure, so I let it go. OK, back to the bidding… What? Someone bid $100 for the over-actor’s ball? Damn, time was running out and I had to bid, but I couldn’t get that SEGL brunette out of my mind. OK, $150 for Barb’s Ball Boy. What? I’m outbid to the Tupelo stuff, too? No way. I hastened to $150 as the clock ran out…

As I paid for my items and Barb’s, I overheard SEGL members talking about how great Joyce was to work with and how hard she worked. Yes, my SEGL brunette worked tirelessly to recruit members, maximize auction items, and plan and execute a great event. I’m so proud of how her (and others) selflessness helped so many kids. She and Barb were a force. Frankly, they scare me. In fact, one of them had a friend bid up the Tupelo stuff so I had to pay more… Oh, and I did mention Barb was in Maui, right?

I could see the mother and daughter were holding back Niagara Tears, and I was quiet, my body rigid. That’s how I get when I’m scared. Kyle sat comfortably, the only one of us calm as we waited for the results in Radiology. A phone call told me Kyle’s primary care physician took one look at him and sent them immediately for an ultrasound. Mindless sports radio distracted me on what may have been a record commute West.

Earlier in the week Megan had been teasing Kyle that he needed new shorts. She pointed out that while sitting, all Kyle’s um, stuff, was really jammed up.  My glance confirmed the plus in the pants, but I just thought he was lucky… On Saturday morning I issued an order for personal hygiene exercises to commence, followed by a request that the boy not sing the entire soundtrack to “Wicked” while in there. I needed a shower too… I folded laundry on my bed as Kyle approached. I asked if he had everything he needed to dress and reminded him to use deodorant.

Sorting navy, black and gray socks in dim light is a thoughtless challenge, so wandering worlds passed through. I thought of Megan’s teasing just as Kyle removed his towel. “what the f%$!,” I thought as an avocado sized left testicle replaced socks as a focal point. There was other massive swelling so I asked Kyle if it hurt. He said no, but I was so shocked I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. He got dressed and I observed his behavior the rest of the day. He didn’t exhibit any pain of discomfort, so I deferred an ER visit, opting instead for a visit to his regular doctor on Monday.  (File under “Someone’s watching over him” – Kyle coincidentally was scheduled for a physical on Monday…)

“Kyle has a hernia” said Dr. Daga in her usual calming demeanor, to which I quickly responded, “That’s great!” Nervous laughter loosened some space in the tense room. With the much uglier possibilities dismissed, relief filled the room like a cool breeze and smiles replaced lines of concern. There’s no blockage and blood flow is fine, but it will have to be surgically repaired with an outpatient arthroscopic procedure.

I had planned to hit the gym or do more yardwork, but when I got home I did nothing. I was completely deflated of stress and content to simply experience profound relief.

The waves of heat rising from the near liquefied asphalt blurred perception of the 3 basketball courts beyond the one we were on in a flat parking lot of Stonehill College. It was circa 1975, and somehow my single-Mom financed not one, but two weeks at the Sam Jones – John Killilea Basketball Camp. Now for any Celtics fan of a certain vintage, Sam Jones has name recognition. His shooting clinic was just that, a clinic. The man started by sitting on the floor directly under a basket and arched a shot up and in. He proceeded to bush himself back about three feet at a time and still sitting, rained down shot after shot until the last one from the top of the key! Then he stood up and really started shooting. He also took about 8 of us “2-weekers” to Burger King on the Saturday night between weeks. Yep, Sam is the man, but as his teammate, Bill Russell once said, “Defense wins championships,” and John Killilea was a defensive genius who earned two NBA championship rings as an assistant coach with the Celtics.

