The Fall of Cable (in our house)

The decision didn't come easily. It lurked and bubbled to the surface. Each time we contemplated the end of cable in our house we carefully and thoughtfully came up with reasons why we didn't need it anymore. They ranged from "It will save us money," to "All I watch is trash anyway," to the more common and oft used "There's six-billion channels and nothing on." Our friends, when surveyed, said similar things, but were more extreme: "We prefer to just sit around and talk about the day," or "Television is never as good as reading a book." Whether I believe those two proclamations is up for debate, nonetheless, we ultimately concluded that modern cable, as we know it, had to go.

I never had a show like many people I know had or have. We didn't subscribe to HBO or Showtime so "Entourage" or "Weeds" or pay-per-view boxing were never on our radar. We watched off-channels (non-network) and used the DVR more than we watched live. What we "taped" was the quintessential American garbage: "Real Housewives of...", anything with the words New and Jersey, the typical pop of "American Idol" and slightly higher brow of "Top Chef", "Househunters International" and "Project Runway." The last three aren't really trash, but why the couple from Montana didn't choose the house on the beach could throw "HI" into the dumb box quite easily. Onward.

Whenever you want out of something like cable or your phone contract, it's never a simple process. Dial the phone and reach India and suddenly a sweet deal has suddenly risen from the depths. "Wow, I see that we can give you three months free of HBO and Showtime," or "I can take five dollars off your monthly bill," are two knee-jerk responses from customer service. "No, I'm good" has been my comeback. Short, simple, to the point. Follow it with a "What do I need to do next" and things will go and did go the way I wanted it to. "Just take the equipment back to the local Time-Warner service center and that should be it." Easy enough. Done.

"So no cable? What are you going to do about soccer?" Good point. I pondered that dilemma prior to eliminating cable and thought there must be free streaming video somewhere. I searched and there was nothing viable, so I concluded that maybe I didn't need soccer. Maybe I should just catch the big games at a pub. Watch it with already-drunk English folk in a dingy, panel-walled dump, with tubed-televisions and smelly carpet... That could work, right?

I managed for a while, but the lure of Fox Soccer pulled me closer and closer until I couldn't stand it anymore. I plunked down the $10 per month for a subscription online, and have never regretted it. I watch it when I want and the schedule is phenomenal. We did the same with NetFlix. We were the earlybirds back when NetFlix only offered DVD's (which we didn't always watch) so we dropped it. Fast forward to now, and we decided to pay the $7.99 per month for streaming online. The figure we were at was $18 per month (soccer and NetFlix), far less than $130 we were paying for cable and internet combined. But there's more...

In order to get streaming in our room I bought the Sony Blu-Ray with built-in Wi-Fi for $129. To make it worthwhile I bumped-up our Internet connection to 30 megabytes per second, thus the Internet now runs $50 per month. In the living room, we had nothing, so we welcomed the Mac Mini on board for $520. The Mini mated with the Plasma now makes a gigantic computer, where we (drum roll) run the Internet, and of course NetFlix, Hulu, YouTube, etc.

On the surface it looks like a big, complicated cluster, but at the heart of it is choice programming. We watch what we want, when we want. NetFlix has opened our world to an endless (it seems) library of shows and mind-bending documentaries like ones on Origami and dumpster-diving. It has also given me my first, official show with "Breaking Bad." I love having a show, although I've motored through all the seasons available on NetFlix which led me to go the "Underworld" route of downloading season 4. That's another story. For now, our enemy known as cable television and the bill that comes with it is gone and looks to be out of out of our house forever. Unless, we can't stand not having "American Idol" in our world. Stay tuned.

The Mildly Obsessive Obsession With Sound

The aluminum-bodied
KEF's I recently replaced.

It didn't just happen over night. In fact I can go back 20-plus years to when the borderline OCD first occurred. The sound system was an all-in-one AM/FM with a turntable. The turntable I used for such classics as the Eagles "Hotel California," Rush's "2112" and all the offerings from KMET and KLOS on FM. I remember having the KLOS rainbow-like sticker pinned to my wall (my dad wasn't in to me sticking it to the wall), and the sheer size of the system. I can't recall where I got it, though it's likely my dad found it at work or in the trunk of a used Pontiac. He had a way with finding the most random of objects. At the time I futzed obsessively with the large dial, the same way a modern DJ tweaks a mouse on a MacBook Pro. I remember thinking "There must be a way of getting Jim Ladd's show to come in clearer." But these were the days before digital and satellite, so with hindsight my borderline obsession seems silly, but I tried everything for the sake of clarity.

