SU2C

Everyone who was lucky enough to have watched Stand Up To Cancer the other night I am sure were greatly moved.  You have your thoughts.  I do as well and I felt compelled to write about mine.  Partially out of guilt because even though I have been close to a few who have been in the fight I have been reminded often that I did not really respect what they were going through at the time.   I thought I did, but I didn’t.  I feel Stand Up to Cancer portrayed as well as is humanely possible, what those in the fight are going through.

The show managed to showcase the cause with low key, sincere words from many stars with their own stories to tell, heartfelt songs beautifully sung, reports of progress on the research front and right-between-the-eyes comments from patients, survivors, care givers and loved ones. 

There were many stories that particularly tugged at my heart.   One was of a little boy that loved to play with his legos’.  He said if I die I will take my legos’ with me.  Another was a young girl talking with her caregiver about her dreams for the future.  When asked how much time she would like to have in her dreams, she said “A year”.  The no frills response was “That might not be possible”.   Both of these kids were at the gala.  Both were introduced and applauded.  The girl so beautiful, bald head and all and the boy, smiling with his Mom next to him, chin quivering and striving with all her might to keep her composure.

When the television camera slowly panned the audience I was struck by one thing.  Facial close ups revealed there was no joy.  There was clearly a sense that these people had been pushed to the max.  They were experiencing the ultimate gut check.  Some were in the throes of their battle and would become survivors and some would not.  No amount of courage could fake a sparkle in their eyes.

I was reminded of Peggy, a young woman in the prime of her life.   Peggy complained of headaches.  She knew she was in trouble when she woke up after tests with no tubes attached.  She had stage 4 glioblastoma, a particularly nasty type of brain tumor. 

Several months of treatment were followed by months of clinical trials that offer hope but no promises.  All Peggy wanted was hope. 

For many months I was honored to take Peggy to a brain tumor support group meeting the first and third Thursday evenings at the hospital.  In these meeting the group of 12 to 15 would sit in a circle and one by one, tell of their ordeals and their fears.  Peggy, sitting in her wheel chair, was always brutally honest. 

Due to the terrible consequences of contracting glioblastoma various members of the group would be missing at the next meeting as was the case when I had to tell the group that Peggy would not be returning.

Stand Up To Cancer brought home to me once again that those involved are facing such horrendous personal terror that they need all the help, hope and understanding their loved ones can muster.  We have the rest of our lives.  They may not. 

 

    

QUICK E-MAIL FIX

A week or so ago my wife Terry started receiving multiple copies of the same e-mails,  sometimes 3 or 4 and other times up to a dozen copies of the same e-mail.  She also lost the 6 most recent months of her inbox.  Knowing full well asking me to fix the problem was akin to asking pigs to fly; she did her best and hoped that it would just solve itself.  It didn’t, it only got worse.  I called Cox Communications, our service provider.  They walked me through all the steps to insure her settings were correct and a bunch of other stuff and determined that the problem was not theirs but was the Outlook Express software of Microsoft.

There it was, the dreaded Microsoft.  I was willing to exhaust all remedies before calling Microsoft, including throwing the computer in the garbage and buying a new one.  You see, I have had some mind altering experiences with them over the years.  I am talking about their fix-it department.  I’ll explain.

Whenever I call and explain my dilemma, customer service turns me over to someone they deem an expert on said dilemma.  Invariably, I get a person who took an on-line Rosetta Stone class in the English language a few days prior to my call.  This would not be a problem to most but when you are deaf it is most certainly a problem.

For that reason I am dreading making this call.  I get a good night’ sleep, have a nutritious breakfast, shower, dress and I am as ready as I will ever be.  I dial the 800 number, explain what’s wrong and then listen patiently as the lady tells me she will be transferring my call to a designated expert. 

At this time I interrupt her to deliver my remarks that I had been working on for days.  I calmly explained that I am a deaf person.  I am listening to her over a phone designed for deaf people.  That, nothing personal, I would prefer to speak with a male person because the deeper tones of a man’s voice are easier to decipher than the higher pitch of a woman’s voice.  And, again, nothing personal, I would prefer someone whose native tongue is my own because they’re much easier for me to understand than someone whose base language is other than English. 

The lady says “No problem, I understand perfectly”.  So I am transferred to a girl named Mardy Ann who is 7,295 miles away in the Philippines.  She turned out to be quite proficient in the English language and, with my urging, spoke up enough that I was able to get by.  Mardy Ann turned out to be a gem. 

I am not up to speed with many of the technological advances that the younger generation take for granted so it amazes me when someone half way around the world and below the equator logs on to my computer and I can see them moving the mouse around and making changes to MY computer. 

Mardy Ann told me to just sit back and relax while she fixed things.  I watched as she moved the mouse around and clicked on this and that in a blur.  Often something would have to be uploaded or downloaded and I would watch patiently as a little green bar measured the progress.  Often this process would take the better part of an hour.  The first time it happened I thought she had deserted me so I finally said “Are you there Mardy”?  The answer came back “I’m here Sir”.  She always called me Sir. 

