One of my favorite scenes from "Singing in the Rain" involves Donald O'Conner and Gene Kelly doing a Vaudeville act that includes them singing and playing fiddles to the song "Fit as a Fiddle." In 1981 Steve Martin and Gregory Hines also performed this number for the former's one hour television special. It was spectacular! Now we all have favorite forms of entertainment, whether it be rock, blues, dixieland, musicals, rap, heavy metal, barber shop quartets, etc. etc.. What does that say about any one person?
I can remember driving my kids crazy by playing musicals in the car as I drove them around while they were young. There were times went there wasn't any complaints from the back seat, but there were times when they would groan. The music didn't make them move like it did me. I remember my dad always playing brass quartet music or philharmonic music. It didn't do much for me, but it really moved him. A friend of my parents came to the office the first year that I was a dentist and couldn't stop complaining about the choice of music we had on the radio (soft rock.) She complained so much that I had one of my assistants change the station. Upon which she stated, "Now this is the right music, everything else is garbage." I didn't want to argue with her (that wasn't my style then.) I do believe that it truly takes talent to make any type of music. That being said, I hate rap, hip hop, heavy metal. Even though I don't like that type of music doesn't mean it shouldn't be performed.
What does my choice of music say about me? I think that those of us who are constantly listening to musicals want happiness in their life, an almost "Walter Mitty" hope for a life that is on display in musicals. Now, not all musicals are happy, some are quite sad, but they truly express an emotion that raises the Serotonin in my body. Why doesn't rap do this for me, and yet for someone else? I like Mariachi music, not to the same extent that my assistant at work does, but it's okay for a minute or so. What does that say about her, who can listen to it for hours? Is she more passionate about life because she tells me that their music is about passion? I have another assistant who loves to listen to Heavy Metal. This type of music truly curdles my milk, but she can listen to it for hours. Is she more filled with adventure because she listens to this and I don't? As you can see I have lots of questions and very few answers. Maybe I'll listen to Gene Kelly and Donal O'Conner for a while and wish that my life was a stage!
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Counting .....part II
I was thinking a lot about my dad this week. Yesterday was Memorial Day and I put up a photo of him taken during his tour with the Navy at 29 Palms Marine Base. My dad did a lot of counting in his life. He always carried a rosary in a small green leather poach. Ten "Hail Mary's," followed by a "Glory Be," followed by another "Our Father" and so on. If you went to Catholic school you knew the drill. He also counted teeth, heart beats, blood pressure, cusps, scaler sizes, bur sizes, etc., etc.
Anyway, I thought about his studies (my studies) to become a dentist. He took lots of calculus (thank you Sir Issac Newton,) lots of geometry (thank you Euclid of Alexandria) and lots of Physiology (thank you Claude Bernard.) Time spent studying to perform the practice of dental surgery. More time spent in the library than in the Chapel. The reason I say this is because I have heard people say, "God moved his hands to perform that surgery or his life is in God's hands." I'm not saying God didn't have anything to do with it, but did he? Was it not Newton, Euclid and Bernard who made this counting possible? I know that the answer could easily be responded, "God helped them!" Or easily answered, "Man helped himself."
In the spring of 1980 I was on the Holy Family high school basketball team. Now before you get all excited about me being a high school athlete, let me explain. If you weren't good enough to play for your catholic high school (Mater Dei) you could join your local parish on their high school team. We had about eight teams in our league. We played one game a week and our best player was considered good enough to get chosen first at lunch time (the real basketball players like Steve Pniewski didn't understand why we wanted to get sweaty at lunch when we still had classes to go to in the afternoon.) Anyway, long story short I wasn't very good, but my team was in the league's final. My parents attended every game in the hopes to see me do something athletic that they could tell my grandfather in St. Louis (who would tell his neighbors that I was in the starting lineup for Notre Dame.) The coach told me that he wouldn't play me (17 year old junior), but instead play only the starters (one of them my 14 year old eighth grade 6 foot five brother Patrick) because he thought we had a chance to win. I couldn't argue with him, I was better at statistics than I was with free throws.
