There are many things, such as, personality traits, physical characteristics, and life lessons learned that I proudly want to pass onto my soon to be son, or daughter.  However, there is one genetic trait I hope and pray definitively doesn’t make it’s way into his or her DNA make up, continuing a harsh family genetic link.

It comes often.  Too often.  It stays for long periods of time.  Too long.  When it comes it is hungry, and it will feed on anything you give it.  It’s diet is not picky or finicky, but its appetite is ferocious and it will eat you whole.  After fed on, you are left in a dark hole with nothing left, nothing, but the task of rebuilding yourself once again.

It will return; it will always be back.  It is inevitable; the beast is part of me.  It is my depression and my anxiety that has manifested itself into a metaphysical 500 lb. Silverback Gorilla existing in my own psyche jungle.

Here are a few literal statistics to get a grasp of what I’m dealing with. Gorillas are the largest living primates. A mature male gorilla can be over 6 feet tall and weigh 300 to 500 pounds. He can spread his arms 8 feet across and is as powerful as 4 to 8 strong men.  Statistics, background information, are necessary before going into the ring, or waging a battle of any sort.  The war that I have been fighting has been a life long one, and I’ve assigned a symbolic animal to my enemy.  For me, to add a bitter sense of humor and glory to the struggle, a Silverback Gorilla is my depression and anxiety.

I’m 37 years old, and I know the Gorilla’s capabilities and physical prowess.  We’ve gone many rounds for many years.  In the beginning the Gorilla kicked much ass, and handed out some serious beat downs.  Sporadic months, adding up to years were loss in the ring.  In my twenties, I started fighting back, but I didn’t know my way around the ring, and knew nothing of jabs, crosses, and footwork.  I was battling more off of anger and frustration, pure survival driven chemistry.  I had no skills.

Luckily, in my late twenties I sought professional help. Eventually, the sparring coach, still working off of the boxing metaphor, taught me some techniques, some skills, some cognitive therapy that fine tuned my fight game.  The shrink, the therapist, the guru, whatever you want to deem mental health professionals, enabled me to develop my jab, my cross. Now, I can throw combinations, even some hooks, and a wicked uppercut.  Footwork, frees me up to stick and move, and avoid direct confrontations with the powerful Silverback Gorilla that is my life long opponent.

Presently, well into my thirties, I can handle my own in the ring.  Ironically, I’ve grown to admire and respect the Silverback Gorilla that sits on my shoulders, feeds in my mind, and rests in my heart.  The lifelong battling has made me who I am today, scar tissue and all.  I’m a lot tougher than I look.  At certain times, particularly stressful periods in my life, for example, the slow waiting for the birth of my child, the bell rings more often, and some of the bouts are 10 round slug fests, leaving me and the Gorilla exhausted.  After these matches, we embrace and compliment one another’s fighting skills, drive and stubbornness.  I’m going nowhere, and neither is he.  It’s genetic; family members, two to three generations removed have dealt with depression and anxiety.  I wonder if they ever assigned an animal to symbolize their dread?

Several weeks away from Stella’s due date I now prostrate on hands and knees, begging the universe to not pass on my genetic propensity for severe anxiety and chronic depression, leaving the Gorilla in the ring with me.  Enough Verde blood has been shed already.  Never, do I want my child to have to slide on gloves, bite down on a mouthpiece and need to practice the skills of cognitive fighting.  Never.

Primero Side Note - Actually, I love Silverback Gorillas.  They are beautiful mammals, three genes separated from homo erectus, us.  They are gentle giants, and peaceful vegetarians.  It’s a travesty what is happening to them and their natural habitats.  Research.

Segundo Side Note - More thanks to Dr. Hob and his infinite knowledge of alternative medicine and herbs.  Due to his suggestions, St. Jon’s Wort to battle depression and a concoction of numerous herbs to combat anxiety I have never taken a traditional, pharmaceutical antidepressant.  Thanks Hob!

Tomorrow: Karaoke Mike Goes International, Don Peligroso

I would like to apologize to the Tribe for not posting this phenomenal story on Friday, July 18th. It was a last minute excursion; Stella and I were able to go away to Cape May, NJ, that pushed the release of Harry vs. Tequila to a later date, today. Cape May is a great shore town rich with whaling history, old, immaculately kept Victorian homes, and wide, clean beaches. It was a nice time for Stella and I, a chance to relax before the turbulent, but exciting arrival of little Verde. A little plug here, we would like to thank Zippy, a member of the tribe, and his family for being great hosts and even better company.

So now without further ado, I proudly bring you Harry vs. Tequila (to kill you).

If you have never drank tequila, drank a lot of it, then I suggest you really take this story to heart. Tequila is a very potent liquor, and in my personal experiences if consumed in large quantities can lead to very aggressive, dangerous behavior, bordering on violence and chaos. Harry, a member of the tribe located in the Boston area, can attest to this as you will see.

Harry, his lovely wife, two children, both at impressionable ages, and some neighbors decided to have a barbecue celebrating our great country’s birthday. Harry and his family hosted the July 4th celebration. It was a great afternoon, the grill and the appetizing scents of burgers, hot dogs and spicy chicken permeated throughout the neighborhood, making those not invited wish they were. A volleyball net was set up, friendly games were played, adults talked the adult talk, periodically looking over at their young kids playing with each other, talking the children talk.

Of course, beer was consumed at this July 4th barbecue, and since this tale takes place in the Boston area, of course, Sam Adams, a fine, patriotic beer was the preferred cold, sweating bottle to hold in one’s hands. Now, Harry held more than one beer in his hand, the official count, the one taken by Harry’s wife, rang in at 10 Sam Adams. Sam Adams is the key that opened the door to tequila, other wise known, to those who have abused it and paid the price, to kill you. Harry’s neighbor who also enjoyed the taste of many Sam Adams made the ingenious and now infamous suggestion to drink a shot, one shot of tequila.

“Just one shot.”

Do you know how many times my friends and I have said this, lying to ourselves and each other, setting ourselves up for wild nights, and painful mornings.

Well, the one shot of Tequila turned into TWO BOTTLES. By now it is dark, the children are asleep, tired from the day’s sun and excitement, and Harry and his partner in crime are alone on his deck drifting off into oblivion. Katie, Harry’s better half, was cleaning up from the day’s eating, drinking and playing. While his wife was hard at work, Harry decided, or the tequila decided to start launching empty beer bottles, cherished toys that belonged to his sleeping children, and lawn chairs into the backyards of his neighbors. Katie intervened when the picnic table umbrella was catapulted into the darkness, crashing into their fence. The intervention was done with grace and humor; she should win wife of the year, you will agree at the end of this story.

Harry and his equally inebriated neighbor then decided it would be a great to go swimming in the dark, unmanned, turbulent, rip tide riddled Boston Bay. Katie vaguely overheard this plan as she continued to clean around the backyard and deck. As quick as one shot of tequila takes to swallow down, Harry and Sean, we’ll call him Sean, were gone, on the move, headed towards the Boston Bay for their drunken swim.