The first day our session lasted 6 ½ hours.  My cell phone died and she had to call me back on the land line.  She finally said she had to go home and would call me back about mid-afternoon the next day. 

The next day’s session lasted 4 hours.  During one lull I learned that monsoon rains had wreaked havoc with Mardy’s small village.  There was severe flooding and roads and bridges were washed away. 

The third day was a 2 hour chat session to tie up loose ends.  Mardy determined that the problem was a corruption of all e-mail files caused by the sheer volume of files.  She gave me a stern lecture about backing files up from time to time to keep thing manageable.  We never did recover valuable inbox and sent items folders.  She did fix, out of the goodness of her heart, a myriad of other problems that had plagued Terry’s computer for some time. 

The next day I got an e-mail from Microsoft asking me to fill out a survey about the service I had received.  I gave Mardy the highest numbers possible in all categories and summarized by saying I thought she should be head of their customer service department.     

      

  

DEAR NBC SPORTS

I wrote the following e-mail today.  What I saw last Saturday morning moved me as much as any of the memorable Olympic moments I have seen over the years.  The fact that at this time in the history of the world there are women being treated like this makes me sick.  The fact that at this time in the history of the world there are women like these 2 gives me great hope. 

Dear NBC Sports and Bob Costas,

I love your Olympic coverage.  I offer my comments here in the most sincere and constructive way possible. 

I have an idea for an issue I feel should be addressed before the Games are over.  I was watching your coverage of preliminary races for the women’s 100 meters event.  Not the qualifying heats but they were called preliminary races.  It was about 8 am PST on Saturday morning, August 4.  There were several heats.  Two of them had women entered from countries that had previously forbidden women from competing.  One was from Qatar and I believe the other was Afghanistan.  Both women were dressed head to toe in full dress complying with religious beliefs that forbid women from exposing themselves in public.

As the Qatar woman was preparing to start the race, the TV camera focused on a close up look of her face for a good minute or so.  She was obviously petrified, her wide eyes glancing quickly from side to side.  After she took her position in the blocks, she waited for the starting gun then stumbled forward and fell to the ground.  She had not taken one step and was taken off the track in a wheel chair.

The other woman ran the full length of the race and finished last by a bunch with a big smile on her face.  As the competitors milled around after the finish, she was still smiling and appeared to be looking for someone to give her a high 5, knuckle bump or something.  Finally 1 other woman, of the 7 or 8 runners came up to her and shook her hand. 

There has been much written and spoken before and during these Games about the plight of women such as these.  Indeed there were comments leading up to their races by the TV announcers about their journey.  These comments, among other things, addressed the fact that their countries would refuse to televise the races they were in.  Each faced ridicule and resentment that would break any normal human being.  They were even forced to train secretly.  These 2 faced an uncertain, grave future upon return home.  Tell me they don’t represent the ultimate in courage. 

My point in writing this is that I feel the coverage of those 2 women deserves at least a segment of prime time coverage.  There are still a few days left.  For women around the world do the right thing, please.

Forest Smith III

Newport Beach, CA, USA

OUR GIRLS / THE FAB FIVE

Pardon me while I get another tissue.  Last night was rough.  I was busy pulling our girls through half way around the world in London.  I was reminded once more why the Olympic Games are worth the 4 year wait.  Each one has their extra special moments and memories and last night was among the best. 

Jordyn,Kyla, Aly, Gabby and Air Maroney firmly fixed themselves in the memory bank of everyone watching.  This group, ranging from 15 year old Kyla to the sage and seasoned veteran Aly at 18, put a choke hold on everyone’s heart. 

I had kids their age.  I have grandkids their age.  How in God’s name do you put kids that age under that kind of pressure without them wilting like an un-watered flower?  They are barely able to drive legally and here they are on the world’s stage, millions watching every move, performing precision routines as if they are in their own back yards on a summer day.  And heaven help those whose performance brought them to tears.  Television camera’s searched them out relentlessly and stayed in their face an eternity.  Try that sometime when you want to choke somebody. 

I marveled at their poise as they stood steely eyed and intently focused on their next routine.  Unlike most sports that require acts of aggression, gymnastics requires extreme control of muscles and nerves while wanting to burst with emotion. 

All of the 4 disciplines require great skill but I am especially awed by the balance beam.  Its obvious why this event is absent from the men’s competition but is there a more difficult task in any sport?  Doing a flip and landing on a 4 inch wide plank several feet in the air has to rank right up there.  This event alone must sustain the home town orthopedic community.

Gabby with the beautiful smile, pillar of strength Jordyn, youthful Kyla, queen of the vault Maroney and leader Aly make me very proud of our girls.  Aly was the capper with a flourishing finish where she bounced halfway to the ceiling while simultaneously breaking into her victory smile. 

While all this was going on TV kept cutting “back to the pool”.  Having recently had shoulder replacement surgery I cringed and reached for the Aleeve while watching the swimmers flail their arms while loosening up.  Ouch!!  Michael Phelps did his thing again as the anchor man of the relay team providing another memorable moment as he set the record for most Olympic medals.  Our girls have several swimming gold medals and all is well in the water.

