eleventh

It was really warm for that time of the year. I definitely recall that. But, other than the Indian like summer, the rest was all ordinary. I love concocting sweeping landscapes filled with all sorts of lushness and endless amounts of detailed descriptions. But, when it comes to my own personal reality, I suffer from the same poor memory as most middle aged folks. I wish I could go back ten, fifteen or even twenty years and tell you what color shirt I was wearing when my father took me to my first big league ball game. I would love nothing more that to be able to close my eyes and with total clarity describe each and every specific detail of the last time I saw my father alive, or either of my grandmothers for that matter. But, I can't. Few of us really can. Oh, some fill in the blanks here and there. There's an awful lot of embellishing that tends to happen. Im not really sure why, but i suppose we all want to hang on to certain memories so very much that, where blanks appear...we just fill them in? Eventually, the line between the real and the filled in parts is so blurred that even you, or whoever, cant' tell them apart anymore. We've all heard of the trophy bass that got away, or the time your buddy outran the police doing something like "a humdred and twenty F'ing miles per hour!", and who amongst us doesnt have an athletic endeavor or two that has been....shall we say, refined? Some memories, however, aren't so pleasant and as much as we would love to forget all about them, or to lessen their realism, their rawness, they just sit there. Sit in the recesses of your mind, just waiting for the next opportunity to rear themselves and scare the living hell out of you. It is these memories, these times that dont call for any embellsihing. So, when i say it was hot....I'm not telling a fable, or beginning the next great American novel, i'm telling you that it was unseasonably warm for Semptember, but the sun was shining, the sky was as blue as the waters from any number of the oceans we all daydream about, and I was preparing for another mundane and all too routine-y day of work.

It must have been 7 something in the morning and I hadnt been up for more than a few minutes when i was informed by my wife that a plane had hit the world trade center. "Good Morning America" was on in the background and I remember stumbling over to gain a better vantage point, because in the scope of boring and mundane, a plane of any kind hitting the world trade center just didnt fit. And, I remember thinking that exact thought....In this day and age of air traffic and technology and all that crap, how in God's green earth did a small plane hit the damn tower? Those were the early reports, that it was a small plane and the speculation was that maybe it was a student pilot and his or her instructor and something had obviously gone tragically awry. My oldest son was preparing for what I assume was a boring and mundane day of kindergarten. My twins, not yet two years old slept through what was to become the most horrific day in the history of our country, at least in any of our lifetime. It was time to hop to it, as my grindstone was awaiting, so it wasnt' too hard to tear away from the television and get into the shower. I was in the shower when the second plane hit. I got out of the shower, and life had changed forever. Of course, I still at this point, wet and drying myself off frantically in order to get back to the TV, didnt' grasp the enormity of the situation. But, I think i speak for just about every single American who was alive that day, we all knew almost instantly that you could toss out any idea of an accident. The images on the screen in my quaint and eerily quiet living room were like something out of a movie. It was intoxicating, but not in a good way. Not in the way that is all friday night at the local bar with your buddies and you're laughing and carrying on and the beer and the stories are flowing and everyone is smiling and forgetting all worries and stresses, at least for one night. No, it was more like the next morning when all the worries and stresses you tried to drink away the night before come home to roost and you pry your head off the pillow like a piece of just chewed gum from off your shoe after stepping on some overheated and skillet like asphalt. I couldn't tear myself away. Each minute brought new images, some new witness, some new piece of information, most of which turned out to be pure garbage. And, then came the rumors. All of a sudden, there were threats of terror from sea to shining sea. Somehow, amidst all this newness, this sense of  "what is going on here", I had to get to the mall. My son had to get to kindergarten, and life would surely get in the way of this far off terror. So, I left. That was one surreal drive to Richmond Heights, Mo. The whole "work" experience was just that...surreal. I got to the Galleria and, while it was early, it still had the feel of a funeral. And, a sparsely attended one, at that. There were no mall walkers. There were no "rise of the gate" shoppers. There weren't even any early birds with merchandise returns in hand, and they are the most diligent and undeterred of the retail public. I remember thinking, even upon walking in, that normalcy would still prevail at some point. But, the sands were now pouring out of that hourglass. After checking into my store and turning all the lights on, I had to find a TV. I believe it was Athlete's Foot? I can't recall each detail, but there was a store on the lower level that had a television going and there were a small gathering of us retail warriors hovering around it, taking in the horror being broadcast to the world. Surreal. By this point, we all realized that this was no ordinary day. We had woke up on a glorious and just another September morning. By the time the mall was set to open its warm and kind of greedy arms to the greater metro citizens, we were actors...bit actors in the darkest day any of has ever heard of, let alone been privy to.
Some way, some how...we opened the store. There was no music. No amped up and over aggressive sales people. More of the funeral procession. I believe we actually sold a few items? I cant' for the life of me think of why we did. I cant imagine being a consumer in that situation, on that day and wandering to the mall and thinking that I just had to have a new hat, or a pair of shiny new sneakers. Maybe we sold crap to the oblivious or clueless. Perhaps, just perhaps there were still souls out there who had escaped all of the coverage, all of the in your face media regurgitation that was in full swing. As far as us employees, it was back to that surreal word. These were uncharted waters. This wasnt a case of checking the snowfall and deciding when to pull the plug in the name of safety. This was maybe the most idyllic weather that we ever get in St.Louis in September? No, this was a national thing, a farther reaching story, one that affected every single living and breathing human in the country. Think about that. What else has ever, or will ever lay claim to a statement like that? I would love to tell you that by this point in the proceedings, on the cusp of the mall being closed for the day, much as every other mall and most commercial businesses around the country were, that I was filled with a sense of patriotism. Or that I was screaming with all of the breath in my lungs that it was time for revenge, time for some good old fashioned eye for an eye. No, I was scared out of my mind. Inside I was trembling. My boss at the time, and I'll never forget her but I won't name her here, called to converse about the craziness, as well as the logistics involved with closing the mall, and the store on this most surreal and odd of days. And, out of nowhere, I just broke down. I'll never forget asking her...."why is this happening?" Neither of us answered. And right then, I had an overwhelming desire to hold my kids. I"ll be we all did. As much as this post was going to go in a few different directions, and perhaps in the near future, I'll open those wounds, pull off those band-aids....it just kind of morphed into a sense of rememberance. I'll always remember. I'll also always remember that national feeling of pride and patriotism that was so strong, so solidified, in those first days. Do you still feel that way?

