How Full Are You?

I was thinking about summer this morning, while I DROVE into work (stupid rain predictions!). My drive takes me right through the area I was born and raised, so there is always something to trigger early-life emotions, thoughts and memories.

This morning, I found myself thinking about the carefree days of childhood summers. The days lasted forever, and I was very influenced by the way we spent our time back then.

I thought about how we never seem to have the time that we did back then. We don't fully enjoy our days like we did as kids. This has become the lament of adulthood, but it has become something more to me.

Ever since I got sick, I realized that I needed to focus on doing things I wanted - as opposed to doing things that other people expected me to do. I also realized that time is short, and I needed to fill every possible moment in order to get the most out of life.

What I didn't expect was that this way of thinking would consume the life that I wanted to enjoy. I am finding myself trapped in the lament of adulthood... for completely different reasons than most others.

Like with addiction, acknowledging you have a problem is the first step. As a result of this new admission, I like to think that I will allow myself to smell the flowers a little more - to enjoy putzing around for the sake of putzing around and not because things need to get done.

It's quite a life that we have at our fingertips. Are we getting the full reward? Are we filling our cups? Are we making the memories that we want to remember for the rest of our lives?

Legacies

I was blown away last night watching "In the Shadow of the Moon" on the Discovery Channel.

Hearing the stories of going to the moon by the men who actually did it was a real eye opener. Yes, it was also a bit dramatic, but hey, it was good TV.

I have so much respect for those guys, and wish that today's kids had someone to look up to like that.

What will our legacy be?

I often wonder... and worry.

Time to get inspired!

The Day Winding Down

For me, the most magical part of the day is when afternoon/evening/twilight/night intermix. The neighborhood seems to settle down into its TV hypnosis, the birds chirp their goodnight's, and the roar of the nearby freeway turns into a dull hum.

When I was in college, I used to believe that pure nighttime was the best part of the day. I used to sit outside with my tape player/CD player and listen to music while getting sh*tfaced.

The same thing happens now as did then, although with a whole lot less drunken stupor. I find myself thinking, relaxing, breathing deeply and slowly. I think about how I feel within my surroundings - nature and my body.

I think about how much I enjoy being alive in the here and now. And I often find myself wishing that I could be sitting in a Buddhist temple, or similar sacred place.

What I feel at those times is what I feel every time I read Hermann Hesse's book "Siddhartha". It is quiet, yet powerful being, and I can recognize how fortunate I am to be able to experience that feeling.

Harnessing that feeling is what many religious people spend their lives working towards.

For now, I am just happy to step into that museum and browse the works. I can stay as long as I like, leave, and return again whenever I want.

I like that.

Age, Wisdom and Entitlement

At the risk of sounding like an old man, I need to get this off my chest.

Kids today are full of sh*t, and I feel like I want to punch every one of them.

What gives them the right of entitlement? If you give respect, you get respect, and every one of them punka$$ kids MUST EARN MY respect.

Why am I so riled? Check out this link.

Thoughts on the Four dime Two...

Now that I think about it, I never imagined I would reach the age of 42. I never thought I'd be dead by this point, either. I guess I just never thought about it.

Birthdays are highly significant to me for a few reasons:

• The first is because my mom always made birthdays special. So each birthday I have, I recall fond childhood memories of birthday celebrations. It makes me feel truly special each birthday - still.
• My dad died at 48. Ever since he died, I wanted to outlive him. I don't know why, but it's become something of a compulsion.
• I recognize what a gift it is to wake up every morning. Lately, I feel like I've forgotten this fact, but life is so damn crazy, we are never truly guaranteed a tomorrow.

As a result, I am honored and grateful to celebrate my 42nd birthday today. After today, I will never have a 42nd birthday - it is a once in a lifetime experience...

Must be a glass half-full day. ;)

They Weren't The Best

Remember when we rode the bus to work?
We'd laugh at jokes that no one else understood
And make up lives for the other passengers.
Those were good times, but they weren't the best.