To those complaining about TV coverage and excessive commercials, get a life.  The coverage has been fantastic.  The close-ups provide an insight into the human side of sports you can’t see from the stands.  It is almost as if you are going through the emotion with the athlete.  What a small price to pay that we have commercials that bring all this to us with flair, expert commentary and fascinating back stories.  And while I am at it, I love the commercials.  They are provided by some of the best advertising minds in the business.  They are creative and entertaining and everything good about our country, the best of the best.

I can’t wait for the next memorable Olympic moment. 

      

YOU DID WHAT?

I am sure there is a name for it.  It is some kind of syndrome or other that hit fathers at some point in life.  Maybe it should be called the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Syndrome.  That would be my choice because I have no other way to describe it.

It usually starts with casual conversation around the dinner table at a holiday, birthday or Sunday night dinner.  Our four kids, their spouses, significant others and friends bring each other up to date on what’s happening in their lives while the grand kids are gathered around a TV to watch Funniest Home Video’s or something.

Wine usually oils the group up so that what is already lively conversation teeters on the edge of uncharted waters.  At least for me they are uncharted. 

Then one of my kids will say something like “Do you remember that night……………………..”  Of course everyone there remembers it but me.  That’s because what happened that night was a more closely guarded secret than the D-Day Invasion.  Through mass collusion, swearing on Bibles, etc., it was deemed at the time “We don’t tell Dad under penalty of death.” 

I then learn what did happen that night.  As the details unfold I think to myself “Not my kids, it can’t be.”  Each one chimes in with their memories of that night, including the wife.  SHE WAS IN ON IT!  Is the bond between man and wife so thin as to be pierced by protecting disobedient children?  All the details come forth, mellowed slightly by the intervening years. 

Then someone else would come forth with their teen year’s horror story.  As each takes their turn, the amount of detail disclosed increases.    Somehow, events that should have led to a year’s solitary confinement are now hilarious. 

As the years have gone by I believe I have finally heard most of the stories.  I have learned that at various times we have had “friends” of our kids living in our garage.  That none of their visitors to our home used our beautiful entry way, they simply climbed through a back window into their rooms.  They drove cars of ours great distances waaaaaaaaaaaaay before they were of legal driving age.  One of them “borrowed” the family boat to take some friends to Catalina Island.  He/she (it doesn’t matter now) could barely see over the bow.

Probably the most shocking discovery of all was, due to the aforementioned back window, I never laid eyes on their cohorts.  I thought at the time it was rather strange that their friends never came to the door to shake my hand and say hello.  But, being the trusting father I am I felt all was well.  Hardly.  There is a good reason they went to great lengths to keep me from seeing them.   Let’s just say I would not have approved of them had I known.  They would have finished their schooling in Siberia. 

I laugh along with them now when I hear these stories.  I have always felt parenting is one part eternal vigilance and one part luck.  We were dealt a huge dose of luck.  I am thankful they are willing to share them with me now.     

My daughter Romy sent me the above recently.  It says volumes about effort and dealing with grief and joy, but my focus here, on this longest day of the year and the beginning of summer, is THE SEA. 

From the day I had my first smell of salt air off the ocean I felt it had magical qualities.  If perception is reality then there was no doubt in my mind the ocean could fix anything.  I am not saying it has Lourdes like qualities but damned near. 

All I know is when I am around the ocean I feel better.  Mentally, physically and spiritually better.  It doesn’t take much.  It can be sitting on the bluff on a foggy night listening to the fog horn at the entrance to our harbor.  Walking along the shore to find interesting pieces of driftwood and bending over to get a closer look at small creatures in the tide pools.  And I love to climb rocks on a point with surging ocean water, mist and foam all around. 

One of my favorite things is to sit in my beach chair on a warm, summer day.  Particularly in the afternoon and into the evening when the wind begins to drop, birds are diving for their dinner, sailboats are racing offshore and the sun begins to set.  I never take a book to the beach.  I am aghast when I hear people say they like to read a good book at the beach.  Are you kidding me?  With all God has spread before you how can you even think of burying you nose in a book?  You can read a book at night or on a rainy day in the winter.  Please.

In the course of an afternoon you see many families lug enough gear to the water’s edge to camp out for a month.  Whether seeking relief from inland heat or treating the kids to a day at the beach, the routine is the same.  They spread out a blanket, stick an umbrella in the sand and break out sandwiches, chips and soft drinks while the kids run amuck.  Kicking soccer balls, throwing Frisbees, guys performing heroic feats to impress giggling girls, it’s all a ritual. 

Meanwhile, The Sea is working its magic.  They will all go home happy, bathing suits full of sand, sun burned and tired.  The next day, with recharged spirits and precious memories, they will tackle life’s struggles anew.  

I always end my day with a slow walk in knee deep water.  The swirling of the salt water around me is good for the soul.  Through the water and the mist I try to soak up every ounce of goodness. 