A really lousy fisherman

I'm going to spoil the ending of this post right off the bat. It is going to have so very little to do with fishing and/or the whole genre of angling. Which, on some levels is kind of sad. My father was one of the biggest fisherman that I ever knew. And, I'm sure that given the right set of circumstances and some subtle prodding, I can and will expound on the man and his love for the water and the eternal search for the "next big one". Even now, so so many years later, it brings a smile to my face and it warms my soul to recall all the wonderful memories and recollections of my Dad doing any number of things to get ready to go and fish? You should check back, because simply typing a few lines about it has unleashed a fairly strong reaction inside me and I actually can't wait to write about my father! But, this one is about me, if I may be so vain?! And, I...much to the dismay of my father, if he were still alive, hate fishing. I mean, look at me today? I live in Minnesota, complete with the 10,000 lakes and I have only been fishing maybe one or two times. And, those were just to fulfill the fatherly duties that one must partake in if you have male children. Just because I despise it, I cant assume that my sons will as well, right? Again, getting off track. I live in what might be a top five state for angling, and I come from a man who had has his number one passion the act of procuring fish...and yet, I have zero desire to dive into the the genre of boats and lures and fishing licenses and 5 a.m departures and depth finders and the list goes on and on. I'm gonna come back to the fishing thing. Trust me on this one.