The score was 52-51 with eight seconds to go in the final quarter. I had not played one second, but I was excited to be part of such an exciting game. The gymnasium was filled with parishioners and parents. I looked over at the gray haired referee who was massaging his chest during the timeout, just as he fell down. He fell flat on his back, his arms and legs went limp and he wet himself. I didn't know what had happened, but the next object that entered my line of sight was my dad coming over and kneeling down next to the unconscious ref. He checked his vitals and began solo CPR. We watched for over twenty minutes as the professional responders were slow to arrive.
If you have ever taken a CPR course, you are well aware of the importance to keeping count. Back in the 80's it was important to compress a full inch, two inches above the solar plexus. A person performing this resuscitation would do 15 compressions followed by 2 breadths (this has since changed to a compression only regimen.) A large group of women in the gym began reciting the rosary. As time went on they got louder and louder (hoping that their prayers would save this man's life.) My father was doing his best to keep count so that he could save this man's life, but the louder they got the harder it was for him to do his job. Finally, he sat up and yelled, "God Dammit, I'm trying to count here!" He went back to counting, giving compressions and blowing air into the referee's mouth and lungs. The ladies went back to praying (just a little bit quieter.)
Help arrived in the form of the Westminster Fire department. They applied a defiberallator
machine to him and took him to the hospital. My dad's mouth was covered in blood ( the man's denture had broken when he fell and cut the inside of his mouth.) My dad never stopped giving life support even in such a situation that was not very appealing. His efforts kept that man alive, I have no doubt in my mind. I imagine that somewhere at sometime there was a person or is a person who is also reliving this story. That person may right now be telling their audience that it was the power of prayer that saved this man. I believe that it was Newton, Euclid or Bernard that heard my dad's prayers in his counting.
Anyway, I thought about his studies (my studies) to become a dentist. He took lots of calculus (thank you Sir Issac Newton,) lots of geometry (thank you Euclid of Alexandria) and lots of Physiology (thank you Claude Bernard.) Time spent studying to perform the practice of dental surgery. More time spent in the library than in the Chapel. The reason I say this is because I have heard people say, "God moved his hands to perform that surgery or his life is in God's hands." I'm not saying God didn't have anything to do with it, but did he? Was it not Newton, Euclid and Bernard who made this counting possible? I know that the answer could easily be responded, "God helped them!" Or easily answered, "Man helped himself."
In the spring of 1980 I was on the Holy Family high school basketball team. Now before you get all excited about me being a high school athlete, let me explain. If you weren't good enough to play for your catholic high school (Mater Dei) you could join your local parish on their high school team. We had about eight teams in our league. We played one game a week and our best player was considered good enough to get chosen first at lunch time (the real basketball players like Steve Pniewski didn't understand why we wanted to get sweaty at lunch when we still had classes to go to in the afternoon.) Anyway, long story short I wasn't very good, but my team was in the league's final. My parents attended every game in the hopes to see me do something athletic that they could tell my grandfather in St. Louis (who would tell his neighbors that I was in the starting lineup for Notre Dame.) The coach told me that he wouldn't play me (17 year old junior), but instead play only the starters (one of them my 14 year old eighth grade 6 foot five brother Patrick) because he thought we had a chance to win. I couldn't argue with him, I was better at statistics than I was with free throws.
The score was 52-51 with eight seconds to go in the final quarter. I had not played one second, but I was excited to be part of such an exciting game. The gymnasium was filled with parishioners and parents. I looked over at the gray haired referee who was massaging his chest during the timeout, just as he fell down. He fell flat on his back, his arms and legs went limp and he wet himself. I didn't know what had happened, but the next object that entered my line of sight was my dad coming over and kneeling down next to the unconscious ref. He checked his vitals and began solo CPR. We watched for over twenty minutes as the professional responders were slow to arrive.