At a very impressive pace and route, Harry and Sean made it to the bay before another Katie intervention. The route took them right past the town’s police department. No arrests were made; it’s a miracle. Before she could fire up the family van full of car seats and toys, Katie had to ask her neighbor, Sean’s wife, to look after the slumbering kids. Finally, after the changing of the guard, Katie sped towards the Boston Bay, she parked the family van down by the beach to find Harry and Sean waste deep in the dark waters, wading out farther. Like a mother, not a wife, she yelled at the two grown men to turn around and head back to the beach break. She had to yell again because after TWO BOTTLES of tequila they had the mentality and common sense prowess of two learning challenged fourth graders. Luckily, they listed to their angry mother, and came back to the shore.

Katie noticed Harry was limping towards her, and not putting any weight on his left foot as his wet body fell into the family van. Both Harry and Sean sat, or tried to in the kid’s compact car seats. Fitting really, because that’s where they belonged, under constant adult motherly/wife supervision. It’s not a case of DMS; it’s a case of two tequila-ridden lunatics almost drowning in dangerous waters. Katie is a lifesaver, but not a nurse.

Harry was complaining about his ankle when he poured into his peaceful house. Katie thought he probably twisted it, and told him that all would be well in the morning. Harry complained about his ankle when his wife undressed him. Harry complained about his ankle when he limped around his house naked. While vomiting, periodically swaying back and forth between emotional fits of laughter and crying, Katie was shushing her husband not to wake the kids, and trying to assess his damaged ankle.

Tequila, to kill you, will torture the soul, and stubbornly hold onto the body, the bloodstream, the liver, and kidneys it is making its way through. There is a price, tequila will make you pay; it will bring out demons, and open mental doors that should not be open, especially while completely blotto, dehydrated, cold from a Boston Bay dip, and ten beers deep. It got to the delusional point where Katie could have sworn Harry was speaking Spanish fluently, that the Tequila enabled him to be bilingual. Miraculously, their father’s rants, mad laughter, and dissonant vomiting never woke the kids.

As a matter of fact, during this drunken debacle, throughout these Mexican inspired hallucinations, yours truly, Owen Scott Verde, was brought into the chaos. Harry started blaming me for his predicament.

“F#@kin’ Verde, it’s his fault.”

“Harry, Owen is three hundred miles away, and he did not make you drink TWO BOTTLES of tequila.”, Katie explained. (Thank you Katie for the just exoneration)

When Harry woke the following morning, all the furniture was rearranged in his bedroom, and the floor was lined with large outdoor garbage bags, and garbage cans. Throughout the night, Harry was violently bumping into his bedroom furniture while making the way to the bathroom to vomit, so Katie, wife of the year she is, moved the furniture out of the way, and protected their carpet with garbage bags.

As Harry attempted to put the pieces together from the previous night, pain shot through his ankle and lower leg. He looked down at his ankle, swollen, swollen, swollen some more, and painted bruise.

“Katie!”

Harry had to drive himself to the hospital. Katie went above and beyond the night before; this morning Harry was on his own. Justice. While driving to the hospital, Harry pieced together tidbits of the raucous July 4th celebration. He probably broke his ankle some where near the bay. Harry’s memory kept circling around a steep staircase and a loud thump.

Harry is a true patriot, celebrating July 4th with zest and commitment. Also, he is a culturally tolerant; embracing man, realizing the world is one large village, and paying homage to his Mexican brother’s and sister’s by drinking their tequila, and speaking in Spanish tongues throughout the red, white, and blue night.

Katie is a saint, and should be canonized. Harry will have a soft cast for several weeks, and will be cow towing to his very patient wife. It’s not DMS; it’s common sense.

Tomorrow: The Beast

Resist. Multiply.

So the time has come for another family trip and another plane ride.  This time Bridget and Jacob depart a few days before me.  Since I have switched to moneymaker for the summer, I am working the rest of the week, while Bridget takes our boy on a 5-hour journey to Las Vegas to visit with her grandma and aunt.  Luckily, Bridget will have her mother with her, as well.  She’ll need her for air support and much more.

At any rate, the last expedition has served Bridget well.  She got to see the little man on a plane – resting comfortably on my lap for three hours.  Bridget was completely responsible for lots of entertainment and feeding during that Florida plane ride, but now the tables have turned slightly.

This time the biggest obstacle may be the time change that comes with traveling west.  Last time, Florida posed no major threat, as the time is still the same as New Jersey.  Jacob adjusted well, and his routine was not altered too much.  This time around, there are some real legitimate fears on our behalf.  What can we do to make sure Jacob stays on schedule?  Should we be worried about this time difference?  What can we do to combat it?

We both realize that Jacob cannot tell time, but we are still concerned about what will happen.  I need our readers to write in and give me some more advice – PLEASE HELP!

Strangely enough, Jacob has recently adopted a new bedtime.  For months we’ve put him in at 7 p.m., but he seems content to go in a whole hour earlier these summer nights.  The classic signs are all there:  crying, rubbing of the eyes, looking for a pacifier, giving more hugs than usual, and trying to turn the TV on or off in an effort to get our attention.  This new bedtime (just two weeks old) is the reason Bridget and I are seriously concerned.  We are not so anal that it has to be exact when we are away, but it should be pretty close.  With the time change going and coming – we are a bit nervous.

Time will tell if this voyage will be as successful as the last one.  At least we are getting a chance to stay in a cool hotel (Mandalay Bay) for one night while Jacob’s grandmother, great grandmother, and great aunt will watch him.

If I were a gambling man (and I am not), I’d bet we might have some interesting stories to tell from this next adventure.

Tomorrow: Harry vs. Tequila (to kill you) *sorry

Resist. Multiply.

So it is true that I have an I-Pod and I love it like it was a part of my family. I know this is a sick concept, but I could not live with out this genius device. Being that I am in work mode right now and I am painting homes with my fellow tribesman, Owen, I rely on the I-Pod to deliver quality music and keep the hours moving without boredom setting in.  We just finished up a massive interior exploit where we painted every room Navajo White.  The house was a mess and the walls needed much love – i.e. spackle, caulk (chuckle if you must), and lots of sanding.

Music is the only thing that keeps us sane when we are stuck in a home doing the same monotonous nonsense all week long.  Sure, painting has many advantages. For one thing, I do not have to shave everyday.  I also don’t have to prepare lesson plans, dress wearing a tie, or make sure my language is always appropriate.  I get to go to the bathroom whenever I want, too.  This is perhaps the biggest perk.  Most teachers would agree that this is a great quality in a job.

I digress.  Music is what keeps my fellow brother, Owen, and me sane, rational, and calm.  The day passes by as Radiohead, Tool, Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Wu-Tang Clan, Common, and My Morning Jacket fill the “quiet” of an empty house.

Owen turns to me and shares, “My Morning Jacket are super talented, man.”

I agree with a nod of my head and a smile.  We continue to paint the wall in front of us, turning the hideous blue-green into a bright new explosion of Navajo White.  With a stroke of our rollers we can transform ugly into beautiful, old into new, and rough into smooth.  We are artists of the highest quality.