Remember when we'd walk downtown?
We'd throw pennies into the fountain,
Knowing some homeless person would dig them out.
Those were good times, but they weren't the best.

Remember when we volunteered for Greenpeace?
We'd run around the park
Tripping on LSD, swearing that everyone we saw was Jesus.
Those were good times, but they weren't the best.

Remember when we'd run out of gas in the middle of the night?
We'd walk through alleys and construction sites
That even rats wouldn't scurry through.
Those were good times, but they weren't the best.

Remember when we'd go to the drive-in?
We'd sit on the hood of the car,
Throwing popcorn at each other.
Those were good times, but they weren't the best.

Remember when we'd sit on the window sill of your apartment
Drinking bottles of strawberry wine on
Those sweet summer nights after we made love?
Those were good times, but they weren't the best.

Remember when you asked me about the best times of my life?
I'd say they would have to be the times in between
When we weren't doing anything in particular
We just were. Together.

Those were good times. They were the best.

Father's Day

I figured I'd be better off getting this out rather than keeping it in.

This past weekend was Father's Day. Since my dad died 17 years ago, and since I don't have kids of my own, I don't really think about Father's Day as such...

For some reason, though, I found myself thinking about my dad more than usual. Nothing really mind-blowing or anything, but he was often in my thoughts.

The other night, while watching "Breaking Away", I noticed a smell of stale cigarettes, and asked Sheryl if she smelled it. She didn't. No biggie, except it sort of smelled like my dad. I said "Hi Dad! Happy Father's Day!" Within ten minutes, the smell was gone.

Last night, I was laying in bed, looking out the window. Because of the seasonal late sunsets, the sky was still light. I was reminded of summers as a kid, and how much I loved the warm, extended twilights. Again, I found myself thinking of my dad, and the beautiful August night (August 9, 1976 - to be exact) he let me stay up late to watch John Candelaria of the Pittsburgh Pirates throw a no-hitter against the Los Angeles Dodgers. I remember knowing - whether it was dad who had told me or not - the significance of the feat... knowing that I might never see another one in my lifetime.

(Oddly enough, in 1993, I was at the Astros game when Darryl Kile threw a no-hitter against the New York Mets)

I hope that whatever my dad is doing now, he is truly enjoying himself. I hope he knows that I appreciate him more and more as I get older.

And I appreciate those memories more and more as well...

Digging A Hole

Yeesh... I had one of those mornings where I dug a hole early, and no matter what I said or did, the hole got deeper and deeper.

I wonder how positive people can stay positive all the time... I am definitely a "glass half-full" person, but so far this morning, I haven't been able to shake the doldrums.

Needless to say, I lost the a**hole game on my way into work. :)

Thank goodness I've got the rest of the day to atone for my sins of the morning...

Cheap Thrills

I sat in silence for a few moments, last night, after watching the film "Breaking Away".

Being summertime, being a cyclist, and having been 19, I reflected on the themes of the movie.

In 1979, when the movie was released, the US was in the midst of a recession. Gas and oil prices were sky high, and we had drama with hostages in the Middle East.

Sound familiar?

"Breaking Away" touches on some of those ideas, but it was always the cycling that got me.

I always thought it was cool how Dave idolized the Italian cyclists... he constantly played Italian music and learned Italian phrases. He is no different than any of us, who buys Air Jordan shoes to be like Mike, buys Nike wear to be like Tiger Woods or Lance Armstrong. We all want to be part of something great.

Through a turn of events, Dave and his pals (played by a young Dennis Quaid, Jackie Earle Haley and Daniel Stern) end up riding in the Little 500 - an actual cycling event that takes place at Indiana University.

Dave is a freaking monster in this race, and I always admired him despite well documented production flaws that only freaks notice (for the record, I noticed one at the end of the race that wasn't covered in the link above. Ask me about it, I'll tell ya!).