If you have ever taken a CPR course, you are well aware of the importance to keeping count. Back in the 80's it was important to compress a full inch, two inches above the solar plexus. A person performing this resuscitation would do 15 compressions followed by 2 breadths (this has since changed to a compression only regimen.) A large group of women in the gym began reciting the rosary. As time went on they got louder and louder (hoping that their prayers would save this man's life.) My father was doing his best to keep count so that he could save this man's life, but the louder they got the harder it was for him to do his job. Finally, he sat up and yelled, "God Dammit, I'm trying to count here!" He went back to counting, giving compressions and blowing air into the referee's mouth and lungs. The ladies went back to praying (just a little bit quieter.)
Help arrived in the form of the Westminster Fire department. They applied a defiberallator
machine to him and took him to the hospital. My dad's mouth was covered in blood ( the man's denture had broken when he fell and cut the inside of his mouth.) My dad never stopped giving life support even in such a situation that was not very appealing. His efforts kept that man alive, I have no doubt in my mind. I imagine that somewhere at sometime there was a person or is a person who is also reliving this story. That person may right now be telling their audience that it was the power of prayer that saved this man. I believe that it was Newton, Euclid or Bernard that heard my dad's prayers in his counting.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Counting...
I've been thinking lately about how much counting I do in a day. It starts everyday with the alarm clock going off at a certain time. We lay in bed for ten minutes, checking the clock every few before we actually get up. Julie gets a shower first, but before she does she checks what numbers show up on the scale. If the number is smaller than usual she is happy if it is bigger she is sad. Counting really has an affect on us.
I drive 23 miles each way for work. When I get to work I look at the clock and know exactly what I need to do in that allowed time. Checking the minutes as I prepare the office for the first patient. Each procedure takes a certain amount of time with my present particular skill set. I know just about how long it will take me to do a crown and two fillings on a patient when I look in their mouth. I'm usually right most of the time. As I'm working I am constantly counting. Not just what I am doing (impressions, etching, bonding, cementing, etc., etc,..) but what is going on throughout the office. I hear the phone ring (I count the number of times before it is picked up.) I hear the x-ray developer initiate and I count till it's done. I hear the doorbell ring and wonder how many people came through.
I count how many more patients I need to see before I can go home to Julie everyday. At the end of the day I get handed the deposit. I look at the numbers and either smile or frown. I am counting on that money to pay bills. I go to the bank and make my deposit and always ask for an updated total for my account. Constantly counting!
I find that when I get home I relax a bit. Time and counting becomes less important for about the next two hours. Usually, Julie and I greet each other and begin to talk about our day and what our hopes and dreams are for the near and far future. As we talk I become less interested in time and counting. I also notice that I feel little pressure. I usually get up and begin dinner at some random time, but Julie and I are still talking. As time does continue, counting reintroduces himself to me. We know that we need to get to bed at a certain time so that we can get up and do it all again.
So what does all of this rambling tell me? It tells me that perhaps a schedule less filled may be a little healthier for me. What if I stopped worrying about money, weight or distance. Less counting. Less is more!
I drive 23 miles each way for work. When I get to work I look at the clock and know exactly what I need to do in that allowed time. Checking the minutes as I prepare the office for the first patient. Each procedure takes a certain amount of time with my present particular skill set. I know just about how long it will take me to do a crown and two fillings on a patient when I look in their mouth. I'm usually right most of the time. As I'm working I am constantly counting. Not just what I am doing (impressions, etching, bonding, cementing, etc., etc,..) but what is going on throughout the office. I hear the phone ring (I count the number of times before it is picked up.) I hear the x-ray developer initiate and I count till it's done. I hear the doorbell ring and wonder how many people came through.
I count how many more patients I need to see before I can go home to Julie everyday. At the end of the day I get handed the deposit. I look at the numbers and either smile or frown. I am counting on that money to pay bills. I go to the bank and make my deposit and always ask for an updated total for my account. Constantly counting!
