The Isle of Man TT: More Proof That Hemingway Was Right

Ernest Hemingway wrote that “Bull fighting, rock climbing and motor racing are the only true sports. The rest are merely games.”  One trip to the Isle of Man TT, and you won’t have any argument with Hemingway’s statement.

I’ve been to a bullfight and seen matadors narrowly escape a bloody goring. I’ve witnessed rock climbers fall, coming within inches of splitting their melons open, and I’ve been to most of the world’s greatest motor racing events, and sadly, seen many men lose their lives in the pursuit of speed, victory and glory.

I grew up outside of Indianapolis, so I’ve been a big racing fan all of my life, but I have to admit that I admire motorcycle racers the most. They have no protection at all. Helmets and leathers mean very little when you’re approaching 200 miles per hour.  Motorcycle racers don’t bounce off walls and keep going. They bounce off walls and land on their heads, then slide along the track, burning through their leathers all the way to their bones. Compound fractures, rods, plates and screws are commonplace. For most motorcycle racers, their internal hardware is the closest thing to a trophy they’ll ever see. Just walking away can be a victory.

The Isle of Man is a beautiful piece of land in the middle of the Irish Sea, about halfway between Scotland and Northern Ireland. It has everything from postcard perfect beaches, lush green hillsides, ancient castles, and some of the friendliest people on earth. When you arrive at the quaint, little Ronaldsway airport, there is no feeling that you are about to experience one of the deadliest motor sports events in the world. However, there is the very distinct feeling that you are entering a huge party zone. A party that involves mainly two things, motorbikes and beer. Thousands of motorbikes descend on this tiny island, arriving on the ferry from all across Europe, and for every motorbike you see, there is a person with a pint in their hand. Without a doubt, the fun meter is pegged.

You have no sense of the danger even when you visit the paddock and pit area at the start/finish line in Douglas. Transporters, tents and motor homes are all lined up, with teams working on the bikes, and the riders waiting nearby, happy to sign autographs, take pictures or have a conversation. If there is any fear, it’s not evident, even when they are preparing to blast around the thirty-seven and a half mile course.

Standing in the pits watching the bikes take off one at a time, you have no sense of what the course is like. But once you go a mile from the start to an area of the circuit known as Bray Hill, and you see the bikes screaming by at full speed, with unprotected walls and people on both sides, it literally takes your breath away. It’s then that you realize this isn’t just another motorcycle race. It’s complete and total insanity.

Not just at Bray Hill, but everywhere on the circuit. No air fence, very few hay bales, twenty-foot high stone walls on both sides, and so many little concrete posts that you can’t count them all. In some parts of the circuit, there are homes just inches from the speeding bikes. Then there are the bumpy, narrow streets of towns like Kirk Michael and Ramsey, where it’s normal for the bikes to launch into the air instead of slow down, their frames and tires wiggling upon landing at 160 miles per hour.  What sort of man would do this, and why? Obviously, the first thing that comes to mind is a lunatic, but once you get to know these guys, you realize that’s not the case.

TT legend John McGuinness is one of these guys. A seemingly normal family man who hangs out in his motor home with his wife, kids and parents. He’s friendly, funny and a huge fan favorite, who spends hours signing autographs, kissing babies and having his picture taken. The word “no” doesn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. Oh, and by the way, he’s a 17-time Isle of Man TT race winner.  In order to do what he does, there are definitely some misfiring synapses in his brain. Is he crazy? No. He claims he’s only interested in motorbikes, or things related to motorbikes. He has a passion that not many people can even come close to comprehending. A passion that could very well take his life. He is a man’s man who lives the way he wants to. He understands the danger, and embraces it. Hemingway would love this guy.

Watching John McGuinness ride a motorbike on the Mountain Course is a treat. He’s smooth and in control. Makes it look easy. I’m sure he knows every twist and turn just like he knows the back of his hand. However, his smooth and in control riding style still don’t make up for just how nuts racing at the Isle of Man is. When he gets off his bike and takes off his helmet, the same smile is there. The calm demeanor is there. The seemingly normal man is there. No hint of lunacy.

Once the champagne is sprayed and victory lane becomes silent, you can’t help but think about how many men have died at the Isle of Man, doing what they loved. Three racers lost their lives in the five days I was there. Take a drive around the course and you become surprised that there aren’t even more fatalities. It’s the most dangerous, unprotected racing venue in the world. A real test of man, machine, elements, pavement, stone walls and many other obstacles lining the road. Does this fit the definition of a true sport? I think so. After all, it is motor racing, even though it's only two wheels. If you're ever lucky enough to attend the Isle of Man TT, I think you'll agree that Ernest Hemingway was definitely right.

Finding Elvis

First, I have to admit that I was never really a fan of Elvis Presley. My mother was more into the old "Big Band" orchestras, like Glen Miller and Tommy Dorsey. Later, she introduced me to Frank Sinatra, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and bought me the first Beatles album. I was more of a Led Zepplin, Rolling Stones kind of kid. My earliest memory of Elvis was his "Aloha From Hawaii" television special in 1973, when I was 13, which I watched with my family, along with a billion other people. While I did like his showmanship, I never gave him much thought, never bought any of his music, and wasn't impressed by his movies, although I thought he was a very handsome man, and couldn't understand why he divorced Priscilla.  I knew his last performance was at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, was addicted to prescription drugs, and that he died sitting on the john. That was all I knew about Elvis Presley.


I've been all over the world, but never set foot in Memphis, Tennessee. I had a chance to do a job there, so I took it. Even booked a flight to get there early. My goals? To eat some good barbecue, drink a beer and walk down Beale Street, see the Sun Records building, and go to Graceland. I wasn't all that jazzed about going to Graceland, but if you've never been to Memphis, it's one of those things you have to do. Or so I was told.