As the music rages on, we stand back to admire all that we have done.  The house looks good.  The rooms are warmer, more inviting, designed to sell, and more reflective of the light inside the home.

Owen decides that Pearl Jam’s “Smile” is a fitting song for this moment.  He scrolls for it, and instantly it swallows the living room with its harmonica intro.

“Don’t it make you smile?”

It does, Mr. Vedder.  It does.

Painting a house is no fun without my I-Pod, my solid playlists of fine music, and my friend for life.  There is nothing simpler or sweeter.

There is only one problem recently with my I-Pod.  It is not that it freezes, or does not play the right song when called upon to do so.  The one problem is a problem I have created.  My I-Pod is full and I don’t know how to cut out the songs on it.  These songs are like my children.  They have been there for me when I was happy, sad, pissed off, hungry, tired, or just feeling blah.

I admit it is a bit obsessive to fill the I-Pod all the way up, but I did it – weeks ago.  I am thinking of getting the next biggest model.  After all, I got this one for free.  That’s a story for another time.

Back on track, I have thought about it a lot lately – I need to be able to add at least another 10,000 songs.  There is so much music in the world, and I need to have a huge chunk of it for myself – and Owen, too, of course.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Give it Away” comes on.  Is the I-Pod sending me a message?  Should I give it away and get a new one?  Should I get rid of some of my old music to make room for new songs?

What to do?  What to do?

Owen interjects, “Dude, sell it on EBAY for like 500 dollars. You have so much music on that thing.  500 bucks would be a steal.”

Jail might be in my future with Lars Ulrich knocking on my door with the music piracy police.

The dilemma is clear – the battle lines have been drawn – and I have some serious thinking to do.

Bridget would tell me to suck it up and delete songs, but I am torn.

Ironically, “Just Lose It” by Eminem comes on.

Now there is an idea.

Tomorrow:  Another Journey:  More Help Needed

Resist. Multiply.

With the end of school for Bridget there have been some real big changes in our established routine for the last ten months.  Now that she is able to be home full-time, it is my turn to start painting houses again to help pay the bills and make sure there is Gerber food for Jacob.  I started my new job description last Monday on a gorgeous home in Nutley, New Jersey.

My built in alarm clock (Jacob) still wakes me up at 6:30 A.M., but my role in his life has shifted dramatically since the official start of summer.  I still get to feed the little man, but after the meal and some playtime on the family room rug, I am out the door to climb ladders and apply paint some thirty feet above.  I am enjoying this change, but I must admit I am more attached to my son than I thought I would ever be – at least more than I was last summer when he really did not know me from a hole in the wall.  I also miss hanging out with my beautiful and talented wife.

Luckily, there is one advantage to painting outside.  Every once in awhile there is a rain day.  These days are much like snow days for students and teachers – a chance to wear pajamas until noon and not have to worry about “work”.  Even though I don’t get paid on a rain day, I secretly hope for one or two a summer.  It’s like having Saturday shoved into the middle of the week, when Wednesday was really supposed to be there.

Bridget threw me a curveball this week, however.  On Tuesday she took Jacob down the shore with her mother to stay at the beach house for the rest of the week.  I must admit, at first I was kind of excited at the idea (don’t boo me for that).  I was getting a few days to hang out on my own and I did not have to worry about diaper changes, feedings, full garbage bags, or things of that nature.  I got to eat out with friends on Wednesday and Thursday, but I kept coming home to an empty home. It was strangely quiet, and the cat was my only companion when I went to bed each night.  Although it was fun to not have the same responsibilities for the whole week, I missed them both tremendously.  Bridget and I spoke each day on the phone (which took me back to our years when we were dating), but it was not the same thing as coming home to her smiling face after a day in the sun.

So, in the end, it was true that absence did make the heart grow fonder and I missed the noise of our busy life together.  The noise is what makes life fun and vital.  It puts a skip in your walk and really motivates you to appreciate the people you share it with.

When it rained on Thursday – all I could think was “Rain, Rain Go Away!”  Having to leave work early to be home alone sucked.  Luckily, my brother in arms, Owen (Mr. Verde to you), was at work that day.  We grabbed lunch, went to Barnes and Noble, and discussed how we are going to take over the world with TRIBE OF DAD.  It was a healthy distraction from what could have been a disaster of a day.

Finally, Bridget and Jacob returned home Saturday morning.  They brought plenty of laundry and noise with them.  I was happy to experience both, but I let her do the laundry!

Tomorrow: Harry vs. Tequila

Resist. Multiply.

The reason for this newly found happy state was quite simple. Jacob found one thing that we have always surrounded him with – music. The man playing the keyboard was belting out tunes that the young and old all knew and enjoyed. The music sounded slightly corny, however. Think of Will Ferrell when he plays Elton John singing about Dan Marino. Just plain weird. The guy on the keyboard – albeit a stranger – was someone that Jacob felt compelled to be near. It was like he was sitting and enjoying his very own special concert and no one else was there. Jacob camped out in front of this guy and clapped every single time a song ended and a new one began.

It was so funny, but truthfully very sad for this gentleman. Later we found out that this stranger had been a member of Herman’s Hermits. We also found out that he was not an original member, as it would have been tragic to see a man doing what he was doing after being in such a mega-success as Herman’s Hermits. At any rate, Jacob loved his awful music.

At first, Bridget and I were concerned about him enjoying this awesomely bad keyboard player and his clichéd renditions, but then we realized something – our son is only 15 months old. Whether we like it or not, the kid has not experienced enough good music to know the difference. I think Bridget was more upset about it – after all she is the music teacher.

Perhaps the best part in all this was that the guy had long straight blond hair stuffed into a straw hat while wearing a Hawaiian style shirt. It was like something out of a movie. (You pick the cheesy 80’s movie with this character in it. I am sure there is bound to be one.)

But in the end, we were happy that Jacob enjoyed himself. He seemed less interested in playing with his cousins this time around, but who really cares. He had fun. We had fun watching him, too.

Bridget got the guy’s business card (now discarded) and he offered her piano lessons. This is a bit ironic since she does lessons for numerous kids in our hometown. Again, we left the party smiling and laughing to ourselves.

Jacob clapped one last time for the strange keyboard player and we put him to bed – swearing to retell this tale to him when he is old enough to hear it.

Tomorrow: Rain, Rain Go Away!

While in Florida Bridget and I discovered that Jacob has really developed into a little person.  At this point in the game he is walking, talking in a strange dialect that mimics a mixture of Swahili and Pig Latin (Karaoke Mike would understand him), and copying anything we do in front of him.  He also threw in a surprise of being able to sleep in a different place – like it was his home turf.  In the past he screamed and shouted when put to bed in an odd new land.  Not this trip.  He was truly showing he had developed a new talent  - one we will cherish as we recount the stories to him some years from now as he met his great grandparents for the first time.