The 30 or so teenagers were already hot when Coach Killilea took five minutes to teach us the proper defensive position. Legs spread a little more than shoulder-width, knees bent so your thighs are parallel with the hot surface below and with arms extended out to the sides and heads up. Simple right? Why don’t you try it right now? The coach went on to talk to us about defense. For the next 45 minutes of the clinic. He’d occasionally have us shuffle side to side, up or back, but for the most part, we were expected to assume the position and stay in it while feet, thighs and backs burned. Coach raged at anyone that let their ass defy gravity, “What are you doing? You look like you’re trying to shit against a wall! Get your ass down!” Kids were crying. A couple gave up and at least one I recall collapsed (he was OK). With about 5 minutes left in the clinic, Coach Killilea let us stand up and relax, but he kept talking. I’ll never forget what I learned in that clinic. He talked about how everyone wants to be the hero and score baskets, but not everyone wants to put that same effort into defense.

Finally, pointing at his chest, he said, “What you did today takes heart. This is what defense is about. It’s about heart. It’s about who wants it.” Then he walked away.

Tonight we’ll find out about the heart of this Celtics team.

As a single mom of a 2 year old, a 4 year degree was a long road to self-sufficiency, so last summer Megan took it upon herself to enroll in cosmetology school. Every day she got up early to prepare twin blondes, dropped one at day-care and then commuted 40 minutes to school. By early this year, she passed her boards, floated a new resume and landed a gig at Jathar, an upscale salon in Waltham. There was a period between finishing school and getting the job where she did… well, I’m not really sure what she did, but that’s not important right now…

I know my girl was nervous about telling me her plan last year. She knows I’m an education snob and she thought I’d be disappointed that she wasn’t pursuing a more, I don’t know, academic curriculum. I wasn’t. She has a little blond priority and her decision was based on that and I believe a real passion for the work. At the time I remember identifying her intelligence, personality and creativity as attributes that would take her far in whatever vocation she chose. The fact she’s gorgeous and a very hard worker aren’t hurting either…

This weekend there were graduations in the area. On Friday night, Kyle attended his high schools event to watch some of his classmates graduate, and yesterday, Joyce wrestled 18 years of memories while watching her son Nick hobble (soccer injury) across his stage wearing the badge of the National Honor Society. These events reminded this absent minded dad that I’d done nothing to note the achievement of my own daughter. I needed a plan.

Megan had made a few noises about an iPad, so yesterday Kyle, “Babycakes” and I… Wait, let me clarify… At some point yesterday, I called Maddy “baby cakes,” which caused her to giggle like a pre-school girl and then refuse to answer to any other name… “No, Papa. I’m baby cakes!” OK then. Anyway, the big 3 took small bites of back roads to a mall in NH till we reached the core of the Apple… store. I wonder if Apple keeps numbers on how many potential iPad customers end up buying MacBooks because, um, THEY DON’T HAVE ANY FREAKIN IPADS!

Sure, Megan can use the laptop and it actually wasn’t much more than an iPad, but I really only needed it as a communication device for my plot. While Megan told Joyce the wonderful news about her accelerating career opportunities, I sent Megan an email she could open once she opened the Mac. Megan was already gushing about how it was the best day of her life (as a PITA dad, I had to remind her of Maddy’s birthday…), when I said, “See if your email works.”  “Oh my god. Oh my god… What is this? OH MY GOD!!! I got Lady Gaga tickets!!!”

Reading Facebook this morning, I think Megan slept with her computer… She must love it.

Megan: “ Unreal. It’s been over a month & we can’t cap this? We can split atoms & land on the moon but we can’t cap an oil spill? Late night research. Must go to sleep.”
Stacy : “get a life aside from the laptizzzzop, i know your excited buuuut NERD alert 🙂 🙂 its 3am”
Megan: “Lol I love this thing I can’t get off of it!”

When I heard the “angel investor” say, “It doesn’t scale,” I knew that was code for “I can’t get richer on it.” The speaker is a man I respect, and he’s prudent to balance the risk and reward of potential investments, but at the same time, the massive outliers, and these days, largely unregulated behemoths of capitalism that he hopes to seed, have us choking on our affluence.

The most obvious recent example is BP’s Deepwater Horizon site, currently pumping millions of gallons of crude oil into the Gulf of Mexico. In spite of the outrage toward the company, BP is not evil. They are a public company in business to make a profit on the insatiable demand for petroleum products. The product demand drives a very profitable market price, so oil producers like BP invest millions of dollars in R&D to develop the technologies required to extract the black gold from remote places like 5,000 feet below the ocean surface. The problem is that because safety systems are a cost that erode profit, very little R&D is spent on them and the ongoing result is an oil slick with the potential to be kissing East Coast beaches this summer.