I checked into the hotel, and headed for Graceland. It was only about five minutes away. I wasn't expecting much, and when I arrived there, I expected even less. It was a Thursday afternoon, so it wasn't very crowded. I paid $10 to park, then paid $34 for the tour of the house, the car museum and the airplanes. I thought maybe I could just walk across the street and up the driveway, but no, you have to walk past several souvenir shops, (and I do mean several, that's no exaggeration) and take a shuttle bus to the mansion. 


I'm sure when Elvis was alive, this section of Elvis Presley Boulevard was probably out in the sticks, but now, it's not exactly in a good part of town. While riding the bus up the driveway, I thought it was a nice front yard, but once I saw the front of the mansion, it was a bit underwhelming. Again, I wasn't expecting much, so I was in no danger of being disappointed. I was given an audio headset to wear during the tour, which explained everything I was seeing in great detail.


A brief description of the rules to be followed while in the house was given by the friendly staff, and inside I went. I was immediately frustrated when I saw the stairway was blocked by a rope and security guards. Absolutely nobody goes upstairs. Ever. Only Priscilla and Lisa Marie are allowed to go up there. Nicholas Cage was the only person allowed to go up there, but he was married to Lisa Marie at the time. The only other person allowed is a housekeeper who goes up to occasionally dust. Supposedly, it's been left in the same condition as it was the day Elvis died. I wanted to see the bathroom where he died, but no chance of that.



They do tell you that the bathroom is directly over the foyer, so all I could do is look up and imagine what it was like. I turned on my audio device and listened about the tacky looking living room, dining room and kitchen. Elvis did all of his entertaining on the first floor and basement. Not even guests went upstairs. Private guy, that Elvis. The famous "jungle room" was another tacky display of bad taste, but it reminded me of my days living in my parents house, which was equally as tacky, but with worse carpet. My mother had all the 70's avocado and burnt orange colored crap in her kitchen, but the black, brown, white and rust colored long shag carpet was terrifying. I had to laugh that my mother's taste in carpet was worse than Elvis Presley's, but that was what was popular at the time. 


The basement was more interesting. The pool room had an unusual motif, to say the least, and the tv room with it's purple and yellow colors wasn't quite as bad as I thought it would be. Three televisions on the wall, plus his stereo and record collection. That had to be his "man cave."

Walking through the "trophy and memorabilia" exhibits, I began to think a bit differently about Elvis. Listening to his audio soundbites, I found him to be quite charming and funny. His accomplishments in the music business were extraordinary, even though he didn't write most of his hit songs. The hallway lined with platinum records is breathtaking, I wasn't aware of how much success he actually had. Even more impressive was his movie career. I had no idea how many movies Elvis made. None of them were award winning, but he made a ton of them. He even made a movie with Mary Tyler Moore. Between the music and the movies, everybody wanted a piece of Elvis, and it seemed like they got it. He had the talent, the looks, the charm, everything. Unfortunately, it got the best of him.


He eventually quit making movies and tried to restart his music career, but it was too late. Sure, he had some very successful concerts, but he never regained the success he had earlier in his life. I was amazed that he only won three Grammy awards. Maybe he could've won more, but Elvis did what he wanted. People tried to talk him out of recording gospel albums and Christmas albums, but he recorded them anyway, and most of them would go platinum as well. Elvis was a man that did it his way. No wonder Frank Sinatra didn't like him. Elvis took away Sinatra's thunder.


The most touching part of the visit was the gravesite. There were actually old ladies (older than me anyway), crying at Elvis' grave. One of them in tears said, "I still love you Elvis." Now that's what I'd call a forever fan. Elvis is buried with his mother, father and grandmother. There is also a plaque on the ground for Elvis' twin brother Jesse, who died at birth. I didn't even know Elvis was a twin. Elvis even has an eternal flame. I thought President Kennedy was the only man who had one of those.

While I found Graceland to be rather unimpressive, I learned a great deal about Elvis. Much more than I ever knew. It's hard to believe, and very sad that Elvis was only 42 years old when he died. That is so young. He certainly did alot of living in those 42 years. I did enjoy his car museum, there were some priceless vehicles in there, as well as motorcycles, go karts and other things. He just didn't have enough time to enjoy them.


I lingered in front of the mansion for a bit, then took the bus back across the street, and toured the airplanes. He bought the "Lisa Marie" plane from Delta Airlines for $200k, then spent $800k fixing it up and customizing it. Impressive. I walked around both planes quietly, thinking about all I had learned about Elvis. I looked across the street, back at the mansion, and noticed the brick wall lining the sidewalk. I had to take a closer look. There were messages from people in all kinds of languages. Elvis was loved by the whole world. Some of those people probably came to this country just to visit Graceland. I felt guilty that I'd never given Elvis any credit for what he did for so many people. He was complex and tortured, but a gifted and talented man as well. A man who left us way too soon. He lived fast, died young, and left a good looking corpse. A Christian man, but rock and roll, all the way.

Before I left, I had to go to the Elvis Diner and have a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich, with a Coca-Cola. In Elvis' honor, of course. Despite the tackiness, I enjoyed visiting Graceland. Not for the mansion itself, but for what I learned about Elvis Presley. I realized I didn't know him at all. I now understand why the people who did know him were so loyal to him. He was a very generous, good man. That's what I'm going to believe anyway.


I did see the Sun Records building, ate some good barbecue, and walked down Beale Street with a beer in my hand, but the highlight of my trip to Memphis was definitely Graceland. I'm now a fan of Elvis, but 40 years or so too late. Sorry about that Elvis, but at least your music will never die. After all, rock and roll lives forever. 