In addition to being able to sleep in his Florida lodgings, Jacob also was able to spend significant time in the hotel pool (with either myself or Bridget holding him, of course), and in the Gulf of Mexico waters at the Venice beach where we often visited with his cousins.  It was great to see him grow gills and really enjoy the sun and ocean.  He drank his fair share of the Gulf, as well. Being that he was still a bit sick when he arrived, Jacob shed a few pounds of mucus in those warm waters.  Thanks to him, now the Gulf is covered in a thin layer of snot.  The cops from SUPERBAD would be upset that it was not a thin layer of – well something else. That’s pretty gross now that I think of it.

After a few days of enjoying the warm weather, the ability to spend an hour at a stretch either in the pool or the Gulf, and this new talent for naps and bedtime in a new place, Bridget and I were amazed at the latest development from our little man.

As we arrived at the party for my grandparents, Jacob seemed a little cranky and uptight.  He had just gotten up from his afternoon nap, and he was still feeling a bit tired from all the aforementioned activities.  He looked pissed off - like someone had taken his last Cheerio and then taunted him to boot.  Bridget and I were scared.  We hadn’t seen him upset the whole trip.  This was not the time or place for it.  Too many people were there, too many judging eyes and mouths, too many reasons for this to be very, very bad.

We stepped into the venue – a golf country club meeting room – available to my Aunt Margo who is a member of this particular club – and who set up the whole massive family reunion/birthday party.  Instantly, Jacob’s frown changed into a beautiful smile.  We were perplexed as to why, but in a moment all was made clear….

Tomorrow: Strange Keyboard Player Part II

Resist. Multiply.

After a five-day trip (the operative word being trip instead of vacation) Bridget, Jacob, and I are back in beautiful, sunny, New Jersey.  The journey was a great one.  The purpose of the visit was to celebrate my grandmother and grandfather’s 90th birthdays.  Luckily, they have lived this long without any major health complications.  Both are vibrant, loving, and full of a zest for family and life in general.  We should all be so blessed to be like them when we get even close to that age.

After posting a “help traveling with a toddler” advisory over a week ago, I am happy to recount that all went well with the toughest two parts of the expedition.  Going and coming were the two areas that Bridget and I were most concerned with.  Jacob was an absolute Spartan warrior each time we set foot upon the mighty planes of Continental.   We were well prepared.  As I had stated previously, I had made some purchases that helped ease any anticipated suffering that we thought we might incur.  Here’s a brief recap:  I bought a harness-like vest that offered Jacob flexibility to move, but not to wander off my lap during the flight.  He reacted well to the harness and actually slept 2 whole hours in it on the way back to NJ!  I also purchased two bags that were specifically used to cover the umbrella stroller and the car seat.  Each item was stored in the plane prior to take-off and the bags allowed us to recover a very clean car seat and stroller.  The bags were inexpensive, but well worth it in value.  Another shout out has to go to the web site www.diapers.com.  This site allowed me to order diapers, bowls, sippy cups, spoons, and some food products that Jacob loves.  I ordered online, paid no shipping (orders over 50 bucks are free), and then had it all sent to my aunt’s home in Florida well before we arrived.  Perhaps the only mistake I made was ordering too many diapers.  We had to bring back about 100 of them when we returned.  I don’t know what I was thinking, but I have learned from this slight blunder.

One thing that I have to mention in all this talk of traveling genius is how amazingly smart Bridget was.  She had enough food, new toys, new books, and a portable DVD player packed to keep the little man occupied while he sat on my lap for 3 hours at a stretch.  Also, we did revert to one bad habit – as we used the pacifier for most of the flight.  Jacob never complained or showed signs of distress with respect to any ear issues since he a) can’t talk yet and b) did not cry at all really. We were very, very lucky.

The last shout out has to go to the good people of StarBucks.  When Bridget and I arrived at Newark airport, we had no whole milk with us for Jacob.  We just assumed we could not bring it into the airport with all the new regulations these days.  We were wrong, but we did not know it at the time.  At any rate, we made it through all our checkpoints, and realized sadly that there was no place to buy whole milk anywhere.  After a slight panic, we decided to ask a worker in StarBucks if we could buy some whole milk even though it was not for sale.  This young woman did us one better.  She gave us a whole sippy cup of it for free!  She saved our day and made sure that Jacob had two intelligent parents, instead of two dumb ones!  I never thought a corporation (although real live human beings make up the workforce in a major company like StarBucks) would have saved the day like that, but we are so thankful they did.  I will drink my next Mocha Frap to them.

Tomorrow: Strange Keyboard Player (Part I)

Resist. Multiply.

Part 2

I laughed at him. Again. I looked forward, and, well I wasn’t laughing anymore. I was screaming,”Car!!!!!”

My brother slammed on the breaks, but it was too late.  Physics, nature, laws of motion will never be ignored.  We slammed into the back of the Cadillac that had yielded and then completely stopped at the changing traffic light.   There was a loud, violent thump.  From the sound of it, I thought we trashed the back of the Cadillac.

Immediately, the driver got out of his car, and started walking towards us.  My brother put the car in park, and was holding onto to his soon to explode stomach.

“I have to take a s#*t.”

This is all my brother said, like a disciplined monk reciting a mantra.

The angry man got closer and closer to our parked car.  I peered out through the front windshield, and at the man’s car.  There was no damage; it was miraculous. I expected to see twisted, contorted metal, a castrated bumper and shards of broken glass littered all over the pavement, glittering from the headlights of the oncoming traffic, like jewels in a treasure chest, but there was nothing wrong, nothing.

“Take a look at his car.  There is nothing wrong with it. I mean nothing.”

This is I said, like a disciplined monk reciting a mantra.

The man was at Trent’s window, yelling.  My brother sat up straight, looked at the undamaged car, and looked at me and said,”I have to take a s#*t.”

The car was put into reverse.  Trent slumped back down into his seat, barely looking over the steering wheel.  We backed up.  The man yelled louder.  The car was put into drive.  We rolled forward, around the parked Cadillac and screaming man.

While we slowly rolled pass the screaming man, turning him into a baffled man, my brother mumbled something about his stomach, the hospital, emergency, sorry, and the fact that the man’s car seemed fine.   I will never forget the man’s bewildered face, highlighted by the changing traffic light.  It was blank with a hint of fear, concern, and I could have sworn a humorous grin curved his jaw upwards as we rolled on by.  Trent stuck his hand out the window, giving the ultimate, I do mean the ultimate wave off.  It was a wave that said more than goodbye; the wave also said you have no idea, step aside pops.

I did not see the man in the rearview mirror.  The tears of laughter blurred my vision as he faded in the distance.  We made it home, Trent covered in sweat, and me in tears.  The man did not pursue.  The police did not knock on our mother’s door while Trent polluted her bathroom, exorcising his dook demons.  While my brother did what had to be done I checked our car.  Again, a miracle, there was no damage.

In my day, I have seen some things, as you well know from some of the past posts, but the ultimate wave off is embedded in my conscious, and sub conscious mind, leaving an extreme comedic impression.  With confidence, I feel I’m a better man for it, so is Trent, and so is that poor fool in the black Cadillac we happened to briefly bring into our chaotic world.