In the winter it’s quite different but no less magical.  There is a place near where I live that juts out over the ocean.  Emboldened by being on dry land, it is a spectacular place during a fierce winter storm.  With a dark gray sky and howling winds it is beautiful.  Massive waves crash against the rocks below sending spray skyward.  The wind then blows the mist over my vantage point.  Even though it is winter I have my dose of salt water.    

 

FLY-BY

       

As my family can tell you I can be rather emotional when things tug at my heart.  At our family gatherings if the national anthem is being played on TV for an event, they will pass me a tissue.  God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch is another one that gets me misty eyed.  As I have gotten older the lists of things that trigger such a response gets longer.  But one thing that has always been near the top of the list is a fly-by.  No matter how many I witness I get a rush of patriotism and pride that never wanes.

I am one of the great airplane watchers of all time.  If there is one in the sky, I will usually follow it until it is out of sight.  Put me near an Air Force base and I would be perfectly happy to take my place in a hammock looking skyward at daybreak and not leave until sun down.  Just bring me some nourishment and I will be fine.

I spent some time on a project at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway adjacent to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas and I was in heaven.  All day long fighter jets were practicing landings or leaving for a remote up-state Nevada area where scenes for the movie Top Gun were filmed.  They would practice dog fights all day then return one by one to land at Nellis.  There were also massive, troop carrying helicopters that had these huge propeller blades that drooped almost to the ground.  By the time they developed enough rpm to lift off the ground was shaking. 

Naval Air Station Coronado and Marine Corp Air Station Miramar in the San Diego area provided endless hours of fighter plane viewing while fishing in the area.  Closer to home El Toro Marine Base handled all military airplane traffic including enormous cargo planes carrying soldiers and supplies to destinations around the world.  My imagination would run rampant as I watched them become a mere dot in the sky.

Part of the appeal for me was the miracles of watching these manmade things hurtle through the sky but also for what they represent.  A country and people that stands ready to defend themselves if necessary.  That makes me proud.

Watching a fly-by brings forth all those emotions for me.  I have seen many over the years including stealth bombers, Blue Angels, World War II antiques, missing man formations, F-what evers and a tribute to 4 members of the Tuskegee Airmen with a solo fly-by of their famous Red Tail Mustang.  Like I say, pass the tissue.

This past weekend Terry and I were guests at what was billed as the world’s shortest parade.  It was on Balboa Island and it was all of 2 blocks long.  Short on distance, big on stature.  Everyone on the Island gets behind this summer kickoff.  They close the bridge access at 10:30 am and the parade begins down Marine Avenue, the main drag.

The Marine Corp band playing their Marines’ Hymn led the way.  Behind them were city council members, the mayor, police and fire chiefs and other notable locals waving from 50’s era convertibles.  There was a contingent of some 100 golden labs and retrievers with red, white and blue bandanas.  Every block on the island had a “float”.  Most were decorated golf carts.  There was a performance by the Island lawn chair drill team.  The local high schools provided bands and even a break dancing exhibition.  All this was spiced up by a couple of surf bands on the back of flat bed trucks playing Surfin USA and other music that had its roots in our area. 

All of this was a dose of good old American community spirit and pride.  It was highlighted by a fly-by.  Due to typical June gloom there was a very low cloud cover.  It was doubtful if the fly-by would happen.  Finally a voice over the loudspeaker asked everyone to look east.  Out of the gloom and out of necessity, quite low to the ground, appeared a camouflaged P-38 and a P-51 Mustang, vintage World War II, side by side.  They zoomed over the 2 blocks of the parade circled around and buzzed us again.  All was right with the world.      

 



FORMULA 1

It is generally agreed in the world of automobile racing that Formula 1 is the epitome of the sport.  All you have to do is ask someone from Europe.  They would say “You can’t be serious” when trying to compare any other auto racing from any other country, especially if you have the audacity to suggest Indy Car or NASCAR is right up there.  Setting aside the fact that NASCAR has the rest of auto racing in its rear view mirror when it comes to being a commercial success, most serious students of the sport would agree Formula 1 is the cream of the crop.

Being a fan of almost any sport you can name I always, at least casually, followed most of them, if for no other reason than to hold my own in discussions among other sports enthusiasts gathered around the proverbial water cooler.  I pretty much cruised through life that way until my son and his friends started talking gear-head talk around me and I began to assimilate some knowledge of auto racing.  My horizons were being broadened beyond the Indianapolis 500 every Memorial Day. 

My son began dabbling in the sport when he became close friends with a boy whose family had been involved in Formula 1 at the ownership level and had been grooming him as a driver.  Another boy, staying with us at the time, was from England and had been involved in the sport since diapers.  In England, Formula 1 ranks right up there with the Queen and soccer in popularity.  