I find that when I get home I relax a bit. Time and counting becomes less important for about the next two hours. Usually, Julie and I greet each other and begin to talk about our day and what our hopes and dreams are for the near and far future. As we talk I become less interested in time and counting. I also notice that I feel little pressure. I usually get up and begin dinner at some random time, but Julie and I are still talking. As time does continue, counting reintroduces himself to me. We know that we need to get to bed at a certain time so that we can get up and do it all again.
So what does all of this rambling tell me? It tells me that perhaps a schedule less filled may be a little healthier for me. What if I stopped worrying about money, weight or distance. Less counting. Less is more!
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
First Kiss....
When I was fourteen (big year, see blog#2) my parents allowed my older brother Douglas and me to have a New Year's Eve party. My parents gave us a limit, so the modest guest list included only members of Mater Dei's Band. Parents dropped off our friends around 8 pm at which point we escorted them up to our rumpus room (part of the deal with mom and dad was that we all stay in one room the entire night.) We talked and laughed and played games that were very innocent and childlike (what did you expect, we were Bandos!)
At some point in the night Cindy, Kevin and myself were in the big walk-in closet looking to choose a board game to play with the group. Someone outside the closet thought it would be funny to close the door and turn off the light inside the closet to scare us. As the door shut and the light went out Cindy's arms went around my back and she pulled me close to her. I immediately put my arms around her and our lips met. Fourteen years of living, this had to be the highlight! She was this beautiful sandy blonde trombone player with an Angelic face. Why she wanted to kiss me was beyond me( I was a bony, acne faced, stuttering pile of no confidence,) but I decided now was not the time for a Q and A session. We kissed non stop for at least 30 minutes. After about twelve minutes I saw the door open and watched Kevin leave and close the door behind him. I was so involved in kissing Cindy that I forgot about Kevin being in this 3x6 closet with us. In the past thirty eight years I have never asked Kevin what was he doing in the dark for twelve minutes while Cindy and I were "making out." I think the next time I see him I'll ask.
Thirty minutes into our first and only kissing session, my younger brother Patrick flipped on the lights, opened the door and yelled, "Dad wants to see you right now!!" Well let me tell you, I thought I had just been caught feeling up the Queen of England (it might have been the guilt I was grasping while my thumb was trying to get some side boob during the last few precious moments in the dark.) I ran as fast as I could out of the closet to our bathroom, washed off any evidence of lipgloss and ran downstairs to where my dad was entertaining his friends. I must have looked white as a sheet, scared to death that I would be banished to a monastery. He was sitting at the kitchen table, turned to me and gave me the index waving finger to "come closer." I leaned in with my heart racing faster than a Quarter Horse. My dad said, "pay attention to your other guests." He turned back to his friends and continued talking.
That was it? I wasn't going to the gas chamber? I could live to see 1978? I turned around and proceeded upstairs where I talked to everyone, but Cindy. I didn't have much confidence back then. I didn't know what to do next. I was between a boy and a man (mostly the former.) We would always be friends and eventually even go to the Junior Prom together in 1980. Although, we only went as friends (I still didn't have much confidence. ) I have probably have had less
than a couple dozen "first kisses" in my life, but I have had two first kisses that I will never forget. One was with Cindy and the other was on Cinco De Mayo in front of a Denny's in Orange. If you're interested, both girls kissed me first.
That last "first kiss" was the best!
At some point in the night Cindy, Kevin and myself were in the big walk-in closet looking to choose a board game to play with the group. Someone outside the closet thought it would be funny to close the door and turn off the light inside the closet to scare us. As the door shut and the light went out Cindy's arms went around my back and she pulled me close to her. I immediately put my arms around her and our lips met. Fourteen years of living, this had to be the highlight! She was this beautiful sandy blonde trombone player with an Angelic face. Why she wanted to kiss me was beyond me( I was a bony, acne faced, stuttering pile of no confidence,) but I decided now was not the time for a Q and A session. We kissed non stop for at least 30 minutes. After about twelve minutes I saw the door open and watched Kevin leave and close the door behind him. I was so involved in kissing Cindy that I forgot about Kevin being in this 3x6 closet with us. In the past thirty eight years I have never asked Kevin what was he doing in the dark for twelve minutes while Cindy and I were "making out." I think the next time I see him I'll ask.