Now, to you the reader, I wave goodbye.  Dean will be picking up some of the slack this week.  Thank you!

The Chronicles of Karaoke Mike – The Navy and My Friend Boots

The Ultimate Wave Off - The Return of The Pooh Stories Without Winnie

The Chronicles
Mike is a patriot, true and true. Granted, if he was to recite the pledge of allegiance it would sound like it was being spoken in pig latin, and if he was to list the 50 blessed states that make up the jigsaw puzzle of the United States… well he couldn’t list the 50 states…all I’m saying is from the exterior you would think he is anarchist, but internally, on the inside his heart beats red, white and blue. At the age of 30 he enlisted in the Navy to repay this great nation of ours and the possibilities it afforded him and his family of Filipino immigrants. Admirable is the word that best describes this action.

Thirty is a good age, a young man, but in the armed forces thirty is considered geriatric. However, Mike went against the grain and made his way through boot camp. As a matter of fact he excelled. As a matter of fact squared, he was appointed to be his company’s head yeoman. Most of the other sailors were ten years his junior. That’s both admirable and impressive. However, please keep in mind we are talking about Karaoke Mike and there is always, always danger involved.

The last feat a potential sailor has to participate in is a grand dive off a high platform, and then a 200 yard swim to the other side of the Olympic size pool. Hundreds and hundreds of navy folk filed into one line, like an endless stream of ants dressed in heavy Navy uniforms, and think combat boots. Patiently, they waited their turn to climb up the high platform, make the jump, and then the victorious swim.

Here comes the “karaoke factor”. Karaoke Mike can’t swim. He is from the Philippines, a nation surrounded by water. He was not drafted; he enlisted in the Navy, the branch of the armed services that, well, involves water, a lot of it. Back up a couple of weeks, he could have enlisted in the air force, he is not afraid to fly. He could have joined the army, for the most part there are no major bodies of water involved when being a grunt. The Marine Corps, well, he knew better not to do that, tough is one thing he is not.

He joined the Navy, and he couldn’t swim. What?

The line was long, hundreds deep, slowly it moved forward, man by man by man. Mike made his way closer to the diving platform. What was he to do? He was the company’s head yeoman, the younger enlistees looked up to him, borrowed money from him, asked him for advice, for haircuts. He was the company’s literal and figurative big brother. He could not let his fellow sailors down, so he moved forward, getting more nervous with each diving scream, and violent splash into the water. He. Said. Nothing. To. No. One.

Hours later he climbed the numerous stairs to the top of the platform, knowing he could not swim. He walked to the end of the platform knowing he could not swim. He looked down, thirty to forty feet, at the gleaming pool, knowing he could not swim. He jumped with no hesitation. After all he was the company’s head yeoman; he was the company’s big brother.

Inhale. Exhale.

When Karaoke Mike regained consciousness, several divers and Navy officers were gathered around him, looking down at him while he began to gather his breath and senses. Three Navy divers had to save him from drowning. The Navy officers saved Mike’s reputation, therefore saving the company’s morale, they did this by saying yeoman Mike was very ill, and still he braved through the final test.

For five days, all day, the officers taught Mike how to swim. He graduated with honors, top dog, a 30-year-old dog. On graduation day he carried the company flag, the same flag he designed, and even sewed.

One night Boots, Mike’s Navy buddy, told me this marvelous tale. I’ve known Boots for years; he is a nice man. I have called him Boots for the years I’ve known him until one day Stella pulled me aside and said that Boots is really Butch. Karaoke Mike just can’t sound out the ‘ch’, so Butch evolved into Boots. Hell, I like Boots better; I’ve continued to call him just that.

Peligroso is dangerous in Spanish; Karaoke is just that, in any language.

The Ultimate Wave Off

Part 1
This grandiose story includes a fender bender, an excruciating stomachache, perspiration, slow motion traffic lights and a beloved family member of mine, my brother, the future uncle of my unborn child. For the record, and any possible, pending legalities he will be called Trent.

At our Aunt’s house, Trent and I were barbecuing with family and friends, celebrating a cousin’s birthday. The weather was splendid. There was a refreshing zephyr causing the deck’s canvas umbrella to dance to and fro. The food was so tasty; everything was prepared with care, and grilled to perfection. It was a picture perfect June barbecue; a panoramic hallmark photo of American living and recreation.

Well, that was the exterior image, a facade. Chaos was what was taking place in Trent’s innards (innards is such a strange, cool word, it should be used more often, let’s work on that). Internally, there was nothing refreshing in Trent’s lower abdomen. There was nothing splendid brewing in his waste management system. If one was to choose a picture to symbolize Trent’s inner turmoil it would certainly not be a hallmark image, but a black and white WWII photo of a horrific battle. The night before, after a long workday, Trent visited many a watering hole, and implemented some stress management exercises via drinking many Black and Tans. Numerous well-poured, masterly crafted pints were consumed to alleviate work duress. Reader, if you are not familiar with the liquid poetry that is a Black and Tan then please allow me to explain. A Black and Tan is a phenomenal, tasty beverage comprised of both Guinness and fill in the blank. There are numerous beers that are used to make up the tan part of this concoction, Guinness obviously being the black part. When it comes to the tan part I prefer Harp or Bass.

Black and Tans are tasty, but if several of them are consumed well then the following day there will be some ‘issues’. Black and Tan issues are unique, and they present untimely, involuntary gas, prompting ‘return customer’ treks to the bathroom.

Back to the BBQ, After a while Trent and I had our fill of both family, and food. There’s only so much a man can take. We caught each other’s eyes, and signaled it was time to head on home. Throughout the celebration Trent left the barbeque and made a lot of different trips inside. I saw him coming and going. I was unaware of his ‘issues’. We got in the car. Trent was driving, and I was riding shotgun. This is important, so please keep it in mind. Immediately, with key in ignition, Trent began to tell me about his Black and Tan intake the night before, and the mutiny it caused his redeye to be part of. That one eyed pirate was attempting to take over the vessel that was Trent.

Eloquently, Trent stated his mission.

“This guy has to be put in check. This redeye rebel has to be brought to the authorities. Immodium AD in the house, son. I need to get home. Home court advantage is needed
for this.”

O.K. so that explained the frequency of Trent sliding open the squeaky screen door and disappearing into my aunt’s house. I laughed. Every time the door squeaked people turned around to see who was generating that noise. Trent. I should have put two and two together. Trent’s stomach combined with his imbibing, well, there are ‘issues’ often, very often.

As soon as the car was put into drive Trent started sweating. By the time we made our way out of my aunt’s quiet neighborhood Trent had one hand on the wheel and the other was holding his stomach tightly. I laughed. I suggested we turn around, but Trent was adamant about home court advantage and wanted to get home by any means necessary.

We made our way to the downtown area, populated by ma and pa shops, delis, and blocks of traffic lights. Trent was no longer sweating. It was pouring down his face, coloring the collar of his shirt. He was soaked. I laughed.