Years later when I ventured to the San Fernando Valley to a stereo speaker factory outlet (near Rogers Sound Lab and Marantz) for a look at steep discounts, I happened upon two "left-side" speakers that were mammoth in size and sound and the price was in line with my budget. Sitting approximately 3 feet high with a 12-inch woofer and a handful of tweeters, this set was the ideal match for another of my dad's hand-me-downs, a monster Kenwood receiver that pumped 200-watts of fury. Because of my dad I know how to hook shit up. Strip the wires, twist them cleanly and cinch them in. These were the days when sound was based on power. There were no subwoofers or 5.1 or 7.1 or Dolby or a setting called "Concert Hall." It was two-channel madness with a turntable, a cassette and in some cases a reel-to-reel. It was post 8-track player and pre-CD. It was pure, raw, and violent. No remote or digital screens, just dials for volume, bass and treble. Rush, the Eagles, Van Halen and U2's "Boy" pushed through easily. It was instant gratification because you didn't have the option to mess with settings or distances of speakers– it was purity. These speakers followed me through college and though they were big and bulky in a tiny apartment in Chico, they were always assured of a spot in the corner, equal distance between the two and pointing out toward the peach couch.

Soon the advent of more complex stereo receivers, the CD (and the player), and smaller surround speakers came on to the market. They claimed to push the same air and sound as the old one's only refined because there were more. Slowly the hippies sold the gigantic JBL's and opted for the small, deceptive power of smaller and more. I went to five speakers from Cambridge Soundworks, a new receiver that could accommodate the volume, a Sony CD player (that I still have, but that has since been relegated to the garage), and an Infinity powered subwoofer hand-me-down from my dad. I assumed the sound was better though I found myself constantly comparing the Cambridge's to the big-daddies I sold at the garage sale. "They're great but I don't think they are as good," I remember thinking. There was something missing: maybe it was the speaker wire. Down I went to RadioShack in search of thicker wire. I may have fooled myself into thinking it was the solution, and to this day I am not certain thicker cable makes a difference, but at the time I was semi-convinced. The CD did bring a tighter sound, this is for certain. The clarity it brought compared to the cassette was, and likely is, the most monumental jump in sound that has ever occurred in music and the listening experience. I am convinced that even today the MP3-4/digital format doesn't compare to the CD. For me it loses a generation and subsequently (for me) loses quality.

I "lived" with the Cambridge speakers for several years until I happened upon some aluminum-bodied KEF's. Five to be exact and a powered subwoofer to match. My obsession with sound equals my obsession with research. For me, the value of the KEF's was right– and so I purchased them. Around the same time my obsession caused me to update the system that churned out the sound: the receiver and the CD (now DVD player). I was after both quality in sound for music and for movies. I wanted both in equal parts and felt like the system (through research) could distribute solid, clear and concise sound on both the music and movie platform.

However, research and the endless pages of the internet can play funny games with you. While it's helpful, it also creates what I call "Endless Research." This endlessness leads to insecurity in the choice or choices you may have made, whether one month or two-three years later. With this research I found a better system and better speakers were out there. First went the receiver for something miles ahead and then went the speakers for a set that dated back to the monster's I bought so long ago. They were RSL's and I recalled my father's set from so long ago. They were different than his, smaller in size but built in the San Fernando Valley and were as heavy as a truck and as robust as anything new and amazing. Two bookshelf's that I bought on eBay for next to nothing. Old-school construction and air-flow with a single robust woofer and a 2.5 inch tweeter, they were as pure as what I relegated to a box in the garage. They were power as I remembered and I was back in that space from so long ago. I cranked the Denon receiver to its limit and the RSL's seemed to whisper "Pssst, hey chump, is that all that piece of shit has to offer? My woofer barely has any 'scars.'" I used them for a while, but feared I was missing something transcendental in the ever-changing and evolution of speaker development.