The real theme to this post is the origin and timeline of my personal affinity and love for the act of writing. Arranging a series of words and phrases into a sentence that becomes magical prose. Ordinary words, mundane in their nature, crafted with just the right touch, just the right frame or reference and something amazing begins to take shape. I first started writing sometime around the 6th grade, I think. I wish that I could visualize or recall with vivid detail the moment that I was filled with the adoration of and for the written word, but alas....I can not. I just recall writing for no real reason at all. Those early pages were rough to be kind. I filled spiral notebooks with kind of the made up day to day middle school dealings of myself and a few good friends as well as some of their good friends. Kind of the first forray into the world of network marketing? Back then, there were no obstacles. I dont' think I even knew the dreaded phrase "writer's block". I just wrote and wrote and whether or not it was bad, good, or something in between didn't matter to me one bit. Because, I thought it was great. I thought I was a big and bad writer, and because of it, I was of course better and smarter than everyone else. It wasn't a matter of vanity....it was just the way I viewed my surroundings. I would let a few read what I had wrote and I'm sure they said nice things just to be nice. A sixth grade writer? Uh....not cool, man. Van Halen, and Michael Jackson were cool. Not writing made up things about you and your classmates. These tomes of drivel still exist to this day, in my mothers basement in the "David" boxes. Once every ten years or so, I'll dig them out and stare in wonderment at what passed as writing to the 6th grade me! I'm sure Hemingway started out writing epic sorts of stuff right out of pre-school? My big claim to fame, or maybe my big dip into the pool of controversy back then was building up to the big french-kissing scene between my best friend at the time, Mike and his female love interest at the time, Stacy. Ahh....good times. Oh, then there was the first time I included and wrote the "F" word into my tale. Luckily for me, my parents weren't checking my work out. Oh, what a rebel! But, above everything, and all the kidding and good natured self depracation aside, I absolutely am in love with this period of my writing history. I've read countless books on writing and only one truth or one lesson has ever stuck with me, so as such, I've kind of adopted it, even if I have far from lived up to it. That is the idea that to be a successful writer, you have to write. You have to write when you're inspired and when you're not. You have to bang out pages when you feel on top of the world, as well as when you're a sniveling hot mess. There are no "perfect" or "ideal" times for writing, just excuses and rationales on why you don't. There are plenty of empty promises one makes to oneself. The worst word in the english language is "tomorrow". I am the king of tomorrows. But, not back then. I carried my folders with me everywhere and looked forward to any and every opportunity to record more scintillating depiction of my 6th grade Rockwellian world. Somewhere along the way, life crept in and with it came all the doubts and insecurities that mar the process. Suddenly, I became something of a perfectionist and nothing was good enough. I must have started hundreds of stories, only to have every single one of them flame out after only a few pages, or only a few paragraphs because none of them were good enough. I wanted instant quality. I wanted to sit down and pen a novel on the first draft? Even as I learned more and discovered just what the journed entailed and the sheer magnitude of it, I still sought the impossible. It became too easy to exist as a writer in my mind only, if that makes any sense? I would tell myself that I was an incredible author just waiting to happen and that very soon, magic was just going to shoot out of my fingertips and then the world would see. There would be occasional actual efforts that each ended just as quickly as they began. And with each one of them that was jettissoned, the time between such efforts grew larger. Mind you, none of these failures or shortcomings did anything to dissipate the notion in my head that I was a kick ass writer. I just knew I was. I was, and to a large extent as I sit here in full mid-life mode, am....a writer who never writes? And, thus, we are brought full circle back to the lousy fisherman angle.

I haven't always hated fishing. You just couldn't be around my father for any extended time and hate it. So, as a young teenage boy, I immersed myself in it. And, as most anyone who has known me for any facet of my life will tell you, I can definitely lean towards the obsessive with regards to "things" that I take up in lfe, or things that I latch onto. And, fishing was one of these things. I collected rods, bought lures, read fishing magazines for God's sake, and watched the television shows on fishing, and then there was the times that I got to go with my father. I even wrote about fishing. This whole thing lasted until I was in high school. While in high school, I had a good friend named John Ellmer. I havent seen him since high school. John was a huge fishing fanatic. His dad had the ranger boat, and he too read the magazines and knew all about the tech-ie stuff, and best of all....John lived on a lake. So, he literally fished every other day if he felt like it. I went fishing with John a few times on his lake. There were times we just stood on the dock or on the side of the water's edge and a few times where he paddled out an old silver John boat. I'll never forget it and I'll never forget the impact that this time had on me and my writing career or lack thereof. If I ever get the chance to have my memoirs published, I will owe the title or at least the preface to one John Ellmer. You see....as much as I loved fishing....I was terrible at it. I just didnt' catch anything, ever. Even with the family history and all the obsessive fawning and now with the good friend and his assured influence, I just never crossed the imaginary line of being good at it? How in the hell does this have anything to do with my writing? In a yearbook signing....from so far back in my life I have no business remembering it, John wrote what has always stuck with me and absolutely will be the title of my life story. He wrote....."To Dave....a cool guy who likes to fish, but never cathes any." How perfect is that? Kind of sums up my life as the writer. If John had continued to be one of my life friends, he could have signed something else..."To Dave....a guy who calls himself a writer, but never writes anything." You were the best Johnny!

Shmol-itics.