“Dude, do you want me to drive?”
See what a nice older brother I can be.

“No, I need to concentrate on something besides my stomach.”

“O.K.”

I was beginning to get excited about the potential, disastrous ending that would provide countless hours of mocking and retelling tales with friends, ironically, while probably drinking Black and Tans.

Every traffic light we came upon, and I do mean every one, the light was quickly turning yellow to red. Please file that detail as well.

Always, we had to come to a cautious stop. They were the longest red lights I have ever sat at. Almost as long as the red lights I sat at while in my father’s car, when he came to bail me out of jail, but that is another story, and I do not want to steal Trent’s thunder (no pun intended). Seriously, the lights were loooooong, reminding me of the father/jail reference that I will speak of in another post.

While idling at the umpteenth beaming red light Trent perspired profusely, cursed, held his stomach and mumbled, ”These must be slow motion traffic lights.” I laughed. By the way, all of my laughter has been out loud, in his face and totally at his expense.

The light turned green. Freedom. We made our way further through the down town area. Another light was in the near distance. A black Cadillac was in front of us.

Trent was about to explode, and there was no sight of laboratory shelter.

“Dude, all hands on deck…mutiny. This is going to happen now. I’m going to leave mustard in my johnnies.”, Trent frantically said to me while looking directly at me. We were quickly approaching a yellow light, right behind the black Cadillac.

I laughed at him. Again. I looked forward, and, well I wasn’t laughing anymore, I was…

‘See you tomorrow

I’ve traveled extensively with Karaoke Mike and I have lived with him for more than three years, so I feel it is safe to say that I’m an expert when it comes to the anomaly that he is.  Also, oddly enough, and in no homoerotic fashion, or creepy, deep fascination have I become familiar with his underwear.  Make no mistake, I’m no sweetheart to live with, and I most definitely have my moments, but Mike does not know my underwear the way I know his.  I keep my underwear to myself.  Father in laws, and mother in laws are tough, tense topics for some.  Fortunately, I have a very good relationship with them both.  If anything they have impacted my life incredibly, and I will never be able to repay them for all they have done for Stella and I.

However, some lines should not be crossed in the father in law, son in law dynamic.  One breach of our social contract is underwear.  Mike rocks tighty whities often.   I know this simple, uncomfortable fact because of these incidents I’m about to relay to the tribe.

Underwear As A Seasoning
Mike, Stella, and I live with one another in a small home.  We share a lot of things, one of them being a basement laundry area.  One fateful weekend morning I made my way down into the basement, I was sluggish, a bit punch drunk from the previous night’s deep sleep.  I was carrying a bag of dirty laundry, ironically I think it was a collection of dirty johnnies(tribe talk for underwear) when I spotted it.  Instantly, I was wide awake, and very concerned.  The bag of laundry dropped from my shoulder, thumping against the concrete basement floor.  I used the good lord’s name in vain.

Between the washing machine and dryer I saw a stew of white fruit of the looms in a large cooking bowl.   Apparently, Karaoke Mike took all of his tighty whities, put them in the large cooking bowl that has been used often, added water, bleach, and then let them sit over night, like a stew basking in flavor that only comes from time.  It was alarming.  Many meals were prepared using that same bowl.  I’m not a violent man, but I do have my limits, so I inhaled, I exhaled, and then I consciously decided not to confront Mike because that could end in a 911 phone call and the arrival of our town’s finest, responding to a domestic dispute.  I would have been the offender, but I think after some investigation, and after the officers saw the underwear being bleached in a cooking bowl they would have turned their backs and let me finish my beat down.  I decided to talk to my wife Stella, Mike’s daughter.  I asked her to ask her father why he decided to bleach his underwear in a bowl we have used to prepare many meals.

Also, here’s the real rub, I wanted to know why he chose to do that when the washing machine and dryer were just a foot apart from one another.  Was it a political statement, an environmentally conscious decision?  It was like putting an abacus between two laptops and choosing the abacus to crunch complicated numbers.  After speaking with Stella I washed my hands of it, no pun intended, and let her be Karaoke Mike’s wrangler when it comes to the laundry room.   I don’t know what was said.  I don’t care.  All I know is that very afternoon the bowl was in the recycle bin, and since then I have never seen a stew of fruit of the looms resting between our washing machine and dryer.

4 In The Morning
I’m a very light sleeper.  Many a night I make the journey down stairs, and grab a drink, or a late, late night snack.   One eventful night, early morning, I carefully walked the walk, holding onto the banister, wondering what god awful time it was.  When I made my way into the kitchen Karaoke Mike was sitting on a stool, writhing in pain, rocking back and forth.  He was wearing nothing but white, glow in the dark, let me bleach them one more time, tighty whities.  The kitchen was dark, but there was gleam from his crotch. This is what was said between a five foot two, sixty-year-old Filipino man and a six foot one, 35-year-old white American.  For a strong visual, please keep in mind both men, father in law, son in law are in their underwear.

Owen: What? (pause) What are you doing?
Karaoke: My tummy (pause) (more writhing) discomforting.  How do you say? Moving da’ bowls, saying, extremely difficult.
Owen: What? (pause) What are you doing?
Karaoke: My tummy is in trouble.

*Side note – Karaoke Mike is the only person I know over the age of three who refers to his stomach as his tummy.

Owen: What kind of trouble?
Karaoke: Da’ bowels are moving no, how do you say? Constellation.
Owen: What? (pause) What are you doing?
Karaoke: I’m constellation.

*Side note – I said to myself - What the f%@k is this guy saying?

Karaoke:  I can no longer move da’ bowls.

*Side note – last one, I was close to losing my temper.  I thought Mike was referring to the bowel we had to throw out from his underwear bleaching days, but after a moment of clarity I realized…

Owen:  You can’t take a s@#t can you?
Karaoke: No, I’m saying this.  I’m constellation.

I made some suggestions. I told Mike I would put a call into Dr. Hob for some alternative solutions. Of course I waited to the sun came up.  I didn’t get a drink, or a snack.  I returned upstairs and cried myself to sleep.  My laughter shook the bed, and woke up Strummer.  Stella was out cold.  “Constellation.”  Faulkner couldn’t write dialogue like that.

His way, his life, his doings are potentially dangerous.  Who knows what kind of illness Stella and I contracted from the fruit of the loom fruit bowel if I did not intervene?  While in bed laughing I could have shook both Strummer and Stella out of the bed, injuring them.  There are countless other happenings that make me simultaneously love and fear Karaoke Mike.  Give it time, but I believe Karaoke Mike will be a house hold name, and his tales will be come American folklore.

-Owen Scott Verde

Tomorrow: The Chronicles of Karaoke Mike – The Navy and My Friend Boots

Well, the fourth came and went very quickly. Things have been moving with much speed, all being pulled towards the life changing cosmic vacuum that is August 19th, Stella’s due date. I have a very strong inclination life will be on fast-forward until then, and the remote control is nowhere to be found. It only makes sense that this patriotic weekend was a blink of an eye.