The Friend I Never Knew

In everyone's life, people come and people go. I'm still close with many of my childhood friends, and staying in touch with them is just a way of life. They don't care how much money I have or don't have, what I do or don't do, they just treat me the same way they always have. Whenever I see them, we pick up where we left off, almost as if I saw them the day before. Still little boys just trying to have some fun. I'm lucky to have friends like that.

Throughout my career, I've made many acquaintances, exchanged thousands of business cards, and made a handful of friendships. Friendships that originated through work, but evolved into a personal relationship. I value these friendships a great deal. It's nice to have dinner with a friend you're working with, and not talk about work. 

I met a man who came into my life because of work, but it didn't take me long to realize that he was going to be a friend, not just an acquaintance who breezes in and out of my life. This guy was going to stick around. I had no idea how true that would become.

I met Stuart Keene at 8am on June 25, 2010. Tragically, seven hours later, he was gone.

It’s taken me a little over two months to write anything about him publicly, and even now, I’m not sure I can explain the profound effect this man has had on my life. I barely knew Stuart, and despite all the sadness, I can’t help but smile every time I think of him. It’s good to know that I’ll smile at least once every day for the rest of my life.

I was preparing to make a trip to Denver for a motorcycle race that I was directing, and saw Stu’s name on the crew list as a local camera operator. I’d never heard of him before, so I made a call to one of my good friends, Jeff Kelty, to see if he knew who he was. He not only knew Stu, but was very good friends with him as well. Jeff assured me that Stu was a pro, and I wouldn’t be disappointed with his camera abilities. For better or worse, I always trust Jeff’s judgement, so I was looking forward to meeting Stu, especially since I knew we had a mutual friend in common.

When we met, Stu was more than happy to pile on and trash our mutual friend in his absence. I won’t go into detail, but we were ruthless. Jeff Kelty was our bond, and we took advantage of that to grow our new friendship. Poor Jeff was an easy target, and we ripped him to shreds every chance we got. It turned into a fun game, but we both liked and respected him a great deal, and nothing was said that either of us wouldn’t say to his face. By lunch time, I was a bit pissed that I never met Stu before, and we began making plans for the three of us to maybe go skiing next winter.

I was able to spend about an hour alone with him, walking around the track, looking at various camera positions, and told him he could have his pick of what camera he wanted to run during the show. He also filled me in on his career, which was stellar, to say the least. I was envious of all the great shoots he had worked on, which had taken him all over the world. I admired his positive attitude, and since he was a few years older than me, he gave me a bit of hope for the future of my career. I told him of my current frustrations with my job prospects, and he reminded me of some basic principles to keep in mind, not only for my career, but for my life as well.

I’ll never understand why things happen the way they do. That isn’t up to me. Nobody can control what happens no matter how hard they try. Like the old adage, “If if’s and but’s were candy and nuts, it would be Christmas every day.” You can drive yourself mad thinking about it.

I used to fear death. The “great unknown’’ that all of us will experience, no matter how hard we try to avoid it. One minute we’re here, the next we’re not. In the career I’ve chosen, I’ve seen way too many people die. Not like a doctor or nurse, in a hospital, under controlled circumstances, but unexpectedly and tragically. Sometimes horribly, right out of a nightmare. The biggest lesson Stuart Keene taught me, was to not fear death. Stu knew what was happening to him, and he faced it head on, with courage, and not an ounce of fear, as if he was beginning his next great adventure.

Stu’s death at the young age of 57 was extremely tragic, and for me, it has made me re-evaluate my faith, my beliefs and the way I’ll live my life. While I will continue to struggle with those issues daily until the end of my life, I know without a doubt, that death on earth isn’t the end. I’m certain, at the very least, we will live on spiritually. I know it in my heart. That’s what Stuart Keene taught me.

I’ve been overwhelmed by how many friends Stu had. He was a very special person, who loved life, and lived it to it’s fullest. I’ve enjoyed reading what his friends have said about him on facebook. Obviously, Stu was loved by everyone who knew him. I feel cheated that I didn’t get to be one of his good friends, but maybe that’s how it was supposed to be. His impact on my life is forever.

Not long after Stu’s passing, while I was still at the track, there was a beautiful rainbow which seemed to end at the spot where Stu left this earth. Everybody knows what’s at the end of a rainbow, and Stuart Keene was definitely a pot of gold.

Someday, I will see Stu again, and I'm sure we'll pick up where we left off, just like I do now with my childhood buddies. Godspeed, my friend. Try and save some adventure for me when I get there.......

Full Moon at 50

February 28, 2010, was landmark day for me. It was my diamond birthday, my 50th birthday. As we were driving home from a fun filled family birthday trip, I noticed there was a full moon. I contemplated the notion that this particular monthly celestial event could possibly be a good omen for me. Since it was, after all, my 50th birthday, to me, this wasn't just an ordinary full moon.


In 1960, the year of my birth, it was a leap year, meaning that the month of February had 29 days, instead of the normal 28. As legend has it, or should I say the way my mother always told me the story, she was worried I would be born on the 29th, and wanted to make sure I was out before then. February 28, 1960, was a Sunday, and there was supposedly a blizzard raging outside the Indiana University Medical Center in Indianapolis at the time. Due to some minor complications during labor, my mother had to be put to sleep in order to deliver me. I never knew the nature of the complications, so they must've been minor, and in the end, my delivery was normal. However, my mother's sub-conscience mind was very active during that time, and she dreamt of having a beautiful, baby girl, with a full head of hair and perfect skin. I have a sister who was born five years earlier, and the pictures reveal that she was a beautiful baby, with tons of thick dark hair, perfect skin, and a proportional body.