I've come up with two things that I should never write about. And, that being said, it took all of about five posts for me to abandon all good sense and logic and dive right into one of the subjects. It is with extreme trepidation that I tip-toe to the edge of a very deep and dark pool and stick my foot in testing the water. Religion and politics. Two party crashers. Because I value my sanity and my limited reputation, I will vow to stay far, far away from religion. But, I just can't help myself on the other one. First, a very brief summary of my personal history as well as views on all things political. I can pretty sum it up with one sentence. I couldn't give a rat's ass. Now, let me assuage those of my friends who are very passionate about it, and/or the few that I know who actually make their living in the arena. I like to think that I am in the vast majority of America who absolutely and unequivalically just wishes it would all go away. I dont' know anything about politics and I have never studied politics, and I further couldn't and probably...no, definitely wouldn't seek out a conversation about politics. I would be perfectly content to just be told that we will always be promised a democracy and that within that democracy, stuff would get taken care of, and to not worry about it, cause I dont know any better anyway? Some of my acquaintances out there cringe mightily at any scenario that involves turning over trust to the government, even in a made up or ficticious idea like mine. I have to respect their bravado and the fact that they are so passionate about it, even if inside....I think its a colossal waste of time. The bravado and passion, that is. I just cant take it lying down anymore. It's getting worse and worse and the stench of all the political jargon has infiltrated every facet of all of our lives. With facebook and twitter and cable TV and the internet all ablaze with wall to wall mud slinging and all sorts of truths, half truths and a load of outright crap.....all being shoved into every orifice on the human body. And, here is the ultimate rub. In my humble and admittedly un-educated opinion, none of it makes a bit of difference. No one is ever happy, no one is ever content. Even the "side" that wins is only euphoric only on the night of the win. The next morning begins the vicious cycle all over again. I have this vision that I'll bet takes place in many a hotel suite on the morning after some of these electoral wins. It has the victor summoning his or her troops around and uttering...very emphatically, "Ok, now we gotta figure out how we're going to fulfill half of this shit we promised". Call me crazy. Again, I feel the need to throw out the olive branch before launching into the next bit of this diatribe. I read daily blogs and posts and the like all screaming about this guy and against that guy and proclaiming how our country is on the verge of falling into the ocean because of him, or will be if we elect her and it goes on and on and on and on. I get the feeling that if I or anyone goes onto some of our favorite social media outlets and backs a candidate, it will be viewed as pure blasphemy by about half? I know this isn't the case, because most are like me. Most think it's all just a colossal waste of time. You know what I heard about Obama before he got elected? Well, first the positive. Our country needed a change. Obama was going to be all about that change. The first African American to be elected president. Look out world, change is coming. Outgoing President Bush was obviously the reason the country was about to fall into the ocean and was a clueless and mindless red-neck who had long ago out-stayed his welcome. Obama was the answer. Look out world, let the re-birth begin. And, the negative? It's actually one of my more favorite lines of all time, politically speaking. Some, and more than you might suspect....proclaimed, with a straight face....that Obama was the Anti-Christ. The Anti-Christ? I laugh even today. And now, some four years later? Both sides are equally vociferous and unwilling to listen to anything but total support of their position. My view on mr. Obama? About average. I know so very little of any of issues. I hear the yelling back and forth from the Hannity's and the O'Reilly's and the whole spectrum of talking heads, so I surmise that lost somewhere in the buried middle is the truth? I take that to be that he's just like everyone else, or most everyone else in that or any elected position. All of us here in the majority, the masses of the average....just dont' and won't see any huge shifts in policy, or any huge life changes. And, certainly not any to warrant all the vitriole and the hatred that is spewed back and forth between brothers and friends?
As long as I've waded in this far, allow me to completely dunk myself. Take the phenomenon, or whatever you want to refer to it as, of the grass roots candidates such as Ron Paul. I must reiterate that I dont know anything about this man, but, it doesn't really matter for the point im making, or flailing to make?! I get it. It is vital that as a true democracy, anyone and everyone should have their voice and have their passion and be counted and viewed as an equal with regards to political ambition. We all know that's not necessarily the way it has turned out. Now, does that mean that folks should just shrug their shoulders and "take their ball and go home"? No. Let me skip to the end point first, and then move backwards. Candidates like Ron Paul and now his off-shoot, some Johnson guy....have NO chance, NO chance to ascend to the office. We all know it. Right? This isnt an endorsement of the two big guys, nor is it some kind of an attack on the small guys. They have no chance. I applaud their ambition, and I start to applaud all of the woodstock like followers who shut out any and all opposing views(just as the followers for any and all parties do), and blindly and often loudly chant Paul's or now Johnson's name. Great, and we're happy for you, but...and I suppose this is my veiled point....isnt' there so much more to life than getting so freaking wrapped up in a cause that, at the end of the day just doesn't matter? Regardless of the man, woman, party, affiliation, beliefs, promises, ideals, money, age, or whatever...I truly in my heart of hearts feel that it barely matters. Clinton, Bush, and now Obama....they all have illicited heaps and heaps of passion and strong opinions and nothing ever changes. Sure, there will always be that one or two policies that get pushed through that either side of the aisle gets all fired up about and it matriculates through and through to the masses, but...and please be honest here...who is ever really content and happy with any of it? Does that mean that i'm suggesting we all just shut up and take it, or turn into Oliver Twist with our bowls of soup shoved out in front of us? No, but I am suggesting that it gets to a point. Barring some kind of radical change in this country(and please...to all of the Paul-ites....I know, I know....I'm positive that Ron would be that guy to make such a radical shift?), it's going to always be the same, sort of? It might shift a bit to the left, or a shade to the right, but life is too short. Live it. Enjoy it with family and friends. Go see it. Take in the majesty and the breathtaking beauty of this country. Drink a glass of wine or two, and philosophize into the wee hours of the morning and together solve all of our ills.
In closing, there isnt' and never will be some kind of a "gotcha" endorsement of "my guy"? Cause, I honestly don't have a guy. I'm just tired of all the layers and layers of crap that is associated with the political process. You all have the God given right to get as fired up as you want and continue to tout and shout your beliefs to the world and to moan and becry those of the all opposers. I just happen to believe that it's a colossal waste of time and energy.