At the end of the movie, you realize that the movie takes place within those edgy, uncomfortable moments of change. Things are as they are supposed to be when the credits start to roll.

It's a feel good story, and as I sat in silence, I was proud of my cycling "career", and the things that I accomplished on two wheels. I realized that my bikes and love of cycling carved out an environment in which the story of my own life played out.

Whether we know it or not, we all carve out environments in which to exist. We are lucky when our environments cross paths with those who become influential in our lives.

Yes, a simple movie (with flaws) can affect such comforting thoughts.

Who wants popcorn?

I wanna write a song
A song with guts and teeth
I wanna write a song
A song that gives relief
I wanna write a song
A song to sing and play
I wanna write a song
A song to sing all day
I wanna write a song
With some drama and soul
I wanna write a song
That will make us whole
I wanna write a song
To get me a lot of fame
I wanna write a song
That gives me someone to blame

The soul of a man and his goals and dreams
Needs to feed on the creative muse
Visions of wonder mark the path
Of the trail he needs to use

Blessings of grandeur and adoration flow
Driving the focus of success
Swallowing life’s water of lessons
Similar dreams to be best

I wanna write a script
Of life and its’ glory
I wanna write a book
Or some kind of story
I wanna write a tune
To hum when I die
I wanna write a song

When We Left Earth

When Sheryl and I went to Florida this winter, we spent a day at Kennedy Space Center. It was the second time I had been there, but no less of a rush. They've got quite a visitor's package, and plenty to see.

One of the highlights was going inside the recreation of mission control during the launch of an apollo mission. They took all of the desk consoles, etc., from the original missions and put them in working order to simulate the inner workings of a lift-off. You could smell the 60s in this room, and the event gave us goosebumps.

Yesterday, we watched "When We Left Earth - The NASA Missions". And sure enough, there was footage from the original mission control. It was stunning.

It all takes me back to my childhood, when space was so exciting. My memories of watching the apollo missions on TV stirs butterflies in my stomach. I recall going outside and watching as spacelab orbited overhead. I remember learning about the moon and stars. It was all so new and so fresh.

These days, the only things that seems to change is technology. Everyone is excited about GPS systems, the iPhone, blah, blah, blah. There doesn't seem to be a feat that really stimulates our imaginations anymore.

Maybe I'm jaded. Maybe I'm bored. I just wish there was something out there that we could really wrap our emotions around.

Fortunately, we still have shows like "When We Left the Earth", and we have complexes like Kennedy Space Center and Johnson Space Center in Houston. Hopefully these things will continue to stir up dreams, and spawn a technological future that will grip us by the throat with excitement.

Sing it, Rod!

Rod Stewart and Tina Turner both sang the song "Every Picture Tells a Story" (Or, as I sometimes prefer to call it, "Every picture of a jelly donut"). And the quote is true enough.

What is also true is that every bike ride has a story. This is one of the things I love about cycling. I love the stories, I love the culture, I love the community.

Each leg of my commutes to work this week had a story... whether it was standing completely still while trying to climb "Mt. Madison Heights", and realizing that I may end up falling down the hill because I had no forward momentum... or if it was the fact that during the course of the day, there had been some repaving done on the sidewalk, which forced me to ride (as quickly as possible!) on a VERY busy highway that only had one of two lanes open!

Very often, we travel through life way too fast. Cycling to work forces you to slow down. After all, you are only getting where you need to go as fast as your chicken legs take you. I love that.

I also love that I can postpone buying gas for a few days. The funny thing is that I get a lot of looks on the road from car drivers. The looks used to be the "get the hell out of my way, fatass!" variety. Now they've softened. They are more like the "Damn, I'm so jealous!" look.

Seeing as that I'm a story-person anyway, commuting to work on my bike seems to be a perfect match. Maybe on the weekends, I'll find myself wanting to go to work, rather than wanting to get out on the bike...

HA HAH!!... I may be crazy, but I ain't stoopid!