With those visions in her head, you can imagine that when she awoke, she was surprised to hear that she had given birth to a baby boy. When they brought me in to meet my mother for the first time, she rejected me, saying that they were giving her the wrong baby. My mother was convinced there was some kind of mistake, because she was sure in her mind that she had given birth to a baby girl. The nurses had to go get my father, who was in medical school at the time, and was actually present during my birth, to assure my mother that she did in fact, give birth to a baby boy, and I was the right baby.


My mother cried the first time she saw me, because in her words, and I quote, "You were the ugliest baby I'd ever seen in my life." I was long, very skinny, and not one hair on my head. My skin was pink and wrinkly, and my face was so scrunched up I didn't bare any resemblance to her first born, perfect daughter. The only good thing about me was that I didn't cry much, but to say my mother was disappointed was an understatement. She said she held me in disbelief, and asked my father several times if this ugly baby she was holding was really hers. I've always wondered if that first rejection had anything to do with the many psychological issues I've been dealing with most of my life. Probably not, I can't blame everything on the first few hours of my life.


It's taken me almost two months to put my 50th birthday into perspective. I'm not sure why. I have friends who have had problems dealing with the half-century mark. Others just remind me it's just a number and it's no big deal. "Keep on living and doing what you do." Makes sense, after all, there isn't anything I can do about it. 


So, after much contemplation, I've decided to not worry about it, because there is nothing that can be done about it. I have to live my life, keep working, and take care of my family. However, I can spice it up a bit.


It started with indoor skydiving, sort of a preparation for a tandem jump I'm doing later this year. Even with the fan cranked up all the way, I couldn't go up very high, but the instructor said it was the exact sensation of jumping out of an airplane. So, I think I'm ready. We'll see.


I'm also getting a tattoo this year. I've been designing one for over 20 years, and now that I've had all the children I'm going to have, it's time to finally do it. Not a large one, but it is very personal to me. I don't care what anybody thinks. Whether I'm an idiot, or immature, (most who know me would say both) I'm doing it anyway.


I'm not making a "bucket list" because I'm not planning on dying anytime soon. I plan on taking advantage of medical technology to extend my life. I will certainly live longer than my parents, hopefully. My goal is to see my children grow up, be able to take care of themselves, and see them be happy and successful. I'd also like to play with my grandchildren. Despite my late start, this is my desire. I'll be old, for sure, but grandparents are supposed to be old. I figure that if I start to live in daily physical pain, then the time is near. To be blunt, when I can't go to the bathroom by myself, it's time for euthanasia. Do you have a quality of life if you can't wipe your own butt? To me, no. It's time to go.


I've done some research on the subject of full moons, and what the native American Indians have said about it. In February 1960, the full moon was on the 12th, so I missed out on that. However, the "New Moon" phase was on the 28th, so me being new, and the moon being new, maybe there is something special in that. I have yet to find out an exact meaning, but it all seems good to me. What I do know, is that if there is a full moon on your birthday, it brings you good luck. So in my mind, a full moon on my 50th birthday is great news. Let's face it, no matter how you take it, your 50th birthday is a big day in your life.


Having the full moon on my 50th birthday was a special event for me, and I've decided to do things in my life I've always wanted to do. Skydiving, tattoos, travel to places I've never been, be happier, be a better father & husband, maybe even some mountain climbing, kayaking and high performance driving lessons in cars & motorcycles. I've already done a "2 up" ride on a race bike at Daytona at speeds up to 170 mph. That has definitely increased my interest in learning to do it myself.


In reality, 50 years old isn't middle age. 40 years old was middle age. At 50, they say your best years are behind you. I call bullshit on that, even though both of my parents died before the age of 70. While I most likely won't live to be 100, over half of my life is over, that is a simple fact. Having said that, I plan on living out the rest of my years with as much gusto as I can, packing in as much excitement as I can. What else can you do? I'm not going to sit around and wait for the bed pan. All great ideas of exciting things to do I will consider, no matter how risky or dangerous. I believe when it's my time to leave this earth, the good Lord will take me, no matter what I'm doing. When it's your time, it's your time. Life is good, it might as well be fun too.


My favorite quote of all time is from a fellow Hoosier, James Dean, and I couldn't agree with him more. "Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today." Very prophetic coming from a man who was tragically killed at the young age of 24, just beginning his rise to superstardom in the movie business. No surprise he lost his life pushing a high performance Porsche sports car to it's limits on a lonely stretch of road near Paso Robles, California.


So, full moon at 50? I'll take that as a very positive sign. I've had a great life, also a lucky life. I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Sure, there have been bumps in the road, mostly caused by me, but you live and learn. The first 50 years have been great. I've truly been blessed. Who knows? Maybe I'll get 50 more. If I do, they won't be boring. I can promise you that. 

My Father, My Son and Me

A series of events has happened in my family, that has made me remember certain things about my upbringing, and my father in particular.
My wife is taking classes for a computer certification, and my youngest kids are out of school during one of those weeks. Our youngest daughter, Sarah, is quite passionate about gymnastics, and she is going to gymnastics camp that week. My son Joe has been taking the gymnastics classes as well, but has lost interest, and will only attend three more classes, and isn't thrilled about the prospect of going to gymnastics camp.

The only thing Joe seems to be passionate about is snow skiing. That said, I came up with the idea of taking him to Colorado for a quick three day ski trip, which, at first was unacceptable to my wife. I can't blame her, after all, I did take him to New York the summer before last to see a Yankees game in the old Yankee Stadium before they tore it down. Tickets were hard to get, and I found an internet deal, but I had to buy two tickets. Long story short, it was a nice little father/son trip to the Big Apple. Just the boys, and it was great.