The one where I grovel....

Here I am on bended knee, palms to the sky, with a look on my face that hopefully mirrors a cute yet sad little vulnerable puppy dog? It's kind of fitting and timely, this being another year of a presidential election, that I'm here on my new blog stumping for followers! The Lords of Google have strongly suggested that this is the next logical step on my road to blogging legend. Let's review the steps up to this point, shall we? Step one....have something original to say, and more importantly a desire and a willingness to share it with the legions of society. Check. Step two....develop an iron clad stubborness that allows you to forge ahead even when every single person is either bored by what you have to say, or finds it to be pure crap.....check(I hope?). Step three....turn to one of the media powerhouses and take full advantage of the whole "free blogging" extravaganza.....huge check. Step four....wake up one day and realize that you actually have to WRITE stuff....check. Step five...beg any and all family and friends to sign up and be followers and by doing so, start the chain reaction that leads to my first and most cherished group of fans?? That's where you all come in. There are a zillion blogs out there. I realize that. I'm aware of the fact that everyone with a computer and a spare hour has some sort of blog, some sort of something that just has to be said. I want to be better, I want to be different. Statistics suggest that I won't be. Logic dictates that I'll be one of the zillion and will blend into the fabric of what is a thick and outdated carpet of muddled and overused words. None of that matters to me. I'm intoxicated by what awaits around the corner. Think of it like a runaway train. I'm huge on the train references. Me and Jon Bon Jovi!! Seriously, listen to the man's brilliant lyrics...tons of train references. I want to cram that train with as many passengers as I can fit into it! The more the merrier. A train ride suits me. I will always, and I mean always have one and a lot of the times, two....feet firmly planted in the past. Ride the train with me. Please!! Follow me, I'll follow you. Follow me, I'll pay you? Granted, it won't be much, but....I'll keep track! Follow me and maybe I'll do the Taylor Swift thing and write a song about you? Follow me and i'll remember it forever.

We Were Northwest

We were Northwest. We weren't Fox, Eureka, Lindbergh and no way in hell were we Parkway. We were Northwest House Springs, Mo. We weren't some private or "it" school, and that was just fine with us. After all, those who fled to those places had already done so. We were metro the middle of nowhere....close enough to the city to make ourselves believe we were St.Louisans and yet close enough to the farmland and the sticks to be lumped in with all the "hicks" according to all those who truly were St.Louisans. It's been a tad over 20 years ago, and yet as I sit here and reminisce about those four enchanting years, it could have been yesterday. I know that while I was there, I probably wouldn't have used such sappy language. High school can be and usually is a stark and sometimes abrasive crash course into the rigors and heartaches of life. But, many years later...all I can remember are the moments. The endearing moments. I'm sure that its' somewhat natural and common to revert to the "age of innocence" once one passes through middle age, or is on the cusp of that inevitable sensation of getting old, or shifting from one perceived stage to another one. Adult life turns out to be nothing like the fantasy we think it to be and suddenly, those four years of awkwardness and discovery dont seem so bad? In my case, in our case....it was far from bad. It was idyllic.
Parusing a rogue video that all of a sudden appeared out of thin air rekindled decade old feelings and I was suddenly awash with a combination of tears and goosebumps. I take it for granted that we have all of these simple conveniences that we just can't live without now? Cell phones, video cameras, computers. Back then, though....these were foriegn concepts, in many cases, concepts that weren't even around yet. So, to see images from a roving and roaming video camera, some twenty years later, is indeed something to see. It's the simplest of things....the color of the walls, the smiles and the facial expressions from ancient students, the lockers in the annex, the passing teacher or two....it was almost possible to close my eyes and smell the nachos and pizza wafting from the cafeteria. I was a junior again. A junior at Northwest. I watched this "simple" piece of history with the glazed eyes of a kid on Christmas eve. I was on the edge of my seat, fighting back the tears as I recognized this classroom, and that hallway. There was Mrs. Bagby, my old freshman english teacher....thank you Steve King for this most cherished and hallowed of gifts.