Thirty minutes into our first and only kissing session, my younger brother Patrick flipped on the lights, opened the door and yelled, "Dad wants to see you right now!!" Well let me tell you, I thought I had just been caught feeling up the Queen of England (it might have been the guilt I was grasping while my thumb was trying to get some side boob during the last few precious moments in the dark.) I ran as fast as I could out of the closet to our bathroom, washed off any evidence of lipgloss and ran downstairs to where my dad was entertaining his friends. I must have looked white as a sheet, scared to death that I would be banished to a monastery. He was sitting at the kitchen table, turned to me and gave me the index waving finger to "come closer." I leaned in with my heart racing faster than a Quarter Horse. My dad said, "pay attention to your other guests." He turned back to his friends and continued talking.
That was it? I wasn't going to the gas chamber? I could live to see 1978? I turned around and proceeded upstairs where I talked to everyone, but Cindy. I didn't have much confidence back then. I didn't know what to do next. I was between a boy and a man (mostly the former.) We would always be friends and eventually even go to the Junior Prom together in 1980. Although, we only went as friends (I still didn't have much confidence. ) I have probably have had less
That last "first kiss" was the best!
Monday, May 18, 2015
Looking for Normal......
I have experienced a very rocky and winding road the past three years. I went from being married for twenty five years to being divorced. I went from being the father of three teenagers to being the father of three adults who live or are moving far away. I moved out of my very beautiful 3000 sq. ft. home to a very cute 900 sq. ft. home. I went from having two parents to just one. I went through a very taxing IRS audit( pun intended. ) I had probably the worst experience of all - a court divorce with someone who wanted to break me emotionally and financially. I also experienced more joy than I ever have with Julie, who gives me a smile and all her love every day. All of that being said, I don't know what normal is anymore.
During my divorce process Julie and I keep saying, "we can't wait for this to be over so life can get back to normal." But life just keeps changing on us. Her mother died in the fall of last year and my dad died exactly six weeks later. Julie's favorite 50 year old cousin died three weeks after dad. We were so very sad last Christmas from all the loss and yet we threw a Christmas Eve party for her family. Well to be accurate Julie and I cooked and cleaned for several days beforehand and then she went to church with her family while I met Bobby (my son) at Yen Chings (our traditional Christmas Eve dinner for nearly twenty years.) Mark couldn't make it because he was sick and Mary was in New York unable to get away from work. I had a great time with Bobby, but something or someone was missing. He went back to his room at his mother's apartment and I went back to Julie's condo to start cooking for her family. Everyone had a great time and I even dressed up as Santa.
Like I said, "It was a very nice evening, it just didn't feel normal." For anyone! The next morning was a breakfast at her fathers house, but somehow the mood was dreary. Her mother wasn't there anymore. That puts a different light on any celebration when there are freshly empty chairs. My mom stayed in St. Louis with her cousins for the holidays to keep from reminding us that dad was gone. We couldn't forget, we could just go on. Is this the new normal?
Right now Julie and I would like to move from our little place to one with one more room. Right now we are in 900 sq feet and would love to have just a little more for visitors, storage and just a little more space. Moving is always stressful. Physically it is challenging, especially in our later years. Emotionally it is both exciting and scary. Julie is better at the unknown than I am. We both would love to have one more room and to start off in a place together that we can pick out as a couple would be ideal. When this happens (we need to sell the condo first) we will move to a new neighborhood with new neighbors. This is not a bad thing, just a continuing trend of change in my life. Is this the new normal?
Personally, Julie and I have been experiencing bodily changes. Not the good kind when you turn thirteen. She is going through menopause and I am going through andropause. We both get "hot flashes" of different degrees ( pun intended again.) Julie has an issue with her lips that makes it look as if we have been "making out" all weekend, except we haven't. We have both gained weight and we have both become moodier. Very unlike us (especially Julie - she has been a ray of sunshine her whole life.) Is this the new normal?