Enter the modern KEF bookshelf speakers. According to my wife these were acquired under the darkness of night in some dark alley in some mysterious part of Los Angeles. They suddenly appeared on tall stands (because that's how they are supposed to be mounted, all wives!), bi-amped and full of hell-fire. A matching, unassuming subwoofer sat to the side out of site. It was the match I had been hoping for. Clarity and power, mated to the Denon receiver, the Onkyo DVD and the Mac Mini. I was now as modern as all get-up. In the moment. On the pulse. The point where I want to be. Giggling from me met rage from the wife. "She just doesn't understand" I told myself, tell myself, will always tell myself. I have a mildly obsessive obsession with sound.

"This is it" I tell her. She responds with a humph and a retort of "I don't believe it."

Plucking Strings

My left forefinger is numb at the tip. I find myself scratching it with the opposite forefinger to see if it will come back to "life." It's a strange feeling that's directly related to my early 40's quest to learn an instrument: the acoustic guitar.

My instructor is an early 30's Canadian who wears all black, all the time. His hair is spikey and he's a big fan of cage-fighting. He has a swagger and a way about him that's comforting in the "classroom." It's not pretentious or cocky, but confident. It's clear to me that he's a master of his craft with 20-plus years under his belt, in his fingers with the guitar.

I, on the other hand, am a beginner, a newbie. I am a lover of music and sound—always have been. Music is in my head constantly. It's on the stereo in the morning at breakfast, at work all day, and it whispers crisply in the evening. It's no wonder, at least to me, that I would desire to take on such a monumental task of learning a seemingly simple, but supremely complicated instrument.

I've had an acoustic guitar for years. I plucked it here and there. Bought beginners books. Attempted to play "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." I watched how-to videos. Ultimately I got bored with the lack of progress and frustrated with my five thumbs. The guitar went back into the padded bag and up into the storage attic in the garage.

Then came the coupon, or Groupon. A deal was to be had at the Modern Music School. I said "sure" as did my 7-year-old son. We were both in and committed. For him, the piano. For me, I would resurrect the sleeping guitar.

Six-strings down a neck doesn't seem complicated. Watch Eric Clapton or Jack White strum and pick and adjust and adapt fingers quickly. Slow it down, speed it up. It looks easy, but it's insanely complicated. The combinations are infinite.

The Lesson
My first few lessons were about familiarizing. This is this. That is that. Put this finger here, that one there. Strumming and finger picking. Here's a sample of chords. Check out the Blues. What tunes do you like? Here's what it would sound like if McCartney played it. It was overwhelming and rewarding.

The Song
Then came "Blackbird." The school is different. It's modern in approach. They ask your musical tastes. What you listen to. Who you like. My instructor started showing me "Blackbird" by the Beatles. Beautiful and clean, it's catchy and timeless. When you hear it, it sounds complicated to a virgin player. When I study and pick the strings over and over, week after week It becomes clear that it's not complicated at all. It's brilliantly clear. It's in my head, always. The structure and combinations seem to be embedded in my nerves that control my finger tips. I can play the first few bits in my head.

While I understand the combinations, I fumble more than I prevail. I have trouble with the transitions. Monday class comes too quick it seems. Practice time is scarce. I attempt to cram 30 minutes before. It's high school all over again. I make it clear I have not practiced to my cool teacher. He understands. Onward.

Eventually and most recently I realized that I must ramp up the effort. I view it as my last chance to "get it." I want to master "Blackbird." This progress or progression will push me toward other songs. I push a bit harder. I take the song in chunks. I'm slow but I understand it more and more as time goes by. I can play it albeit choppy.

This rewire of the brain to try and understand the guitar at its most basic of levels has been hard. Just six simple strings has pushed my patience, and tested my dexterity, and at the same time the complexity of the instrument has made me appreciate those who have learned it.

The one sure thing that I know is that I have a hell of a long way to go, just to tame this bird.

That neighbor

They're kind enough, my current neighbors. Back a couple years ago we had medical students renting the house next door. They were quiet and nerdy and smart and didn't open their windows, or shades for that matter. The year rolled by, med kids off to residency then returning early in the morning tired and dazed. They wouldn't come outside or socialize. They were here to rest their head and move on. And so they did. Gone in a day after the older Asian landlord decided to raise the rent. The med students, likely already six figures in debt, had to go.