Like the largely unregulated Wall Street mega-institutions that nearly collapsed the global economy in 2008, BP is “too big to fail,” because of the dire consequences of its failure. Yet now it has failed and since the oil industry has not been compelled to invest in technologies to avert or respond to such a breakdown, the result is the largest environmental disaster in modern history; and still unabated, a failure of potentially planet altering consequences.

How’s that for scale?

All I could see were faint strokes, or flashes of white on a flat blue canvas, so I squinted to see more. I wanted to know the optics behind my near-sighted eyes were not lying.

There’s a scene in “Mary Poppins” when Mary magically puts away the playthings of Jane and Michael Banks without touching them. Yeah, you remember “Let’s Tidy up the Nursery,” right? I didn’t actually witness it, but I believe a similar phenomenon happened in my girlfriend’s kitchen Saturday afternoon.  After Joyce’s friend Christine helped me unload beds, bureaus and tables, I proceeded to assemble the 3 beds (My “main priority” as Joyce put it, but really I just wanted to ensure the units were properly assembled to meet local safety and noise ordinances…) upstairs and down. As I descended the spiral, the mess of boxes obscuring the kitchen told me we’d me at this awhile.

After about ten minutes and with the last bed assembled, I climbed the corkscrew and saw Christine mixing cocktails. A short exchange went something like this:

Me: “Where’s all the kitchen stuff?”
Christine: “It’s all put away.”
Me: “And the boxes?”
Christine: “Out in the recycling.”
Me:  “Just a moment, Christine. What is the meaning of this outrage?”
Christine:  “I beg your pardon?”
Me: “Will you be good enough to explain all this? “
Christine: “First of all, I would like to make one thing quite clear.”
Me: “Yes?”
Christine: “I never explain anything.”
[exits]

I sipped my lemonade and vodka without an explanation of what happened…

“Will you take me to the consignment shops? We need to get a couch.” Now this was in Joyce’s top 3 “things to do” on the weekend itinerary, so the question was more rhetoric than inquiry, and my Monday response options were three, “Yes,” “Absolutely,” and “I’ve been looking forward to that all weekend.” In another magic moment, she walked into a shop and said, “I like that couch, do you?” Thirty minutes later for just a $30 delivery fee, we were sitting on it in her living room…

After about twenty minutes I looked out and saw the white flashes again. Now they were closer and I could see they were shiny wet and just hinting of summer color to come.  I watched and eventually made my way up to the other bright white of her smile as she exited the crystal water of her kettle pond. I had been watching her live her dream as another “top 3” was checked off the list.

And it was sweet.

This is a Public Service Announcement
Moving is a big deal.  Actually, I think most will agree moving sucks.  Back in college, sometimes I’d move 4-6 times in a year depending on where I was living during a particular semester or during the sizzling Arizona summers, so I grew to really not like it. The last time I had to move was into my current home in 2004. Back then my friend (and if someone volunteers to help you move, they either truly are a friend, or they like things that suck, like moving…), the RustedRobot helped me “pack one truckload.” It actually took 3, so my calculation abilities regarding the fillage of cubic footage isn’t too good, but Jeff as a friend is…

Right now I’m jetting back from a conference in DC, but I reserved a moving truck a couple weeks ago using the world wide web, so everything will simply go according to plan, right? Well, no, not right. The little “call within 24 hours of your scheduled pickup” is kinda important, because regardless of credit card and confirmation numbers, there’s no guarantee Budget or U-Haul-Ass will actually have a truck for you. As one associate put it, “Yeah, the internet thing isn’t connected into our inventory system.” I see… So, for the past 3 days, I’ve been contacting truck rental places the old fashioned way to ensure I have a freakin’ truck today. Oh, and it’s not for me. I’m helping a friend move 3 new beds, 220 cubic square feet of “someday dream summer house” stuff from her mom’s basement, a grill, some stuff she bought off Craigslist somewhere in Westborough, and a unicorn. Yeah, we’re gonna look like Jed Clampett and Grann… uh, Ellie-Mae havin’ ourselves a convoy down to the Cape tomorrow.