The more I write the more I believe that my life is never going to be boring. I think that normal must mean that you know exactly what tomorrow brings and today there were no surprises. Whether or not that 's a good thing is for each person to determine. Just imagine if you didn't get the bad surprises (like dad dying,) but also never got the good ones (like my surprise birthday party!) What if you never took a chance? Imagine what you would have missed out on. Perhaps I could have stayed in a more normal (not very happy) life, but then I wouldn't be with Julie. That would've been the greatest loss of all.
I think I found my normal.
During my divorce process Julie and I keep saying, "we can't wait for this to be over so life can get back to normal." But life just keeps changing on us. Her mother died in the fall of last year and my dad died exactly six weeks later. Julie's favorite 50 year old cousin died three weeks after dad. We were so very sad last Christmas from all the loss and yet we threw a Christmas Eve party for her family. Well to be accurate Julie and I cooked and cleaned for several days beforehand and then she went to church with her family while I met Bobby (my son) at Yen Chings (our traditional Christmas Eve dinner for nearly twenty years.) Mark couldn't make it because he was sick and Mary was in New York unable to get away from work. I had a great time with Bobby, but something or someone was missing. He went back to his room at his mother's apartment and I went back to Julie's condo to start cooking for her family. Everyone had a great time and I even dressed up as Santa.
Like I said, "It was a very nice evening, it just didn't feel normal." For anyone! The next morning was a breakfast at her fathers house, but somehow the mood was dreary. Her mother wasn't there anymore. That puts a different light on any celebration when there are freshly empty chairs. My mom stayed in St. Louis with her cousins for the holidays to keep from reminding us that dad was gone. We couldn't forget, we could just go on. Is this the new normal?
Right now Julie and I would like to move from our little place to one with one more room. Right now we are in 900 sq feet and would love to have just a little more for visitors, storage and just a little more space. Moving is always stressful. Physically it is challenging, especially in our later years. Emotionally it is both exciting and scary. Julie is better at the unknown than I am. We both would love to have one more room and to start off in a place together that we can pick out as a couple would be ideal. When this happens (we need to sell the condo first) we will move to a new neighborhood with new neighbors. This is not a bad thing, just a continuing trend of change in my life. Is this the new normal?
Personally, Julie and I have been experiencing bodily changes. Not the good kind when you turn thirteen. She is going through menopause and I am going through andropause. We both get "hot flashes" of different degrees ( pun intended again.) Julie has an issue with her lips that makes it look as if we have been "making out" all weekend, except we haven't. We have both gained weight and we have both become moodier. Very unlike us (especially Julie - she has been a ray of sunshine her whole life.) Is this the new normal?
The more I write the more I believe that my life is never going to be boring. I think that normal must mean that you know exactly what tomorrow brings and today there were no surprises. Whether or not that 's a good thing is for each person to determine. Just imagine if you didn't get the bad surprises (like dad dying,) but also never got the good ones (like my surprise birthday party!) What if you never took a chance? Imagine what you would have missed out on. Perhaps I could have stayed in a more normal (not very happy) life, but then I wouldn't be with Julie. That would've been the greatest loss of all.
I think I found my normal.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Serendipity
This week I had this feeling that I really wanted to go watch an old mare of mine (Docs Little Corona) race at Los Alamitos Race Track. She had run fourteen previous races and I had never seen her run in person. I haven't owned her since she was one so I just lost track of her. In the past few months I would catch her on television running and that was all I needed to satisfy my curiosity. A few days ago I got a reminder that she would be running on Saturday night. Something inside me was pushing hard to go see her in person. So Julie and I made a date of it and got to the track about six. We sat down at the bar, had a couple of drinks and ordered some dinner (try the double pork chop - it was delicious!)