Here is the recap: Beer, Nap, Eat Meat, Eat Brownies, Nap, BBQ with friends, Phone calls to nationwide friends, more beer, more napping, BBQ with more friends, additional consumption of hotdogs and burgers, more inhaling of sugar and fat a.k.a. brownies, return phone calls to far away friends I missed while napping, paint baby’s room, UFC 86, take aspirin, vitamin B, re-hydrate, go to sleep, listen to distant fireworks, Strummer guardian like barks interfere with sleeping, Stella is sound asleep, God Bless America, going to detox tomorrow (aloe vera tablets, gallon of water with lemons in it) For this mission home court advantage is mandatory. More fireworks to come, of the private sort.

UFC 86 -

Stella and I hosted a UFC 86 party over the weekend. The fight card was exceptional. All of the preliminary bouts were worthy warm ups for the main event. Forrest Griffin vs. Rampage Jackson was the much-hyped main event, and it lived up to all of the excitement. The championship match went all five rounds ending in a decision awarding Forrest Griffin, the underdog, the victory and the light heavyweight belt. Forrest Griffin is tough as nails, and is always the great up setter. From the corner of my safe, comfortable couch I have to agree with the decision. It was one hell of a fight, controlled by Griffin. Both of the combatants I like, so I was not pulling for anyone in particular. I just wanted to see a very good fight, and I most definitely did. Both men are incredible athletes and gracious fighters. The brief post fight interview conducted by Joe Rogan, an exceptional commentator, demonstrated the fighters are very humble and humorous. All at our party really respected both fighter’s skills and the kind, complimentary things they said about their opponents after all was said and done. In a past post I commented on how MMA is misperceived as a brutish, skill less bloodspot. This past weekend, Rampage Jackson and Forrest Griffin, seasoned veterans, entertained the fight world with their physical prowess, and followed it up with being, well, hell, fine gentlemen, setting the record straight that MMA is a honorable sport. Perhaps, these UFC all stars should conduct a finishing school for the NBA or MBL. The ballers’ could learn a couple of things from the brawlers.

One of the people sitting on the couch with me was Kevin, Stella’s younger cousin. Recently, Kevin returned home from serving two separate combat tours in Iraq. It was an honor to have him, and it was very fitting to have him spend time with us over the July 4th weekend. He is a 24-year-old Iraq war veteran, and we’re glad to have him home with us alive and well. Thank you Kevin, another up setter, he beat the odds!

Another attendee of the party was the famous, soon to be infamous, Karaoke Mike. Karaoke Mike is Stella’s enigmatic, always entertaining father. Karaoke Mike has many aliases. Well, Karaoke Mike is obviously one of them; he rocks the karaoke Mike hard and means business when belting out renditions of Kenny Loggin’s, and La Toya Jackson’s sole pop hits. Also, make sure never to get in his way if he is singing Sinatra’s “My Way” for the 87th time.

Chronic is another name of Mikes’. This title is fitting because he suffers from the most peculiar, non-related, long lasting physical ailments known to man. He looks very good for his age, youthful, full head of hair, and a vibrant complexion, but internally he is falling apart. If you were to sit down and have him explain the doings of his innards then you the listener would have a laundry list of internal problems rivaling that of a retired professional wrestler. You would think, while listening to Mike, he spent twenty-five years touring Western Europe and obscure, out of the way villages of Mexico, body slamming dangerous opponents on a nightly basis. Mike doesn’t even know what a full nelson is; he has been both a nurse and a teacher his whole professional life. There are no pile drivers necessary when nursing or teaching. So, where do the ailments come from? (This will be touched upon tomorrow – teaser/trailer –Karaoke Mike is sitting in my kitchen at 4 in the morning. He is wearing nothing but white, glow in the dark, let me bleach them one more time, tighty whities, fruit of the looms, writhing in pain. I come down the stairs to find…)

Another fitting name for my father in law is Don Peligroso. In some Latin countries, Don is a respectful title put in front of the first name of prestigious, powerful men. Men who may own a lot of land, or who have been very successful in the world of business may be addressed as Don so and so. Make no mistake, I have a lot of love and respect for my father in law, hence the title Don. However, Peligroso translates to danger, or dangerous. Mike is the Don of Danger. This perfect nickname was self-appointed. While spending time in Costa Rica, Mike deemed himself dangerous. Stella, myself, and JFL (a friend traveling with us) all agreed, whole-heartedly. (teaser/trailer – At both Houston International Airport, I refuse to refer to it as George Bush airport, and Liberia International Airport in Costa Rica, Mike was one second away from getting strip searched and imprisoned. Both travel/security debacles happened all in one day! Impressive, dangerous, peligroso)
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Dean and I wish you a Happy Fourth of July in these days of independence.  The world is changing.  America is changing.  These changes, whether good or bad, need to be addressed by all of us.  Due to the ever-increasing speed of technology, around the clock media coverage, the changing of regional climates, costs of necessities such as, oh I don’t know, food and water, the world is now one supremely large village, a global village if you will.  Hard to fathom, but yes the choices we make, both collectively and individually, affect citizens of the world we will never meet.  It truly is a butterfly effect.

For example, the car you do or don’t drive, the places you do or do not spend your money are sending a ripple across the sphere like universe we know as Earth.  This big rock of ours is a beautiful place, some of its inhabitants are not.  However, most, about 4.99 billion of us, are good souls who just need to start paying attention to the changes, whether they are geo-political, domestic affairs, consumerism, and corporate globalization.  We are capable of impacting these changes by just devoting 5 minutes a day to paying attention, to waking up, and discussing it among ourselves.  Discussions, civil dialogues, lead to action.  To gain results, actions always speak louder than words.  Doing is the best way of saying.  Our independence is a book that should be read, studied and implemented daily, not sit on the shelf of a sometimes misleading, Machiavellian like democracy, collect dust, and periodically be looked at.

We are an independent nation comprised of independent citizens with human rights and civil liberties.  Its time to start using, exercising them to help those who do not.  I know this is a heady subject for such a leisurely day.  It is a patriotic day, and patriots always question, and always pay attention.  Now go enjoy your barbecue, beer and friends and family.  I know I will; I’m not saying which will come first, but the more beer you drink the more enjoyment takes place, so…bottoms up.

As the prophetic, timeless musician Neil Young once said, ”Keep On Rocking In The Free World.”  While at a weekend barbecue, look around you, and start humming the following song, melodies are contagious. Have you ever noticed when a loved one, or co-worker enters the room humming, or signing a tune, several minutes later you are doing the exact same thing.

”Keep On Rocking In The Free World.”