That’s thanks to Bill and Jamie over at Baro Enterprise in Townsend, MA. Now Bill was a great help, but he laughed at the oddest times during our conversation. Specifically:

• When I told him I was landing in Logan at 2:45, but could be in Townsend by 4:00 on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend.
• When he read “driving to Falmouth, MA on Saturday (see “Memorial Day weekend” above) on my internet submission.

Fortunately, Bill hooked me up with a 15 footah this morning, but they close at 4, and as I mentioned earlier I’m 33,000 feet above Pennsylvania, so my 5’ 4” friend is going to go pick up the rig with a girlfriend and drive it to the grill location in Lunenburg. Oh, how I wish I could see that…

So…

• A truck when I need it: $128.10
• Insurance: $23/day (get it… your auto ins. won’t cover a commercial truck)
• Helping live her dream… Well, you know…

Workin’ this Job…
A couple weeks ago, I sat in a dentist’s chair and as I smelled the results of my teeth cleaning, I considered the plight of the Dental Hygienist. I’m thinking there are some mornings she just does not want to be in people’s mouths.

Too small to fail…
One day while driving along 110 in Westford or Littleton, I passed a 99 restaurant and simultaneously heard 90.9 mentioned on Boston’s NRP station. I haven’t been in a 99 in years and won’t ever again if I can help it. Yeah, the food blows, but mostly because it’s a big, corporate chain. I’d rather support the many small, locally owned restaurants and bars. Wouldn’t you?

Love.
Not sure why this little word was all lonesome in my “blog ideas” doc, but “I’ll tell you, love, sister… It’s just a kiss away.”

Young Mother
I called my mom Friday to wish her a happy birthday. She hasn’t been feeling great lately, so we’re postponing the anniversary of her birth in 1940 (You do the math).

From my October 28, 2009 blog… (aka, just call me “Swami.”)
George from Orlando wonders, “sticking with the basketball theme, you could write about how there is no way the Celtics or the Cavs will be able to get past the Orlando Magic again this year in the playoffs.”

“George, George, George… Even though you literally live in a fantasy world where dreams come true (mostly for little girls), I’m afraid your lofty expectations may lead to a tragic, not magic season.”

Deep Dive
Yesterday while I ripped up the front weed beds, laid garden mesh and spread mulch, I was propelled by every Rolling Stones song on my ipod. It was so freakin cool! That band… Oh, boy. I think we tend to take them for granted because they’ve been so over-exposed for nearly 50 years, but they have so many stunning songs. I worked and danced like a fool in my yard. (At one point actually holding an axe!) It wasn’t work, but I’m sore and tired nonetheless. Anyway, as I was filling a wheelbarrow with sweet smelling hemlock, I thought of “She’s Like a Rainbow” and Joyce’s comments about how her brother loved the Stones back in the day. After nearly 50 years, you have to wonder which “back in the day.” I remember seeing them on SNL while in college in ’78 and someone remarking, “I like the old Stones.” Well good, ‘cuz they’re freakin’ old now. Stones rocking while rolling that wheelbarrow convinced me a catalog deep dive was needed… this summer. I burned my “Sticky Fingers” CD and downloaded “Goats Head Soup.” Yeah, it’s only rock ‘n roll…

“…getting me further than my next paycheck”
Thanks to the DBT’s for that header into my week. Very busy today and tomorrow, plus more hauling hemlock after hours, then fly to DC on Wednesday to be a booth babe at the American Payroll Association show. (C’mon, that was funny, but given the demographics of the show, not too far from the truth.) Pal Tommy Kimmel from Hotlanta will join me in a string bikini, AND I’ll be seeing Hut234 who now lives just outside our nation’s capital! On Friday, I hope to board an on-time plane home so I can rent a truck by 6:00 and help a friend move to her new summer place on the Cape! Still don’t know where we’re going to pen up the unicorn…

A good friend wrote to me today on Facebook, “Leo go back to your religion loving world of rainbows, unicorns and girlfriends. Jason and I are married dudes who need to get out and talk about sports and boobs.”