The chance to view a race was but a dream until one day a race team asked me to drive their transporter to a couple of races.  The owner of the team had made a fortune building chassis for flat screen TV’s.  The team had 2 Atlantic series race cars (a couple of notches below an Indy car) that were driven by his son.  A state of the art truck and trailer transported the cars, spare tires and all other parts and supplies to race sites for events the owner would fly in for.  The 2 races we would be going to on this trip were Milwaukee and then Montreal.  Lo and behold the Montreal event was part of a Formula 1 race week. 

The Atlantic race in Milwaukee was the prelude to an Indy car race that followed the Indy 500 on the race schedule.  I got to view the Indy scene up close and personal.  We were sharing garage space and track time with Penske, Newman-Haas, Fittipaldi, Foyt and all the stars I had seen on television the week before.  Then it was on to Montreal. 

The race track in Montreal has the regal sounding name of Circuit Gilles Villeneuve.  It is on a manmade island in the St. Laurence River named ILL Notre Dame.  We arrived early and secured a prime parking spot for our rig on the back stretch of the track.  After a couple of days of testing we got word that the Formula 1 teams had arrived late one afternoon.

About mid-morning the following day all of us on the back stretch heard it.  There are many things that add to the aura of Formula 1 racing.  One is most certainly the sound.  If you haven’t heard it the best way I can describe it is to imagine what a 1,000 horse power sewing machine would sound like.  NASCAR has its own man-thing, testosterone, gnarly sound that gets a red necks blood boiling.  Indy cars are a higher pitch whine.  But there is nothing like the off-the-charts, unbelievable rpm sound of a Formula 1 car. 

Off in the distance the first one cranked up.  The heads of everyone in our area turned towards the track.  Everyone and I mean everyone, dropped what they were doing and made their way over to the fence bordering the track.  Soon the first car went by, then another and another.  Each car would flow smoothly through each turn, seemingly without lifting.  We watched in silent awe during their brief practice session.  The sound of multiple cars on the track added to the drama. 

The next day we moved into the pit area to run our race and set up in the same area as the Formula 1 teams.  We were to be the preliminary race for the main event that afternoon.  This was my first up close look at the best of the best.  Their “pits” looked like a board room.  They were spotless with nothing out of place.  Every move was precision.  The crew members were dressed as if outfitted by GQ Magazine.  They knew they were the best and acted like it.  There was a very businesslike atmosphere with an indifference to those not in their circle that is in stark contrasts to the fan-friendly approach of American auto racing.

I watched with great excitement as we finished third in our race but I must admit the real thrill was rubbing elbows with the elite of the sport. 

The next morning, before we began our long drive back to California, I walked over to the pit area for one last look.  There was not a trace of evidence they had even been there.  Cars, drivers, crew members, owners and fans alike were somewhere over the Atlantic on flights back to the Continent. 

PS:  The Circuit Gilles Villeneuve was the last track where both Formula 1 and Indy style cars ran.  The Formula 1 times were some 5 seconds faster on the 2.7 mile course.  In fairness to the Indy cars, they are considerably heavier and there are aerodynamic differences.    

      



WHY?

Why do people shop where they shop and buy where they buy?  This question has always fascinated me.  I was intrigued by the question so much that I majored in Advertising/Marketing in college.  My primary consideration in deciding on that major is that we are always trying to sell something, quite often ourselves.  Whether we are opening our own business or interviewing for a job we are selling the customers or the interviewer on what we have to offer.  He or she has many options, why should they choose us?

There have been some classic ad campaigns.  Some use a jingle such as “I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Wiener” or a slogan such as “Like a good neighbor State Farm is there” or even a celebrity endorsing underwear such as Michael Jordan.  But what’s with these Geico ape guys.  The gecko lizard I can see but the ape guys? 

At lease the lizard is kind of a cute little guy that endears a sense of good and kindness.  But what am I missing with those ape guys?  I can envision a meeting in the Geico board room.  High level executives sit around a table and look daggers at a parade of high powered Madison Avenue ad agencies making their pitch.  They listen as the best and brightest in the business make proposal after proposal on how to sell auto insurance. 

It’s getting late in the day, yawns are turning into glances at their watches and thoughts of let’s get the hell out of here.  The last presentation starts with a bursting-with-pride presenter next to an easel, flipping over a cover sheet to reveal 2 guys who look like ape people.  Their team then proceeds to roll out a complete ad campaign based on these people/apes. 

A light bulb goes off in the head of someone in the Geico group (probably the girlfriend of the CEO).  She says excitedly, “Brilliant!  Why did we not think of this before”?  Everyone else at the table, realizing this is the girlfriend of the CEO, enthusiastically chime in with their approval.  A quick vote is taken and they unanimously decide to go with the agency proposing a multi-year, multi-million dollar ad campaign based on the thought that people will gravitate to an auto insurance company based on an affinity for a couple of ape guys.

WHY?  What in God’s name made them think that I, Mr. John Q. Public, would see this ad on TV and think “Damn, I better transfer my auto insurance to Geico”?  I consider myself a fairly astute person but I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what the bait or the trigger is in this campaign.  For openers, they are ugly.  If they were cute looking apes, they might have some appeal, but these guys trying to strut around like Mr. Cool, doesn’t wash.  To me, these ape guys are such a turn-off that I think of Geico as some sleaze ball, back office operation that if I did have a claim, I would call headquarters and get a “This phone number has been disconnected” recording. 