Colors on the street
Red, white, and blue
People shuffling their feet
People sleeping in their shoes
There’s a warning sign in the road ahead
There’s a lot of people saying we’d be better off dead
Don’t feel like Satan, but I am to them
So I try Forget them any way I can

Keep on rocking in the free world

I see a girl in the night _with a baby in her hands
Under an old street light_near a garbage can
Now she put her kid away, she’s gone to get a hit
She hates her life, and what she’s done with it
That’s one more kid, that’ll never go to school
Never get to fall in love, never get to be cool

Keep on rocking in the free world_keep

There’s a thousand points of light
For the homeless man
There’s a kinder, gentler machine gun hand
There’s department stores, and toilet paper
Styrofoam garbage for the Ozone layer
There’s a man of the people, says people alive
Got fuel to burn, got roads to drive

Keep on rocking in the free world_ _

Prologue/Lo siento/Apologies for the delays with the posts– Dean was called away on an assignment in Florida. He will be spreading the subversive word to the senior members of The Tribe. I have been finishing up my teaching year, putting the baby’s room together, nursing a hangover, and working on a novel. So without further ado…

What’s in a name? Names are important to Stella and I. There has been many a late night discussion to what we will name our unborn child. There are two short, much debated lists sitting on Stella’s night table. One list has three boy’s names. The other list, yep, you guessed it, has three girl’s names. The name, like the gender is yet to be determined. Mid August, around the time Stella is due, will resolve both.

In the Philippines it is a tradition to combine the mother’s and father’s name to form the child’s given name. I’m one for cultural integrity, and international understanding, but the thought of combining Owen and Stella does not work well for me, or my unborn progeny. Run the numbers, crunch the words, you can come up with Owella, Sten, Stowen etc…etc… See, it’s not working, but I’m sure there are some interesting roll calls the first day of grammar school in the Philippines. Worldwide, teachers are under paid. There should be a bonus wage for teachers who have to memorize such names, and say them incessantly throughout the school year.

Stella’s father, Karaoke Mike, is not in favor for keeping such a tradition. Thankfully. Mike got his nickname because he is a crooner, and a serious force to be reckon with when it comes to the underrated art form that is karaoke. In the Philippines, the locals take their karaoke serious. If there is ever to be an Olympic event featuring karaoke, well then I’m telling you now the Philippines will dominate globally, and Karaoke Mike will place Gold in all events. I’ve seen it first hand, at family functions, once the microphone is taken out, and inserted into the television its go time, son. Fast forward five hours later, and countless renditions of one hit wonders, and Mike is still rocking the mic. The man has skills, and female party-goers love him long time because of them.

As stated before, Mike is not in favor of combining my name with my wife’s name to assign a life long title to his first grandchild. When the discussion came up, like most discussions it started with Mike saying, ”How do you say? (pause) I’m not liking this one, naming children like that one. How do you say? No.”

I’m not sure if you the reader know any Filipino-Americans. From the numerous ones I’ve met they are incredibly kind, meek, family oriented people who work very hard, and appreciate the opportunities this country has to offer. Hell, at the age of 30, Karaoke Mike enlisted in the navy to pay back this great land of ours. However, besides their unique love and passion for this country and karaoke, the Filipinos born overseas have a whole new way of pronouncing certain words, phrases, and American idioms that are well, to be honest with you, both mind boggling and hilarious.

In the prologue of this piece I mentioned that Dean is on assignment, and I no longer have my teaching duties to tend to, so next week I will be the sole captain of this digital vessel. Therefore, I will be writing all of the pieces, and trust me, one or two of them will deal with the anomaly that is my beloved father in law Karaoke Mike. So, I Ieave you with “How do you say? I seeing you the next day after, saying (pause) (contemplation) (slight case of space cadetitis) saying tomorrow. How do you say?”

Tomorrow: The Days Of Our Independence, The Prophetic Mr. Neil Young
Resist. Multiply.

Tim Russert. His name means something to me now more than it ever did before his untimely passing. Two weeks ago our nation mourned this news anchor that had a zest for life. I recently watched the memorial that was held in his honor on MSNBC. The people that spoke about him shared funny stories about this larger than life man. They spoke of him as a gentle giant; as someone who cared about their lives, their families’ lives, and most importantly cared about being a good and noble person.

I listened to their stories and I could not help but be moved by what they said about this “working class” everyman hero. Perhaps the most telling compliment came when his son, Luke, stepped to the podium. Luke’s face was animated, positive, and he smiled throughout his speech. He spoke well of his father. It was a fine tribute to the man we all knew as moderator of “Meet the Press”.

I must admit I do not remember all the words used to describe Mr. Russert. What I do remember is carrying away a feeling that he was well respected, admired, loved, and truly adored by all those that knew him well. To me, that is the ultimate measure of a life well lived. The people that talked about him did not seem overly sad. I know that they were upset at his passing, but they took pleasure in reminiscing about a man that lived his life so fully, treasured his time with his family, had lasting impacts on all those that he encountered, and made sure people knew where they stood with him.

It hit me a few days later why I was so interested in what Luke Russert said about his dad. Now that I have a son of my own, I thought what would Jacob say about me when it was my time to pass on? What impact would I make on his life? Already at almost 15 months old, I know this boy loves his father, but I also know that tougher times await us.

As I have grown up and become a man, I can remember the struggles that I have had with my own father. I love my father dearly, but we have not always been able to see eye to eye. I am sure he would agree and probably even take some culpability in that statement, as well. Such is the nature of fathers and sons. My teenage years were particularly tough years for our relationship because I was perpetually trying to assert my independence. As time has gone on, we have grown so close and at this point I cannot imagine a time when he will not be there for my family or me.

The reality is that I see myself in Jacob. When I look at him I remember how special it is to be young; to be just starting out and full of wonder about the world. I don’t want him to ever lose that joy about the simplicity of life, but I also know that someday he will be a man – full of responsibility. My job as his father is to make sure he gets to that point and he can make it on his own. I have to teach him to be a good man – one who works hard, but also enjoys the other aspects of his life.

I guess what happens when we lose a public figure like Tim Russert is that we begin to examine our own mortality. I think it is healthy to think about what people will say about you when you are gone. It is also healthy to want those people whom you love most to respect you and even look up to you a bit. Maybe if we lived our lives thinking a little about how people will remember us, we would do a better job of our lives.

At this point in mine, I know I still have work to do. I still have events and milestones to take part in, and I still have family and friends to be involved with. Tim Russert’s passing is lesson to us all. Value those people around you who make you who you are. Love them, cherish them, and treat them the way that you want to be treated. My father taught me that.

It is true that having a child changes you. It is true that fathers and sons share a bond rooted in gender and perception. Remember that in this life you only get a few chances to get things right. Take your time to carefully make the right choices when it comes to your family. They should always be the most important thing in your life and the people that matter most in all your decisions.

Luke Russert honored his dad last week by paying tribute to a life well lived. He may have cried privately, but publicly he celebrated him. Maybe it was because he knew that his dad loved him and was proud of him. Maybe it was because he knew that his dad had lived so fully and deeply in just 58 years.

Whatever it was, I hope that I will be able to do my father the same homage and that Jacob will do me a final gift of admiration, as well. Hopefully both those events will take place a long time from now. Until then, I will teach the little man how to live fully.

Thank you Tim Russert for reminding us what is truly important in life.

Tomorrow: Rain, Rain Go Away!
Resist. Multiply.