I decided to make a bet on a horse called "Treasured Jewel." Since Julie was with me it seemed serendipitous. As I went to place the bet I saw a very familiar face dressed in black standing at the betting counter. "Rich" I yelled. He turned and we hugged and started to slap each other on the back and laugh. We hadn't seen each other in years. I grabbed him and ran over to Julie to make introductions. Rich had decided to come to the track for an early Mother's Day for his lovely mother (Sonja Gentile.) He brought along his two sons (Little Tony age 12 and Jack age 10) and his girlfriend Radka.
Rich and I were the best of friends (more like brothers) at UCLA's dental school. We did everything together. We played intramural sports (football and softball) freshman year. We spent hours together studying, selling bagels, playing paintball, bowling, hashing at the Sigma Kappa Sorority, attending bachelor parties, attending weddings, making class movies, sharing patients, lab work, television game show tryouts and playing poker. No one could make you laugh faster than Rich. No one would challenge you to his opinion faster than Rich. If you got into a fist fight with Rich, he would stand his ground and then when it was done convince you that the two of you should be friends. No one was more honest than Rich. He would sit in the very front of class during a test and remind everyone not to cheat. He was and is "One of Kind!"
We went upstairs at the track to watch the race with his mother and kids. We took pictures and exchanged stories of our past to the delight of everyone. Docs Little Corona came in second. I felt like I came in first! It's a funny thing about expectations. I felt that the horse Treasured Jewels was going to be serendipitous (she lost,) all along it was Rich.
I decided to make a bet on a horse called "Treasured Jewel." Since Julie was with me it seemed serendipitous. As I went to place the bet I saw a very familiar face dressed in black standing at the betting counter. "Rich" I yelled. He turned and we hugged and started to slap each other on the back and laugh. We hadn't seen each other in years. I grabbed him and ran over to Julie to make introductions. Rich had decided to come to the track for an early Mother's Day for his lovely mother (Sonja Gentile.) He brought along his two sons (Little Tony age 12 and Jack age 10) and his girlfriend Radka.
Rich and I were the best of friends (more like brothers) at UCLA's dental school. We did everything together. We played intramural sports (football and softball) freshman year. We spent hours together studying, selling bagels, playing paintball, bowling, hashing at the Sigma Kappa Sorority, attending bachelor parties, attending weddings, making class movies, sharing patients, lab work, television game show tryouts and playing poker. No one could make you laugh faster than Rich. No one would challenge you to his opinion faster than Rich. If you got into a fist fight with Rich, he would stand his ground and then when it was done convince you that the two of you should be friends. No one was more honest than Rich. He would sit in the very front of class during a test and remind everyone not to cheat. He was and is "One of Kind!"
We went upstairs at the track to watch the race with his mother and kids. We took pictures and exchanged stories of our past to the delight of everyone. Docs Little Corona came in second. I felt like I came in first! It's a funny thing about expectations. I felt that the horse Treasured Jewels was going to be serendipitous (she lost,) all along it was Rich.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Distractions....
Right now I am at Starbucks having a Hazelnut blended tall coffee and trying to write down some ideas for my next blog. The weather is perfect and I am sitting next to the fountain so the ambiance is nice. Well it was for a minute! A girls soccer team and a boys baseball team just finished eating their share of pizza, licorice and sodas and are expending their energy running around me like a crazed tribe of Apaches surrounding a broken down wagon train. Now I like kids (well not the kid with "Perkins" written on the back of his jersey- he screams louder than I do at a Neil Diamond concert.) I don't like the screaming and out of control "Walking Dead" like mass hysteria that comes with them when they get into groups.
It's been a while since my kids were young (they are now 22, 24 and 26.) I remember the screaming and excitement when their friends would come over to our house. I was sure that the neighbors would suspect "human sacrifice" was being practiced at our abode. I tried everything I could (feeding them, putting on a movie, trying to get them to play a board game with me, etc. etc.) I just wanted them to be quieter so the neighbors or people in the next county wouldn't hate us. The reason I wanted them quiet was because I knew that if I was trying to do an activity I didn't want to be distracted, so I didn't want to be the cause of someone else's unproductiveness. Unfortunately, not every parent feels the same way.