Armed with twenty plus years of so called "wisdom", I'm sure we all would do a bunch of things differently. Kenny Chesney has a poignant and heart wrenching song that uses this concept as its backdrop. In it, he croons that most certainly he would do a lot of things differently. We all would. I would have went to every athletic event possible and cheered lustily for our Lions. I would have joined every single club and group and committee in order to emerse even deeper into the depths of the experience that I only lightly touched. I would try and meet as many kids from every walk, every clique, every corner of our humble school and learn from them and to befriend them and to walk the halls with them. Damn the connotations and the stigmas. I am drunk with the desire to forge relationships with these ancient faces who are but ghosts now. Math club? Chess club? Too geeky back then you say? Sign me up. I would have actually tried out and played soccer because I know I could have, if only I wasnt afraid of failure. How much do we miss, how much do we really and truly miss because of fear of failure? We all have things we would like to go back and do, or in many cases, un-do. Unfortunately, that's not how life works. We live and learn. I'm about to rip off the great Anthony Michael Hall, and his iconic character in one of the most iconic movies from our wonderful decade...."The Breakfast Club". Can't you vividly recall that defining closing scene? Simple Minds is starting to jam and the club is walking out of detention together, but seperate. And, Anthony is reading his letter from the group aloud. I get chills every time! I"m paraphrasing but we were jocks and burnouts. We were geeks and nerds. We were preps and we were nobodies. We were all these things because society labled us as such. We labled ourselves as such. We weren't all friends. We were far from communal. We subscribed to the same high school cliques as every single high school in the entire world, but you know what? We were in a way all dreamers. And, we grew up together. We lived, we learned...together. We all had plans. We were on the cusp of the rest of our lives, together. And this world was vast and just begging to be conquered. I'm sure there were and are a few of us who did some ass kicking out there. But, the vast majority of us probably left the conquering to others. And, that's absolutely fine! That is how life works. But, what I wouldn't give to walk the halls of Northwest one more time and to feel that innate bravado. I'd love to walk the halls and dream about tomorrow.

Isn't it just about the time where we are supposed to sit around the dinner table and regale our kids with our legendary and inflated tales of just how magical things were when we were young and dumb? Didn't we roll our eyes when our very parents went on and on about the fifties and sixties? I for one, take up this gauntlet willingly and eagerly! We were Northwest. We were a big blue “N” on a hill above our football field. We were band geeks under the direction of Mr. O'rear. We were warblers under the eye and ear of Mr. Raspberry. We were Gary the guard. We wore tight rolled jeans and all too often we flipped up the collars of our Ralph Lauren Polos. Oh that little logo. We were tricked out muscle cars. We were under the tutelage of some incredible and mind sculpting teachers. I have always held thesein reverence: Mr. Murphy, Mrs. Boyle, Mr. Ewing and Mr. Cook, Mr. Cavalerro, Mrs. West....and I am confident that I'm leaving out some heavyweights. We were innocent....or not. We were full of school pride. We were the best of friends....some of mine being Shelly and Gene(sorry for leaving out so many?! I only have so many characters to type!). We were scholars like Angie and Vu. The boys all wanted to be Alex, and the girls all wanted to be Tonia, we were just kids in a nowhere school, in a nowhere county. We were Northwest. Its taken me some 20 years to realize that and to verbalize some pretty potent memories. We were Northwest. More importantly and more poignantly, we are Northwest