Before I can grab my remote, these guys continue to pop up.  Geico has obviously spent millions on this campaign and it’s still around.  Maybe the girlfriend is still bedding the CEO.  But seriously, am I wrong?           

THE SHOWDOWN



When I was a sophomore in high school I began to think that if I was ever going to have a shot a college education I had better get my act together.  That meant taking the proper college prep classes as well as a few elective classes other than metal shop and agriculture that may be helpful to me in my journey.  One of the classes I decided to take was typing.  Little did I know that besides allowing me to type my own term papers and the like, I was laying the groundwork for being computer literate some years off in the future.

The first day of the fall semester I walked into a jam packed classroom and looked for a seat.  Tables were lined up with 2 chairs and 2 typewriters per table, facing the teacher’s desk.  Every seat was taken except for one seat at a table in the front row, directly in front of the teacher.  There was a girl sitting in the right seat so I settled in next to her.  I was to learn later why this seat was vacant. 

I introduced myself to her (her name was Babs) and got the briefest of nods and a “don’t bother me” look.  I glanced around the room to see if there were any other vacant seats.  There were none.  In fact, several students were giving me rather sympathetic glances. 

I was to learn that this girl was the quintessential “secretary”.  She could already type at warp speed and was only taking the class to fulfill a requirement.  She was obviously bored with the whole thing, especially me.  She even looked the part.  Remember the character Lily Tomlin used to play on Laugh-In, the phone operator with the scrunched up mouth, squinty eyes and prissy, condescending attitude?   Babs was a dead ringer for her. 

The early part of the semester was spent learning which keys were which.  Then we progressed to testing against the clock.  We started with basic stuff like “The quick brown fox jumped over………” and gradually progressed to more lengthy material.  The teacher would say “Begin” and start the clock.  At the end of the allotted time we were judged on how many words we had finished.  After a time that changed to how many correct words we had finished. 

Babs always led the class by miles.  Starting from total scratch, I was but a blip on her radar.  She would finish way before I did and look totally annoyed while I thrashed away.  It was easy to judge how I was doing against her because at the end of each line typed we would have to throw the carriage arm to go to the next line.  At the start I would get a few words in and she was already throwing the arm, usually more than once before I would finish the first line.

It was obvious she had already reached peak efficiency and was not going to improve by virtue of participation in this basic skills typing class.  I, on the other hand, as the semester progressed was getting to be more than just a blip on her radar.  She was still a blur but I was gradually increasing my CWM (corrected words per minute) and closing the gap.

The big day came for our final exam.  Little did she know that from day one I was bound and determined to crush her.  On the sly I practiced every chance I got.  As I strode into the classroom and took my seat I felt a quiet confidence.  Trying to pump myself up I thought to myself “Babs, you’re going down.”  I looked at her, she nodded and I nodded.  It was on! 

At the signal to start, she was blazing; I was blazing, elbow to elbow.  She hit the arm a fraction before I did, but it was close.  As each line went by she increased her lead gradually until the finish.  But at the finish I was on the same line she was.  I don’t believe in moral victories if you don’t win but this might have been one.  Out of the 30 some students in the class she finished first and I was second at 80 some words per minute.  Actually, when they factored in the correct words per minute I was about 20^th.  But I had my pride.  I could call myself a man.       

         

THE OWL

I have known for many years that our kids have big hearts when it comes to animals.  All get weak at the knees at the sight of a droopy eyed dog or a mare with her foal.  Each of them is different of course, ranging from general concern to PETA types fiercely protective of the rights of animals.   The traits of most kids stem from family genes.  I am not sure if I am responsible for the extreme end of the scale but the overall love for animals, birds and fish could be traced to me. 

When I was about 10 years old our teacher gave us an assignment to bring to school something that meant a great deal to us.  I thought about it long and hard and came up with an idea.  Roy, a good friend of ours lived out in the country on a large parcel of land.  There were possums, skunk, squirrels and other animals as well as a variety of birds.  On one visit he told us of an owl that had prepared a nest on the ground in preparation for having baby owls.  He had been watching this beautiful owl sitting on its nest for some time and felt hatching time was close.

On the way home I asked my Dad if I could take this owl to class with me for my assignment.  After much discussion about the difficulty of capturing the bird and keeping it safe my Dad called Roy to see what might be done.  He said "I will think about it and call you".

A few days later he called with a plan.  Watching the owl he had noticed it would leave the next for brief periods of time.  He thought if he built a box that could be held up at one end by a stick, tied a long piece of string to the stick, he might be able to catch the owl.

Late one afternoon he saw the owl leave.  He grabbed the box and stick, ran to the nest and positioned the box over the nest, held up by the stick.  He then took the end of the attached string and hid in the nearby bushes.  It was almost totally dark when the owl returned.  He waited patiently until the owl settled in to the nest, then pulled the string.  The stick fell out from under the box and it fell over the owl.  He crept up to the box, lifted it off the ground enough to peek in and saw the owl was safe.