Is that what I’ve become?  Is that where I’ve gone and is that why I haven’t been here pumping out angst fueled posts? During my recent 11 day word whiff, I’ve been analyzing the why’s… First I fingered Facebook as ruining my efforts to write anything longer than a couple sentences. Then I thought simple lack of discipline was the culprit and Facebook just a diversionary excuse. Upon further review, Facebook hasn’t been getting much of my attention either, so why the verse void?  Am I becoming anti-social media as real life crowds out any need to live virtually?  Do I no longer need the virtual attention because I’m living in a “religion loving world of rainbows, unicorns and girlfriends?” Come to think of it, even my friend Barb, while incredibly happy for me, has expressed a longing for the old, dark me, even asking if “Evileo” could sub for obnoxiously happy me just once a week…

I don’t know, but I do know this: I love boobs. Admittedly, I’m more aligned with Cosmo Kramer regarding the female anatomy, but boobs are right up there, and as a matter of fact… Well, nevermind, but how long can you really talk about boobs?  And sports?  Dude, you hate hoops, and right now the C’s are the only sports talk game in town after that thud of a Bruins finish. I can’t really see the 4th place Sox tawk lasting too long, but maybe the merits of interleague play…

Now, “religion loving?” Sure, I’ve attended a few 5:00 masses, but I still have far more doubt than faith and very little use for the organized brands. Being awed by a drug-free kaleidoscope sky or the happy spirit of a short blonde makes me wonder why, but I’m not texting CASH to Pat Robertson, OK?  I’m just keeping a clarity of mind, like a bright, white unicorn after an unnecessary lobotomy, galloping amongst cute bunnies and unknowingly crushing unlucky slow ones, some caught in the dried blood clasp of cloven hooves…

We good now?

Oh, and the girlfriend? She’s like a rainbow.

So I’ve got this new blog scene and nothing to scribe.  Hell, when I can instantly post pics of my colonoscopy prep to Facebook with a quick quip, who needs to blog? Map-girl suggested a San Francisco sequel, but who knows where this is going… I’m still coming off my Fentanyl & Versed cocktail mainlined before today’s um, probe. A little research indicates the side effects of Versed should have me in pretty normal writing condition, while those of Fentanyl are surely what some of you experience when reading:

• Versed – confusion, amnesia and cognitive impairment
• Fentanyl – anxiety, confusion, nausea and vomiting

In spite of Dave Barry’s hilarious description, there wasn’t much funny about my experience, although when the nice old lady at the front desk said, “the Endoscopy area is just down the hall to the right,” I smiled at whoever came up with that medical term.  As for the prep, it’s way overblown.  It was pretty simple for me.  Couple laxative pills Saturday night, three more Sunday at 2:00, then wait for an event.  Once that happens, you start drinking the “halflytely,” 8 ounces every 10 minutes until half a gallon is gone. Within an hour after that, shit started happening and was pretty much cleared up by 10:00. That’s it. No drama. Maybe some other people have trouble with the whole thing, but I think the real issue is that most people don’t want their asses probed with anything, so we use humor to relax our um, anxiety.

I didn’t have much worry, but as I laid on the gurney earlier today, a clock was straight ahead up about 7 feet on the wall, just above a boom box playing Boston’s classical station. Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” was calming, but the sudden, shaking movement of the second hand was not. I watched it for a while, making the climb from 6 to 12 and I wondered how many more ascents I had left. You know the cliché’s… like the ticking crocodile of J.M. Barrie chasing all of us. I watched every second of that thin red hand stroke its climb upward. As the red line reached the 12, my nurse said, “It’s time.” I smiled and thought, “Not yet. Not for me.”

So, the aftermath of that unforgettable weekend in San Francisco is that I want more of those. I want more of holding hands, walking, laughing and being made fun of. You do too. You want more of all the experiences that make your life worth living. Are you putting off some unpleasant checkup? Probe? Snapping rubber glove prostate exam? Pressed breast in a pizzelle iron?

Do it. “Time waits for no one.”