When the idea of a quick ski trip came up, it was an unpopular idea to say the least. My wife enjoys skiing, and Sarah seems to, but she's hardly passionate about it. Joe, on the other hand, will skip lunch to keep skiing, and cries when the lifts close. That's a passion for skiing! Joe has only skied in North Carolina, and Colorado would be a great experience for him. He has no idea of what its like to ski for over a half hour without getting back on a lift.

Having already set a precedent for father/son trips, and no idea of what to do with Joe for the week he's out of school, my wife relented, and gave me permission to take Joe to Colorado. I would love to take the entire family, but it just won't work out this time. Thinking of what a great time we're going to have, it brought back memories of my own father, and the good and bad times we shared.

My father passed away in 1996, and I thought I knew him fairly well, but it seems like the older I get, the better I understand and know him. He was a small town doctor, a general practitioner, and I was always known as the doctor's kid. He made a good living back in the 60's & 70's, and I never wanted for anything, but I couldn't support my family today on what he made. We had a swimming pool, lived in a nice neighborhood, and even had an airplane that dad would fly us around in, for family vacations and other short trips. Like most boys, I idolized my dad until I was about 7 or 8 years old, then everything changed. Even though my father never laid a hand on me, he was a strict disciplinarian, an ex-Marine Corps task master with a quick temper, and I feared him very much. I had a daily list of chores that had to be done to perfection. He yelled and intimidated me to tears. Despite that, he always told me he loved me every day. I never believed him. How could he love me and treat me so badly? More often than not, I disappointed him, and he would yell at me like a drill instructor, and I spent many nights crying myself to sleep. For years, I hated seeing him come home at night, and wished he would just stay away.

My father was old school for sure, and now I'm glad he was. He taught me how to be a man, how to be tough, and the importance of having a good work ethic, and to respect your elders, among other things. He wasn't my friend, he was my teacher, a teacher of life. While I'm not as harsh on my kids, I try to teach them some of the values he taught me.

One of the things my dad always did, was take me on a trip with him every year, just me and him. Sometimes, a few of his friends, but only the boys. Since my dad was a big time hunter, all the trips were hunting trips. He gave me a 20 gauge shotgun that was my grandfathers on Thanksgiving Day in 1969 or 1970, I can't remember the exact year, but it was a big deal. He was very serious about it, and it was time for the next generation to hunt with it. Our first trip was local, and we were hunting for rabbits. I saw one first, fired the shotgun, and actually hit the rabbit on the first shot. I don't remember the gun knocking me back or anything, just the thrill of hitting my target the first time. Problem was, I didn't kill it. It was screaming in some briar bushes, and my dad told me I had to finish him off. I raised the gun, but my dad said, "You can't shoot it, you'll put too much buckshot in it and we won't be able to eat it. You have to crawl in there and twist it's head!" Watching the rabbit twitching his legs and screaming in pain was too much for me, and I began to cry, and told him I couldn't do it. "Get in there and twist his head, you big sissy!" "Quit being a candy ass!" Those were a couple of the many things he was yelling at the time. Needless to say, I knew what had to be done, so I crawled in there and twisted the rabbit's head until it snapped. I was sobbing as I handed the dead rabbit to my dad, and he said, "For Christ's sake, quit acting like a little girl!" We then went home, and he showed me how to skin it and clean it. Being a doctor, he was very good with a knife, and I was impressed with his skills. He gave the rabbit parts to my mother, and she cooked it right up, and I must admit it was very good. While we were eating, my dad explained to me why hunting was important to control the wildlife population, and that you should eat everything you kill.

Later on, I became a fan of bird hunting, and every fall, my dad would take me to South Dakota for opening day of pheasant season. Those were great trips. I got to hang out with dad and his buddies, and I earned respect from all of them, because I was a pretty good shot, and rarely missed. When I was 14, I even went to a bar, and my dad let me have my first beer. Those father/son trips were the best, and for those few days he treated me like a friend, scolding me only if I missed a shot, or didn't clean enough birds. Once we got back home, he turned back into the asshole that I knew so well.

Once my dad retired and moved to Eufaula, Alabama, I would visit him and we'd go fishing almost every day. We'd have great conversations, and sometimes wouldn't speak a word. It didn't matter, I was spending time with him. Problem was, I had about a 2 day time limit with him, before he'd start his bitching and yelling about what it was that I wasn't doing right at the time. I'd just get in my car and leave, then call when I got back home, and he always acted like nothing happened. My dad never held a grudge. He'd get pissed, then get over it. I'd stay pissed for a few days, but eventually I'd get over it too.

My father was a very smart man, and I always sought out his advice, no matter what it was. I called him once a week, maybe more, if I needed his opinion on something, which he never hesitated to give out.
We grew to be friends, and once I was in my 30's, and finally doing well with my career, he said he was proud to have my as his son. He said he had his doubts at times, and that was why he was so hard on me growing up. Life isn't easy or fair, and he was only preparing me for the journey. I loved the man I used to hate so much, but I fully understood why he was the way he was. It just took me a long time to figure it out.

The last time I saw my father, he was in a cardiac intensive care unit, recovering from a heart bypass operation. He was his usual self, flirting with the nurses, and in a great mood considering what his body just went through. The doctors said everything looked great, and he had many years left. For some reason, I had a feeling that I'd never see him again. When I had to leave, I kissed him on the lips, something I hadn't done since I was a little boy. He smiled and said, "I love you and I'm proud of you, son. Now get your ass back to work!" I walked out of the room, then turned around to look at him one last time. He winked, and gave me a thumbs up. Maybe I was wrong, and he'd live another 20 years or so.