Next up was another med student and her husband and their little girl. They made more noise than the zombie med students, but nothing abnormal. They dealt with the place, the bright blue carpet, the screwed up sprinkler system and the air conditioner that wouldn't or couldn't work. This is the 91030 so it's not slummy, but the Asian landlord who owned two other houses in the neighborhood barely made it out to our area from her perch in Manhattan Beach, but only to gather some rent or complain about property lines or make a fuss about small demands made by the people paying not just her mortgage, but most likely her Mercedes car payment, too.

The sweet young, struggling family made their way through the year and we became friends. Their daughter played with my 5-year-old son and the dad asked advice about lawn care and sprinklers and tree trimming. For a moment in those instances I was my dad only half the knowledge and a quarter of the skill, but I pressed on offering whatever advice I could albeit pretty basic at best.

Another 12 months rolled by and just as we were getting used to parkway conversations they moved on. The rent went up again and back came the now crazy Asian landlord lady barking about property lines and the height of the citrus trees and other trivial manners that I couldn't make sense of.

Now the new family shows up. A smart looking crew with two kids. He's Australian, she's Chinese and a neurologist at USC. His Australian accent is appealing and friendly and the kids are cute, quarky and boisterous. They have energy and at first it's fun. We'd exchange hellos and talk about the sprinkler problem. We escalated to problems in the world and the school system and cool places in the area to eat, shop, drink, and socialize. Soon we had a BBQ at their place, which was innocent enough until something clicked in my head: their kids are crazy. Not crazy in the sense that I wouldn't trust them with a steak knife, but in that they didn't have any sense of boundary.

This BBQ social event eliminated any boundaries from there on out. Soon a simple shuffle to my front porch found me five minutes later exchanging pleasantries with said Australian. He came out of nowhere with a "Hey mate." Innocent enough. Later on, a simple watering of my lawn recreated the same scene and the same hello. On it went. Then came their kids. Any sort of tip-toe to the grass by my son caused an echoing "Hi Luuuuuuuuuuuuukkkkkkkke" from their daughter 30 yards away on their front porch. It happened without fail for days and weeks on end. Ultimately Luke responded with a "[Sigh] Hi Name Here...[Sigh]" My socialite son was now having an issue with playing pretend on his own front lawn.

Things calmed down for a little while. Perhaps they got the message. Maybe they didn't have the "Neighbor-on-the-front-porch" sensor turned on. Maybe they just didn't like us anymore!

It returned. Luke's out front, neighbor girl comes over. Luke appeases her maybe because he can't stand it any more, or because he was surprised by her stealth ways or maybe he was interested in playing with her on the lawn after all. Nonetheless, this venture to the dark side created my biggest pet peeve imaginable... when kids decide to enter your home with asking. Our front door was open and while Luke came in to eat, in came the two wildcat kid neighbors. It happened once and while I was annoyed, I didn't think too much of it. Then it happened again, and again, and over and over. A couple times the little girl asked for a snack or water and my jaw dropped. Neurons were out of control in my head thinking, attempting to grasp the situation. One part of me admired her nerve, the other part made me despise her parents. "Where were they?" I wondered. "Why do they do this to me?" I wondered more. How do I send the message that this isn't cool without offending someone who could very well be my neighbor for years?

I was lost. Finally I just concluded that if I say nothing it may go away and they will get the signal, the picture, an idea that maybe Neighbor Tim is not down with kids just popping in the house, or on the porch.

For now it seems to have simmered down. It's unfortunate that they are "those neighbors" but then again I think that maybe they think I am "that neighbor" too. Time will tell. To this day we still chit-chat every once in a while and for the most part they are a quiet crew. Time will also tell if they hang around. My guess is the crazy Asian landlord will hike the rent and we will get another serving of the unknown.

The mindless, runaway blog entry, part 1-?

Writing for me is not easy. Often I run into moments when I know there is good material to feed off, but can't quite determine how to express an opinion or elaborate on what already exists. In the past I would rattle off blog entries on just about anything, but lately I have run dry.