He called my Dad to tell him he was on his way to our house.  Our special class was the next day so I was filled with excitement. 

It was late at night when he arrived.  He placed the box on a table in our living room and opened the lid slightly.  I got up close, peered in and all I could see were 2 huge yellow eyes looking back at me.  I closed the box and gulped.  We thanked Roy and he left. 

I was toast.  I cried and cried.  I told my Dad I could not do this.  It didn’t matter that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble, I wanted to take the owl back to her nest where she belonged.  My Dad called Roy and asked him to come back, pick up the owl and return it to its home.  I took an old football to class instead. 

Through the years there have been many reminders of our kid’s affection for pets, recently, 2 painful ones.  Each involving rescued animals, one a dog and one a cat.  Both extremely hurtful, as any pet lover can tell you.  While there may be pain at times I hope they, like me, count themselves grateful to be among those that care deeply for God’s creatures. 

NO MORE EXCUSES

I don’t want to be the Marlboro man or anything but I have often wondered what it would be like to have a tattoo or tattoos.  Not all tatted up but just something rather demure and tasteful.  I have never taken the plunge but one night at the Orange County fair I did get one of those temporary tattoos on my forearm.  I felt so ashamed of myself I wore a long sleeve shirt for a several days in stifling heat until it washed off.  I even toyed with the idea of coming out with a line of sheer tops and shirts that had tattoo art work on them so one could go clubbing for the evening with the appearance of having tattoos.  You know, when you feel daring but not that daring. 

So this morning I’m reading the business section of the LA Times when a headline catches my eye.  It says “Pardon me, is that your tattoo ringing?”  It seems Nokia Corp. has filed for a patent for a tattoo that would send a perceivable impulse to your skin whenever someone calls your cell phone.  The phone would emit magnetic waves and the tattoo would act as a receiver.  It would even be possible to customize the response according to who is calling.

VOILA!!  No more excuses.  Being hard of hearing and frequently missing phone calls, this may be the answer!  At least now I could say “I didn’t really want to get one but I couldn’t hear my phone ring”.

So now the question becomes what tattoo to get.  Do I go the tribal route and trace my family all the way back to Ireland?  I really don’t care for gothic, that stuff is creepy.  If I had been a Marine I would go with Semper Fi, but I didn’t have that honor.  I was never in a gang so that’s out and I’m not really the serpent or devil type. 

When I do settle on a design then there is the question of customizing the response.  I definitely have certain reactions to incoming phone numbers.  Maybe an itchy feeling for bill collectors, a feeling of salt spray for a call from a fishing buddy or a warm sensation for calls from my wife and kids.  I could even program it so I would get a choking feeling if it’s the IRS.  The possibilities are endless. 

One of the reasons I always resisted was that a tattoo might give me that living-on-the-edge, bad boy look at the time, but not so much so as the years went by.  While some men face the ordeal later in life of getting a girl’s name removed because it was 2 wives ago, I would never have that problem.  I was then, am now and always will be a one woman man. 

So there are no more excuses for not getting a tattoo.  The fact that I will never miss another call on my cell phone is the clincher.  After much thought, I have decided to go with a family tattoo.  

The location will be on the right shoulder, so it’s not too “out front”.  It was recently surgically rebuilt so it should be good to go.  At the top of the family tree will be my wife Terry.  Below that, across the shoulder will be our 4 kids, Erin, Forest, Romy and Molly.  Below them, and I am going to keep pumping iron with my right arm to assure an adequate width for all the names, will be the spouses, grandchildren and significant others.  Each will be magnetized with their own incoming responses.  There will, of course, be room below for additions as the family grows. 

Now if I can just work up the nerve.               

    

I DID IT

When I was a little boy I lived and breathed football.  Touch football, flag football or tackle football, it didn’t matter.  It was the kids on my block against all challengers.  When we were in school it was football from 3 pm until our mothers screamed for us to get in the house for dinner.  In the summer it was from after breakfast until our mothers screamed for us to get in the house for dinner. 

Fortunately, my Dad loved the game too.  In his quest to build a restaurant empire he was working virtually 24/7.  But no matter where he was during his day that would begin at 7 in the morning and end after his night club closed at 2 am, he would manage to get home by 4 in the afternoon to have a knockdown, drag out football game in the street with us kids before heading back to work.  I would stare down the block waiting for his car to round the corner, and then greet him at his car with a football in my hands.  We would divide up teams and the games were on. 

Thanksgiving Day dinner could not begin until we had returned from the annual Los Angeles Rams game at the Coliseum.  There were not near as many games on TV then as there are now so when they were on, it was a special treat for me.  Bowl games and playoffs were can’t miss TV.  I could tell you the starting roster of every team in the NFL without even blinking.  And being a quarterback myself I idolized the QB’s.  There was zero doubt in my mind that one day I would be one of them. 

Throughout high school nothing changed.  I loved playing the game, my best friends were on the team and football players were my kind of guys.  I still followed all levels of football and my goal was still the same. 