Sadly, that wasn't the case. My premonition was correct. A couple of weeks after he got out of the hospital, my dad died of a massive stroke. He couldn't take it easy, and was busy doing yard work on a hot summer day. My mother told me he came into the house, sat in his chair, and died quickly and painlessly, the way he always wanted to go. It was June 9, 1996, my daughter Taylor's 2nd birthday. I actually spoke to him that morning, and was planning on coming down for a visit in a couple of weeks. He seemed so full of energy on the phone. The man I hated, the man who raised me and taught me so much, the man who I grew to love and become friends with was gone forever. It's hard to imagine never seeing him again, even to this day. I have dreams about him yelling at me, and I suppose that's my subconscious telling me to man up when I'm slacking a bit. Who knows? I miss him very much.

My son Joe will never know his grandfather. At least he has one on his mother's side. Both of my grandfather's were dead before I was born, and I wish I could've experienced that. I know my dad lives on in my son, and I plan on having several father/son trips with him like my dad did with me, if my wife ok's it anyway. While they probably won't revolve around hunting and fishing, I do plan on spending time with him, and telling him stories of how my father raised me. Obviously, I won't use the same approach as my dad did, but I want to teach him the things he'll need to know in order to be a productive and respected member of society. Make sure he understands the importance of having a good work ethic, to respect his elders, and take pride in whatever he chooses to do for a career. To be responsible and to be a man, not a whiner or complainer.

We started with a trip to New York City, and a Yankees game. Next, a ski trip. I have no idea what will be next. Joe likes to fish, so maybe fishing. Maybe even hunting, after all, I do have a 20 gauge shotgun to pass down to him. I'll pass along what my father taught me, but with a different way of teaching it. That goes for my daughters as well. I want to spend alone time with them too. With my oldest, it's shopping. With my youngest, I haven't figured it out yet, but I can promise "undivided alone attention time" with all of them. I want them to know me, and I want to know them, and have the chance to live long enough to tell them that I'm proud of the way they turned out. I hope they spend time alone with their mother too. I think it's important to get to know your parents, individually as well as together. I can't speak for all parents, but my parents were one way when they were together, and totally different when I was alone with them separately. Being a parent is the hardest job you can have, but the most rewarding in the end. I can only hope that my children respect and love me as much as I did my dad. We will have some bumps in the road, for sure, but as long as they turn out to be adults that I'm proud of, It'll all be worth it.

Argentina Doesn't Need To Cry For Anybody

I love my family more than anything. They are the most important aspect of my life. The reason I live, the reason I work, the reason I try to stay healthy. It wasn't my plan to choose a career that keeps me away from home a great deal of the time, it just happened to work out that way. To be honest, there never was a plan, but that has worked out quite well for me. I had a knack of being in the right place at the right time, when the right people were present. People always say to me, "Well, you're just lucky." And you know what? They are absolutely right. 

As I write this, I'm on an airplane 32,000 feet over Bolivia, traveling back to Atlanta from Buenos Aires, Argentina. It was a quick trip, only four days and three nights, but then again, most of my trips are short. I always miss my family no matter what the destination, but when it's a place very far away, I miss them even more than normal. When you have a family, and you travel almost every week, is there such a thing as normal? From the outside looking in, the answer would be no, but my family doesn't know my life to be any other way. Daddy leaves town for work. That's just the way it is, and for them, that's normal. Being home for more than two weeks in a row is a chaotic disruption of schedules, but that's another story.

The Buenos Aires trip came together in a day. Had a chance to do a small amount of work, get a place to stay, and a low mileage first class award travel airline ticket. Upon spousal approval, the trip was a go.

The flight down lasted about 11 hours or so, and after the meal and proper medication, it was off to dreamland until about 45 minutes prior to landing. Actually, there was no dreaming, but the occasional sound of a familiar song on my ipod, piping through my headphones, was the only distraction that kept me from enjoying the view from the back of my eyelids.

I was traveling with a co-worker of mine, Bob Cramer, who also happens to be a good friend, and he'd been to Argentina many times in the past, so I knew I'd be shown all the good places to see. Argentina had been in the news a great deal back home, due to the incredible saga of the Governor of South Carolina, who couldn't tell the difference between a hike on the Appalachian Trail, and a torrid, steamy affair with a beautiful woman from Buenos Aires. The only other things I knew about Argentina were that they started a short lived war with the British over the Falkland Islands, which they lost, a crappy Madonna musical called "Evita", had gauchos who roamed the pampas, a relatively good looking female president, gave safe haven to old, exiled German Nazis, and inspired the Fogo de Chao restaurant chain. It would be accurate to assume that my knowledge of Argentina was limited at best.

Upon our early arrival, we were greeted by spectacular springtime weather, but soon found out that our hotel room wouldn't be available for at least six hours. The hotel staff was kind enough to let us keep our bags in the office, and off we went to see new and wonderful sights. Well, new to me anyway.

The first place I was taken to was a cemetery, which reminded me of the cemeteries in New Orleans, but bigger and more elaborate. Above ground crypts with glass doors where you could clearly see the caskets inside. Some had seven or eight caskets inside, and many had tiny little infant caskets, and I couldn't help but wonder what happened to those poor little ones. I walked past row after row of family tombs, and then came across a crowd of people taking pictures of a rather plain looking iron and glass door, with the name "Familia Duarte" at the top. Some people were placing flowers and notes on the door, and a couple of women were weeping. Turned out it was Eva Peron's tomb, perhaps the most famous person who ever came from Argentina. Sadly, she was only 33 when she died of cancer, but maybe worse, she was the woman who inspired that horrible Madonna musical. I jumped right in the middle of the snapshot frenzy, then decided that I'd had enough of dead people.