The A**hole Game / Hypermiling

Each morning, I play a game called “The A**hole Game”. It consists of me driving to work, and trying not to call anyone an a**hole, f*cker, dipsh*t, dumba**, or similar name. If I can make it to work without calling anyone an a**hole, f*cker, dipsh*t, dumba**, or similar name, then I win. Otherwise, I lose.

When I first started playing the game, I lost all the time. However, in the last few months, I have definitely won more than lost.

That is, before hypermiling became popular. “Hypermiling” is a method of increasing gas mileage by changing the way you drive. In many cases, it includes driving 5 miles under the speed limit, and avoiding sudden stops and starts.

Ever since hypermiling has gained fans, I have found that I lose The A**hole Game an awful lot. Getting stuck behind a hypermiler in the left hand lane of a two-lane road is frustrating enough, but now there’s often a hypermiler in the right hand lane, too! Grrrrr!

So I’ve figured out how I am going to get back at BOTH the greedy oil companies AND the hypermilers…

I’m gonna commute to work by bike.

By riding through neighborhoods, I will only have to follow these hypermiling freaks until we get to the next main road. Very often, that is a half mile or less.

And when I speed away from the stop signs, I will burn calories and not gas.

But I might be in danger of getting healthy, so I’ll have to watch that.

For what it’s worth, I think hypermiling is a good idea. I’d do it, too, but I have no patience for it. I just want to get to where I’m going, and be done with it.

I’m sure that by cycling to work, I’ll still lose The A**hole Game… but I think I can get over that. After all, pretty much every a**hole that causes me to lose the game will likely see me in my cycling lycra – and want to scratch their eyes out!

Oh yeah, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout - sweet, sweet revenge, baby!

The Post-Cancer Effects of Stanley

In June 2002, I was beginning my 2nd cycle of ABVD to treat Hodgkin's Disease. The Detroit Red Wings just won their 3rd Stanley Cup in six years, and there was going to be a parade in downtown Detroit to celebrate.

I was scheduled for treatment on Friday. The parade was scheduled for Monday, and I was excited about the possibility of going with some friends of mine.

As routine, I had my blood drawn, and as a result, I found out that my platelet count was low. This meant that if I started bleeding, there was a good possibility that my blood would not clot. The doctor decided not to treat me that day, and give my platelets a chance to recover over the weekend. We would try again on Monday.

Although I was not excited about receiving my treatment in the first place, I was crushed that I would have to wait. Not to mention, it would ruin my chances of going to the Stanley Cup parade. I seriously considered moving my treatment to another day - but the seriousness of my treatments quickly set me straight.

I was sitting in an infusion chair with horrifying chemicals running into my veins as I watched the parade on TV with glazed eyes. This was the agony and the ecstasy, heaven and hell.

A few days later, my friend Pat - who had Red Wings season tickets - told me that he had tickets to a fan appreciation ceremony at the Joe Louis Arena, and the tickets were mine if I wanted them.

Although I had missed the parade, Pat had given me an amazing opportunity to celebrate in the Red Wings victory.

I went with my mom, and it was a very memorable experience. Each player and coach took a moment to talk to the fans from the stage, and to thank them for their support. There was a point when someone onstage talked about great new players coming up and winning more cups. The crowd went nuts, yelling "Zet-ter-berg! Zet-ter-berg!"

At that time, all we knew about Henrik Zetterberg was that he was a Swedish phenom. We had all heard about him, and expected great things from him. Little did we know that six years later, he would be receiving the Conn Smythe trophy as the Stanley Cup playoffs MVP...

Last night, Sheryl and I watched as the Wings won the Stanley Cup for the first since 2002. As we watched each player skate with the cup, I felt overwhelmed with emotion. Echoes of "Zet-ter-berg! Zet-ter-berg!" rang in my mind while I relived cancer treatments and Red Wings victories.

This morning, we heard that there will be a parade tomorrow in downtown Detroit. We won't go. Sheryl has a commitment to her patients, and I have mild claustrophobia.