After high school I went out for football at Orange Coast College and tore ligaments in my ankle during two a day practices and was out for the year.  The following year I transferred to USC for the spring semester.  That meant I was there in time for spring training.  It was time to put up or shut up. 

I was what you would call “under the radar”, meaning I did not have a scholarship to play.  I would be considered a walk on, in other words, the bottom of the totem pole.  I did not care.  I had been dreaming of this my entire life.

I found out when we were supposed to report for the first day of practice and I was there.  I walked into the locker room filled with the best of the best.  Every player there had been the best player on his team, in his league or in his state.  In some cases the best in the country.  Their uniforms were laid out for them and their locker reserved with their name on it.  I, along with a few others, had to scrounge for everything. 

I walked up to the trainer and requested a uniform.  He asked who I was, looked through several pages on his clip board and said “I don’t see your name”.   After some smooth talking he issued me a uniform.  I got the leftovers which means I got a jersey and pants for a 275 pound lineman even though I went about 180 wearing wet clothes.  I wasn’t discouraged.  I proudly put on the cardinal and gold and headed for the field. 

My name was not on any coaches clip board for any of the drills so I had to work my way in to try and get noticed.  I got in line with the QB’s, 2 of which, in future years, would lead the Trojans to a National Championship.  When it was my turn to throws passes to receivers the coaches looked at each other with a Who-the-hell-is-this-guy? look on their faces.  I zipped a few passes right on the money and felt pretty good. 

Unfortunately for me the NCAA, in a cost saving move, legislated that players must play offense and defense.  This rule only lasted a couple of years but this was one of them.  We moved to defense.  I stood off to the side watching when suddenly, a coach grabbed my jersey and shoved me into position as a strong side linebacker.  The first play called was a sweep to my side.  I charged up to take on the lead blockers and was instantly buried.  As I lay there gasping for air I looked up and saw the face of the coach who had grabbed me.  He said “Get the hell off the field.”

As the days went by I made a decision.  Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a professional football player.  I had dreamt about it since I was knee high but reality was setting in.  The hardest part was telling my Dad.  I called him one night and told him of my decision.  He said he was proud of me.  As only a Mom or Dad can do he said all the right things for that place and that time.  I meekly said maybe sports aren’t everything and I should concentrate on my studies. 

I never did get to run out on the floor of the Coliseum but I did get to put on the uniform of the University of Southern California.   

                 

FANTASIES

I have often had fantasies about what it would be like to be someone else for one day.  By that I mean that I would still be myself but for that one day I could do what that person could do.  In the past I have stood on a stage with massive crowds swaying to every song like Bono, stared down an evil empire like Winston Churchill, written novels like Hemingway and stood over a putt to win the Masters like Jack.  Then of course there is the World Series game winning home run like Kirk Gibson and the you-pick-it Championship basket by Michael.  I have done them all.

Right up there at the top of my favorites would be to become Michael Jackson for a day.  Actually, for one night would be perfect.  My fascination with Michael stems from my admiration of those with soul, probably because I have none.  I know being a white guy doesn’t help but you would think God would have doled out a smidgen to me. 

There is the soul that comes from a person’s voice, such as Adele, Aretha Franklin, Smokey Robinson and many others.  Then there is the soul that comes from inside like James Brown and Michael Jackson.  I believe they are born with it.  You see little kids bobbing their heads and shrugging their shoulders to the music and it’s just there.  You watch the band and cheerleaders at a high school football game in the hood it’s still there.  You know it when you see it.

To me Michael Jackson was the King of Soul.  There may have been others who could sing with him but as far as moving with him, forgetaboutit.  Every pore of his body oozed God given soul, not the kind you get from dance lessons.  I never tired of watching him move around a stage. 

With that back ground, this is my fantasy.  When I was going to college in LA my good friend Richard and I would go for late night sessions at the California Club near campus.  We were almost always the only white guys in the place.  Sitting in a corner we would watch as a packed dance floor moved to the rhythm of the saxophone heavy sounds of soul music. 

The California Club is no longer there but if it were I would return with Terry and my inner Michael Jackson.  We would take a table off to the side of the dance floor, nurse a diet Coke and glass of Chardonnay and observe.  Things would heat up on the floor as the late crowd arrived.  The best movers in the hood would be strutting their stuff. 

Back in the day Terry won the Watusi dance championship at the Black Derby in Santa Ana where the Righteous Brothers were the club band so I knew she would be up to the challenge.   At the right moment we would move on to the floor.  Terry doing her thing and me trying to stay on the down-low.  Then I would break into my moon walk across the floor.  The crowd would part and begin to surround us as we took center stage. 

For the next 10 minutes I would move around the floor as only Michael could.  The other couples, waitresses and bartenders would all drop everything to watch.  The crowd would go bananas.  When the music stopped we would calmly return to our table.  Despite urging from everyone for one more dance we would pay our tab, thank everyone and leave.  As we passed the doorman I would say “See ya bro”.