Right next to the cemetery, a huge flea market was in full swing, selling all types of handmade Argentine leather goods, paintings, jewelry and various other trinkets. Interesting to look at, but no purchases were made. The next stop was Florida Street, which was the huge shopping district of Buenos Aires. I went into a clothing shop, and saw a very nice leather jacket, tried it on, and was tempted to buy it. The nice sales lady was telling me how great I looked in it, and how well it matched my skin color, and I came very close to making the purchase, but then she told me her name was Mabel. For some reason, the name Mabel is very odd to me, and spooks me a bit. I just couldn't go through with the deal. If her name was Bertha, or even Aunt Jemima, I would've bought it immediately. But Mabel? No way.

Finally, at 3pm, the room was ready. Definitely nap time, then venture out to find a good place for dinner. I learned that the custom in Argentina was to eat dinner very late, even as late as midnight, but I was starving by 9pm, so out we went. We passed many establishments that looked good, but settled on a place called the Montana Ranch, where we could eat outside, watch the people passing by, and enjoy a good steak. The people passing by was the best part. The steak was ok, a bit tough, but two bottles of fine red wine always seems to make everything better. A walk after dinner, a couple visits to some local establishments for a few cocktails, and that was the end of the first night. Stumbled around a bit, but made it home safely and hit the rack immediately, unaware of the adventure that awaited me the next day.

A short time in the morning was spent doing business, then my partner Bob suggested that I go to an antique market. He assured me it was an interesting place to go, and it was only a 12 peso taxi ride to get there. He'd been there before, was feeling a bit tired, so I hit the street solo. I walked for at least 20 blocks, taking in all the sights and sounds, and it was a glorious day. I finally hailed a cab and told him to take me to the mercado central. That wasn't what I was supposed to tell him, and when I noticed we were heading out of town, and the meter was at 60 pesos, I knew I messed up.

I was taken to the central market, a huge outdoor market where you could buy almost anything. Clothes, shoes, meat, produce, pets, toys, it didn't matter. If you needed it, you could get it there. The one thing I noticed right away, was that the people at this market were very different from the people in the city. More Indian looking than anything, and unlike in the city, there weren't many people that looked like me. Despite that, I decided to make the best of it, and walked around for a couple of hours. These people were obviously poor, and looking for the best bargains they could get. Mostly families, and large ones at that, and there were children running around everywhere. I thought I'd have some fun, so I bought a huge bag of candy and walked around tossing it out to the children. Before I knew it, there seemed to be hundreds of kids following me, some of them aggressively tugging at my arm, making sure I gave them something. When I ran out of the candy, they still followed me like I was holding back something, but eventually lost interest, some of them scowling at me.

Next up, the chicken cages. Just had to do something for the adults, so I gave the chicken man a $20 U.S. bill, and he started stacking up cages of chickens, each with four chickens inside. I pulled them out one by one, and gave them away randomly, saying things like "The Indianapolis Colts will win the super bowl", and "Pearl Jam is from Seattle." I can't remember what else I said, but it was whatever happened to come out, some of it in spanish. There were many cheers from the crowd, and I felt like a rock star, but once the chickens were gone, a friendly english speaking policeman suggested that if I didn't leave soon, I might not escape with the clothes on my back. It wasn't the adults who would rob me or anything, but it was the children who would literally tear at my clothing to make sure there wasn't anything left. So, I took his advice, walked away from the market, and started looking for a taxi.

There was a problem with finding a taxi. Every taxi I saw was off duty and had entire families in them. I asked one person where I could hire a taxi, and he said I had to walk a couple miles to a gas station and I might find one there. That's what I thought he said anyway. My spanish isn't very good, in fact, it's down right awful. I did find the gas station, and there was a bus stop, but no bus going to Buenos Aires. Three hours later, I saw a barely running hunk of junk that looked like a taxi, flagged him down, and offered him 100 pesos to take me to town. Thankfully, he was more than happy to do it, and even pointed out sights of interest along the way. It was nearly dark when I arrived back at the hotel, but looking back, it was a very wonderful day.

The last day was full of good food, good sights, and more beautiful weather. It was one of the best days of the year for me, and I'm happy to add Buenos Aires to the list of large cities I've visited. I've been to most of the biggest and best cities in the world. New York, Tokyo, London, Rome, Paris and others, and in some ways they all seem the same. Don't get me wrong, they all have their own uniqueness about them. Their own architecture, their own food, their own museums, and of course, their own people. But there was something different about Buenos Aires. The first thing that comes to mind, is that it's one of the few places left in the world where American money is still worth something. It's like Europe in South America, but with kinder people. The European influence is undeniable, and yet there is something that sets it apart, something that gives Buenos Aires it's own identity. I think I'll need to go back and do more research to figure it out.

While I'm no expert on the social-economic make up of Argentina, there seems to be no middle class. You're either rich, or your poor. It's hard to tell in only four days, but I experienced the rich and the poor, and both were very nice to me, and everyone seemed happy. Believe it or not, there were more smiles in the market outside of town than in the city, but those people probably don't know any other way to live their lives. Hopefully, they are happy.

When I saw the women weeping at Eva Peron's tomb, I realized how much influence and emotion Evita still invokes, and she's been dead for 57 years. The song, "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" came into my mind, and obviously, these women weren't hearing the same song I was. Or maybe they did hear it, and were crying because Madonna played the role of Evita. Who knows what Eva Peron would think of her country today, but in my opinion, Argentina doesn't need to cry for anybody, because from what I've seen, rich or poor, at least everyone seems to be happy, and isn't happiness what everybody wants?

Hope, Change and Disappointment

First, I must admit, that when I began voting at the young age of 18, I registered as a Republican. I was so proud to vote for Ronald Reagan, and I was full of hope of what he was going to do for the country. That didn't last, as I struggled for most of the 80's, and all that hope turned into a disgust for all things government.