Live Strong and then go down a coward

Lance, Lance, Lance. You just iced the cake on what has been a week for the books in the world of sport and athletic competition. I assumed that all of the performance enhancing and steroid stuff had started to fade into the background and that we would only occasionally be annoyed by a random snippet here or there of some low level minor league baseball player being suspended for his dalliances. Well, boy was I wrong? Two fairly large MLB stars later, and now the trophy of the anti-dopers, Lance Armstrong. I should preface this with a simple and plain fact. I've never liked the guy. Had to give him his props for the seven tour de' France titles and of course applaud all he was able to do to raise awareness and countless millions for cancer research and all of its various charitible off-shoots. The most notable of which is/was his own, the Live Strong foundation, backed by the mother ship, Nike. I mean, who amongst us hasnt adorned one of those cutest ever yellow arm bands? All that being said, there has just always been something about the man that has rubbed me the wrong way. All athletes, or at least nearly all of them who reach the stratospheric levels that Lance did, do so with at least a smidge of cockiness and/or arrogance. I get it, and I"m sure I will succumb to the same fate when I become the preeminent blogger/novelist dujour and am raking in billions and billions for my sought after words. See what I did there? But....Lance just came across to me a little more pompous and a bit too cocky and standoffish and I labeled him early on as one more jackass of an athlete whose head gets a bit too large. Now I know why his head was getting so large. He was pumping it and the rest of his body full of the finest and most elaborate enhancers that all of that cancer money could purchase? Make no....and I mean ZERO mistake about it folks. He did it. He did it and he did it alot. I know, I know. I've already seen all of the posts and the all of the pleas, backing Lance Armstrong. We need heroes. And, when our heroes are proven fallible or mere mortals, we as good red-blooded Americans defend them to the end, any and all contrary evidence be damned. The man hasnt failed a drug test. On the surface that sounds like a pretty good starting point for a defense. Until you hear of all the masking agents that are even more exotic than the PED's themselves. There is literally no one other than Lance himself who has not fingered him. Fellow competitors, teammates, trainers, experts in the field, doctors....all of them saying emphatically and many with very little to gain. He is guilty as the day is long. And, it matters not that it occurred in a sport that has been and probably still is ripe and rampant with abuse. He built his name, he built his reputation, he built a nations trust and love all based on an image of a warrior wounded. What started out as whisps of smoke, mere whispers of wrong-doing, eventually were fanned into roaring blazes of undeniable lies. I know the die-hards will back him to the end, and certainly won't be swayed by the rantings of a non-descript blogger from the midwest. Any last shred of hope that Lance is innocent were snuffed out by the man himself yesterday. The day of reckoning came. The kingdom of Lance was obliterated with one fell swoop. The seven tour titles? Gone. Eradicated. His future in the sport? Gone. He can and never will be allowed to coach, to train, or even to have one of those feelgood "Im coming out of retirement" race thingys. His name? Tainted, to be kind. His legions? Seeping by the hour. And, when confronted with all of this, how does our champion, our warrior react? Does he rise up and stick his fists in the air and vow to fight, to clear his name and to restore the faith and adoration of all of his fans? Does he demand justice and scream till his lungs are empty of breath? Uh....no. Instead, he says he's done. Done? Ask yourself if confronted by something similar, albeit on a much less grand scale, would you fight for your name? Would you never ever aquiesce to the mounting avalanche? See you Lance. I for one won't miss you on the red carpet of the MTV music awards and the ESPY's. Can't say the same for all of those touched by your foundation. Do you think Finish Line will give me a refund on one of those faded yellow bracelets?

Fairways and green.

I'm working at wrapping my mind and fingers around this new concept(new to me?) of daily blogging, or semi annual blogging, or at the very least, dusting off the laptop once every blue moon or so. Some wise man or woman once said that writing well is about....well, writing. Actually, I just made that up and I kinda like it! I may have to channel my efforts and future endeavors into the creation of my very own "how to" book on writing. Or, not. Until I wake up with some sort of jolt of inspiration, or until I find the genie's bottle and after rubbing it am granted three wishes, I'll probably be sort of an "airborne" writer with regards to this tiny little forum. Oh, I also read that when writing, you arent supposed to use 'tiny' and 'little' to describe something? What is airborne writing? It's writing where the writer, in this instance me, jumps all over the place. The real airborne guys have parachutes when they do it. I can assure you there will be no parachutes.