As I sit here with the screaming, running, jumping and potential for pandemonium I can't help but imagine that this is my life. Not this exactly, but that everyday I wake up with a list of duties to complete (besides my job.) Instead of screaming coming from that irritating Perkins it's returning a phone call from a patient with a question about something. Instead of those sixteen nine year old girls running past me, bumping my coffee and causing general unrest it's one of my employees telling me that they need to leave work early or come in later because of a personal reason. Instead of a ten year old boy in cleats trying to jump over the empty chair next to me it's a piece of equipment that has decided to stop functioning properly and requires my complete attention (right Now!!) Instead of pandemonium from the under supervised group of children surrounding me it's a letter that just arrived in the mail from either the IRS or my divorce lawyer. Somehow, someway my work gets done and my list gets done (for the most part.)
So which came first the chicken or the egg? Did having kids make me better at handling distractions or did I get distracted and have kids?
It's been a while since my kids were young (they are now 22, 24 and 26.) I remember the screaming and excitement when their friends would come over to our house. I was sure that the neighbors would suspect "human sacrifice" was being practiced at our abode. I tried everything I could (feeding them, putting on a movie, trying to get them to play a board game with me, etc. etc.) I just wanted them to be quieter so the neighbors or people in the next county wouldn't hate us. The reason I wanted them quiet was because I knew that if I was trying to do an activity I didn't want to be distracted, so I didn't want to be the cause of someone else's unproductiveness. Unfortunately, not every parent feels the same way.
As I sit here with the screaming, running, jumping and potential for pandemonium I can't help but imagine that this is my life. Not this exactly, but that everyday I wake up with a list of duties to complete (besides my job.) Instead of screaming coming from that irritating Perkins it's returning a phone call from a patient with a question about something. Instead of those sixteen nine year old girls running past me, bumping my coffee and causing general unrest it's one of my employees telling me that they need to leave work early or come in later because of a personal reason. Instead of a ten year old boy in cleats trying to jump over the empty chair next to me it's a piece of equipment that has decided to stop functioning properly and requires my complete attention (right Now!!) Instead of pandemonium from the under supervised group of children surrounding me it's a letter that just arrived in the mail from either the IRS or my divorce lawyer. Somehow, someway my work gets done and my list gets done (for the most part.)
So which came first the chicken or the egg? Did having kids make me better at handling distractions or did I get distracted and have kids?
What will life throw at you?
When I was fourteen (14) years old I was a freshman at Mater Dei High School. I was in the band (first trombone, second seat!) and on the bowling team, so obviously I was the coolest cat in school. Every Monday afternoon I would take my backpack and a sixteen pound bowling ball (my dad picked weight based on what a real man would use) for a one mile walk to Santa Ana lanes. One particular Spring Monday Jim Mitzel and I were halfway to the bowling alley when a 1974 brown Nova came screaming down Bristol avenue toward us (Jim played sousaphone and had a 1970's classic afro hairstyle and I was 115 pounds of nervousness.) The Nova was moving at least at 50 mph. I could see a red spherical object being thrown from the passenger's side window. It probably took less than two seconds from being thrown out of the window to come crashing into my testicles, but during that time I thought it would hit Jim.
I didn't consider the danger it would do me! The red water ballon grazed Jim's left thigh just before it impacted me below the belt buckle. I went to the ground in pain yelling to Jim, "Get the license plate number!" It was too late. He was already on the ground laughing so hard he couldn't see straight.
I realized later as I limped to the bowling alley in wet pants that I couldn't control or see all that life was going to throw at me Well maybe I realized that a few decades later. I hope that your life isn't so hard that you don't get back up, even with wet pants and pain to the groin.
Happiness
I've been wondering lately about "the meaning of Life." Voltaire stated that the meaning of life was not to find happiness, but to survive. I've heard other people say, "Just look for happy moments, not happiness." I have never been a black and white type of person. I have always been able to see both sides of an argument. Maybe, I'm just wishy-washy. That being said, I think that life is about survival and looking for happy moments. Maybe, just maybe that's "Happiness."
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