I soon came to believe that everyone involved in politics was corrupt, and I despised Democrats and Republicans equally. Even with that attitude, I continued to vote, and have never missed an election, due to the simple fact that I like to argue about politics. I have one basic rule when it comes to political arguments, and that is, I never argue, or even talk about politics, with anyone who doesn't vote. Despite the fact that I was on a federal grand jury for 18 months, and called to local jury duty three other times, I still vote no matter what, even when there are no good choices.

Which leads me to the most recent presidential election. No good choices. John McCain, who I respect a great deal for his service to this country, but has been a beltway insider, feeding from the public trough for way too long, and Barack Obama, a junior senator from Illinois, who didn't do anything to my knowledge, except go to Africa and act like a president, and study Marxism in college. Their picks for vice president were way more interesting. Sarah Palin, with that annoying, obnoxious voice, always got on my last nerve. Sure, she was pleasant to look at, then she opened her mouth. The more she talked, the more I wished she would shut up. Then we have Joe Biden. I've always liked Joe Biden, because he's uncensored, and there's always plenty of room in his mouth to insert his foot. However, I couldn't help but question the decision making abilities of McCain and Obama, because both of their running mates were nothing more than cartoon characters in my eyes. When it came time to make my decision, I voted for McCain, although I didn't feel all warm and fuzzy about it.

When Obama won the election, I decided that I was going to give him a chance. Why not? The country seemed to be going down the tubes, and he certainly said all the right things. Seemed like we needed to chart a new course for the country, especially after the previous eight years of George Bush's bumblings. I voted for Bush too, twice, and although I feel he kept the country safe, his spending habits left little to be desired. So, I gave Barack Obama my full support, and took my seat on the hope and change bandwagon. After all, if he didn't turn out to be the greatest President this country has ever had, he may very well be the last.

His inauguration was a spectacle, awe inspiring even. I was at a ski resort watching his speech on television, in a room with at least 200 other people, most of them cheering, and I have to admit, I was very impressed by his words. I returned to the slopes very proud to be an American, while the hope and change bandwagon reached cruising altitude. Unfortunately, it's turning out to be a short flight.

I'm not going to get in to everything, but my disillusionment began with the nomination of a tax cheat for Treasury Secretary. Are you kidding me? I didn't think he could be serious. Then the stimulus bill. Does anyone who is in debt trouble spend more money to try and get out of debt? It doesn't work like that in real life, but it will work for the government? Right. What was up with what seemed to be a global apology tour? Did he really say those things? Yes, he did. Seizing a few banks, seizing the auto industry, controlling executive pay, raise taxes on job producers? Yes. Definitely changing a few things.

When North Korea launched some missiles, President Obama "strongly condemned" Kim Jong-Ill. I bet he's scared now. Told the Russians he'd abandon the missile shield in Eastern Europe, for hopes of them standing with us in applying sanctions on Iran. Not gonna happen. In fact, the Russians are flexing their muscles more now than in the past 20 years, because they know that our President won't do anything. He won't even spend time with the general who is in charge of the war in Afghanistan, while more of our troops die.

Next up is the government takeover of health care. There needs to be big changes here, but are we to believe that the government is going to make it all better? Just like they have with Social Security, Medicare & Medicaid? What's the rush to force a bill through? It's so important, that time needs to be taken to get it right. In the midst of that fight, President Obama puts Oprah on Air Force One, and jets to Copenhagen to talk up Chicago for the Olympics. At taxpayer expense. Seriously?

There's so much more I could rant about, like the President's teleprompter, which I'm embarrassed for him every time I see him speak in public. It's like watching a person watch a tennis match. Head moving back and forth, never looking straight ahead. Don't even get me started on his Democrat lackey's like Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid. More embarrassing, out of touch ineptitude. Even the man who is in charge of writing the tax laws we all have to abide by, Democratic Congressman Charlie Rangel, is getting away with cheating on his taxes. Priceless.The Republicans aren't any better either. Where are all the great ideas they have? The only thing they seem to do at the moment is criticize.

While I don't have the answers either, I'm so embarrassed and disappointed in our government right now, that I just want to bury my head in the sand until it all gets worked out. That's hardly the right attitude to have, especially since I would suffocate myself. What will it take for our elected officials to come to their senses? Are they even capable of it? Doubtful. Every elected office should be limited to two terms. No more career politicians who are only interested in keeping their perks and power. That would be a start. Certainly better than tanks rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue in a military coup, forcibly removing all the elected officials who enjoy dreaming up new ways to put their hands in our pockets. Could that happen? I hope not, but the way things are looking, I wouldn't rule out anything.

Despite my disgust, I still respect President Obama. Maybe it's the office more than the man, but I respect him nevertheless. I certainly don't agree with his decisions regarding the path our country needs to be on. I think he was a bit twisted to even want the job, but he got it, and he has three more years left. We're getting "change we can believe in", that's for sure, but not the right kind. He says he's open to new ideas, so how about the Fair Tax? That would take too much power away from the politicians and abolish the IRS, so that won't happen anytime soon. That's too bad, because that's one idea that just might work. What do we have to lose at this point?

Will President Obama be re-elected to a second term? If the economy turns around and the unemployment rate drops, he has a good chance. Who will the Republicans nominate to run against him? Will we see a big-name third party candidate throw their hat into the ring? My only hope is that Sarah Palin didn't quit being governor of Alaska to run for President. I don't think what's left of my hearing can take anymore of her squawking. Please, Sarah, stay in Alaska and go moose hunting. This country has had enough embarrassment for the time being.