I couldn't help but notice the breaking news this week that Augusta National has finally admitted not one, but two women to its hallowed and stuffy grounds. And, stop the presses....but, one of the women is not just a woman, but a black woman. In this day and age of instant information and the overall need to saturate our senses with every single bit of information and to re-hash it until it is chewed up and spit out and then inevitably that is still not enough, and someone comes along to do it all over again...the story became one of those hot button specials that just demanded to be weighed in on. We live in a society that is just thirsty, if not starved for salicious stories outside of the normal box. Night after night of baseball scores and highlights and accounts of this pitching perfomance and that clutch two out RBI....it's just not enough for any of us anymore. We need the sex. We need the drugs, and yes...we need the rock and roll. And lo and behold, there are more than enough pushers out there clamoring to be the one to give us that fix.
So, after hearing about this supposed delicious morsel of a story on all, and I mean all, of the usual suspects in television and radio, it was all I could do to stifle a yawn. The legs of this story can be attributed solely to the man made and man fed machine of our modern media. Hootie and Cletus and the rest of the blue blooded rednecks running Augusta finally relented and let a couple of women in. Folks....this is not....NOT Rosa Parks revisited. Hardly. This is not Jackie Robinson breaking the color barriers of white and deeply raicst at the time baseball. The admittance of women into the lush confines of the nations most exclusive golf club has nothing to do with "doing the right thing", or with women's rights, or even with race. And, that last one is a tough one for me admit, because in my heart of hearts, I still believe that the hierarchy of this club are probably closet racists. Now, that's just me and its nothing more than my gut. But, regardless, don't fool yourselves all of you out there championing the fact that there are now women who have been granted access to being members. Billy Payne was all smiles and was saying all the right things. Hip hip hooray for Condaleeza and Darla what's her name. They will forever be known as the guinea pigs, so to speak of course, who were maticulously selected for all the right reasons. All the right reasons for the good old boys that is. You want to impress me Billy? Go to the muny course in downtown Atlanta, or Savannah and pick the women's top player.....and give her full admittance. Picking an ex politico big wig and a local money bags financier is akin to Charles Manson selecting Lizzy Borden to be the first female in his prison knitting club. Of course, this is a hoity-toity upper crust elite level golf club. Not just anybody can walk in and think about playing, let alone joining. Its a different blog for a different day, but I say to hell with all of these "I've done just a wee bit better than you in life, so I'm going to go behind these walls and play the gentleman's game with other like minded and like resourced types while you play on the hardened turf of the local city links" private country clubs. But, I digress. Allow me to arrive at something resembling a point. The only thing I've admired about these guys has been their stubborness. They pointed their snooty snoots in the air and stuck their thumbs as well as their middle fingers at all in the establishment and in effect, took their ball and went home. So, are we to believe that at some point in the last few months, years, even the last decade that the powers that be in charge of Augusta national had a moment of clarity? Did this group of previously staunch and stubborn captains of industry all of a sudden cave to the public perceptions of the serfs of America? How loud can you scream "Hell no?"  It is, was and will always be about the money. Numbers were crunched, egos put in check and one green jacket finally opened the eyes of a few of the other green jackets that there are pools and piles of green to be added to the coffers. I personally dont give two cents that female members are now allowed to happen at Augusta. Women's rights and their cause were not advanced even an iota with this. Every corner of the media would have you believe different, and thats just fine with the members of Augusta.

Still Looking

Hello world. Isnt that how all blogs, both good and bad, are supposed to begin? Welcome to the inner workings of what constitutes my brain. Buckle up. I sit here, like the proverbial kid on Christmas morning, or maybe on Christmas eve, brimming with excitement as I think of all the myriad of possibilities that my very own blog can and will provide. Kind of like my very own shiny red fire engine. You see, Im an aspiring author trapped inside of a procrastinator's body. Im an aspiring author who is waiting for the good novel princess to come down and tap me on the shoulder and utter..."write".....and have it all just....materialize?! So, with the finest album of my lifetime as my backdrop, as well as the soundtrack of my life, I march onward. I'm not entirely sure of what I'm looking for, only that there is definitely something at the end of the journey. I vow to myself and any other potential readers to go light on the U2 overtones! I love the band but, am kind of looking to forge my own identity and it's probably best to steer clear of too much lyrical quoting and such. But, in ulitmate homage, the title of my blog spells out all that I hold dear. The greatest song of all songs starts out with The Edge and his haunting guitar licks, as if from a far off land and the orgy of sound builds with each beat. By the time Bono is belting out the words, I am full of goosebumps and shivering with child like delight. But, what is it about the words, about the emotion. Where the streets have no name is a place of magic. Its a place where you go to get lost from it all, escape if only for a moment. Its where you are with brothers, each rising and falling with gusto, with deep bravado and no one caring from whence each has come from, or why you're there. Its' the past melded with the future, and very much mired in the here and now. I chose my title, however hokey and some might suggest even however token....because its' who I have found myself to be. So many times in my life, I've sought a title, a certain name. I've wanted to fit in with this group or with that one. I've sought acceptance from this person, or from that group of people. Damn the names, damn the titles. I want to write. I want to channel the passion that I have for it onto the page. It burns inside me all hours of the day, deep into the night, begging to be set forth. I've tried countless times to unleash the rage, or what I hoped to be rage, only to be underwhelmed with the direction and another idea cast aside. A classic case of trying to write the award winning title, the glitzy name without the substance. Well, today starts a new chapter. These streets will have no names. I make no promises, no hard and fast vows. No rules.