I am considering leaving work early, though, and visiting Sheryl at work - to watch the parade on TV in the infusion room with cancer survivors currently receiving treatment. We can talk about the Red Wings and treatment - them with glazed eyes, and me with teary ones...

Dreaming is Free

Every day is a dream
Fantastic occurances dabble within daily drivel
One minute I'm drowning in quicksand
The next minute I'm flying -
Soaring on top of clouds with the wind in my face and a smile on my lips.

I go into the Post Office for a stamp and walk out with a stuffed animal
Someone hands me a note.

I stop, put down the armadillo (which waddles off in search of more beer), unfold the note and read:
"Hope your day is filled with miracles, baby! I love you!"
It is written in my wife's penmanship.

I run across the street to buy her some flowers
Not seeing the car barreling down on me until the last possible moment.
I leap as high as I can, landing on the cable wires above me.

As I tightrope my way to the flower shop, glass imbedded in the bottom of my shoe
Picks up cable channels and runs them through the fillings in my mouth.
I listen to "Happy Days" reruns, laughing.

By the time I get to the flour shop, I am told they have no more pancakes.
I'm devastated, yet still famished.
The woman behind the counter gives me her watch.
It's got a picture of Mickey Mouse dressed in a McDonald's uniform
Just below Mickey, it says "Time to Eat!"

I walk outside and see a recently dropped ice cream cone lying on the sidewalk.
I pick it up.
As I move it towards my lips, I can smell the vanilla.
I realize quickly that I must get home to see my wife, and throw down the ice cream, which bursts into shards of glass like a fluorescent lightbulb.

Hardly noticing, I find a bike cop. He's listening to his iPod while jumping cracks in the concrete.
Suddenly, I'm intrigued:
"What are you listening to?" I ask.
"The Police," he says.
Odd.
The cop lets me buy his bike for 15 cents and a Bazooka Joe comic.

The bike speedily clack clacks home with a Barry Sanders rookie football card flicking in the spokes.
And I'm home with my angel.
She tucks her wings into her nurse scrubs and kisses me.
I close my eyes, focusing on the tenderness of her lips.

When I slowly open my eyes,
I see her looking back at me.
"Did you have a good nap?" she asks.
"I did," I reply.
"Have any good dreams?"
I grab her hand and pull her towards me.
"Every day," I say. "Every day is a dream."

Where There's Smoke...

The other night, Sheryl and I were trying to finish up some nagging projects so we could get on with enjoying our summer.

Maybe it was because we were multi-tasking and not paying close attention, or maybe it was a simple fluke, but we had an incident happen that could have killed us - and we hardly noticed.

Sheryl was on the phone with the carpet installers (ugh... these guys are a serious thorn in my side!), and I turned on the barbecue. I had it on high so it would be easier to scrub the grill prior to using it. When it got nice and toasty, I scrubbed the grill - no big deal.

However, something went very wrong. Flames started licking up over the top of the grill, and grey smoke began to rumble out. And then - WOOOSH! - the flames got higher and the smoke turned black. It began to stink like plastic burning, too.

Keep in mind that out barbecue is located in the corner of our WOOD deck, next to the WOOD fence that we had just installed and sealed.

I ran inside and began filling my water jug, wanting to put out the fire. I suddenly realized that our garden hose was out on the deck, and made a beeline back outside.

By this time, because of the smoke, I was half expecting the fire department to show up - or Indians!

I turned on the garden hose and doused that fire for a good 10 minutes, making sure it was out, and that everything had cooled down.

As it turned out, there was no barbecue damage. Apparently, it had just been a grease fire.

We cleaned the barbecue guts and replaced them, having a laugh about how scary it was - albeit briefly.

I think it's important, however, to remember how something so silly, so benign, could have cost us everything.

I am grateful to have learned that lesson without loss of life or property.

So let that be a lesson to all you amateur grillers out there - clean yer grills!