Maybe it's because what I do for my profession is write, handle freelancers and read material that eventually ends up in my magazine. It's similar to the chef or massage therapist or carpenter who does the deed all day then comes home and wants nothing to do with the trade.

But of late I have concluded that writing a blog helps me with my profession. When I was scratching out a blog entry every day way back when I was also writing more for the magazine. Then when I slowed to a halt on the blog, so too did the amount of words I would write for the magazine. It's a conundrum. For me, a blog is not for anyone who may read it but for me. In essence it's an exercise that helps me get down to my "fighting" weight for the thing that makes me money–my paying job.

Thinking about media...
Recently, I have been thinking about media. At a recent work-related event I noticed that there are way too many photographers and very few magazines to utilize those images. So great sports photographers are left with blogs and websites. It's a shame really, and while the magazine I manage clearly has the best cycling photography bar-none, it could never afford to, nor could it physically house all the images that are generated. And so blogs and websites have become the main depository for great images. It's bizarre to me to look at an image on a screen. Photography is meant to be printed on paper, bound in glue or saddle stitched, used as candy for an article–in a magazine.

If you ask any good cycling photographer today, they will tell you that getting their images in print is the single most important thing. It's final. It's not digital. Eventually that digital link disappears into the ether, becomes archived. Goes away. With paper, it stays. Printed. Embedded. Inked on to a surface. It remains.

Blogs are neat don't get me wrong, as are websites. And while some people think that the printed book or magazine will disappear, I fervently disagree. While blogs have created a whole new medium for the average "Joe" to put down thoughts, report on events, mis-report, assume, etc, they have also diluted the world with drivel and inaccuracies.

So what's the point of this off-kilter, unfocused blog entry? Not sure. And to those who believe that printed pieces will go away I say "blat" to you.This is the end of mindless, runaway blog entry, part 1-?.

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

It's been a long time...

Not sure why I haven't blogged in a while. Perhaps it's my inability to think of anything interesting, or maybe it's because I have too many things in my head that are certainly blog-worthy, but way too much effort to spit out. I guess I have been in a creative black hole. (Next action, hit SAVE and come back to this wandering paragraph).

Okay I am back. The one thing I have been thinking about lately is the 1980s. A time when I grew up, became a turd, wore clothes that were lame, listened to lame music, had lame girlfriends and some good ones, and so on. At the time, things were lame. Living in that decade was lame but good at the same time. Ups and downs, trends, clicks, cool people. (Hitting SAVE again).

Then I see my 11-year-old son in the distance. It's me! The same clothes, reactions and taste in music. He's wearing skinny jeans and surf shirts, Vans, wearing his hair similar. How does this happen? How does this Tween start listening to Modern English, English Beat, Thompson Twins, etc? I conclude that it's just part of our society. He's impressionable, but the 1980s? For him, the 1980s are vintage, which means I'm old now. I don't want to be old yet, but I am there.

Vintage for each of us means something different. For me, vintage is the 50's, 60's and maybe the 70's. It's when cars were big and bold, music was real rock-n-roll, hi-tech was a home phone and a color television. For someone like me who didn't live during that period or experience it, it seemed like a simpler time, innocent and naive.

And now that my son has "forced" me to look back at the 1980s, download New Wave tunes from iTunes, I think about the fun times, the innocence, the things I/we hid from our parents, the things they found out, the sports, the stupid mistakes a teenager makes, the moments when you experienced something new like driving and cool music and hot girls. There are certain memories I hold that I will pass to my kids. I always wondered why I became a good fielder in baseball and now know and realize that I can attribute it to throwing the tennis ball against the wall above our garage door for hours and hours. It increased my eye-hand coordination exponentially. Over and over I threw it, and grabbed it with the glove I still have in my garage until I was bored or tired or both.

I remember my dad buying a dirt bike from the local shop, bringing it home in a crate, putting it together, and how I was scared to ride it out of the garage. To me it was fierce and I subsequently wheelied down the driveway–not on purpose.

I remember being a pain in the ass when my sister brought over her first serious boyfriend named Rich. I could see the two on the couch wondering when I was going to bed. I remember the cul-de-sac and the endless games of baseball and hitting line drives off the neighbors motorhome over and over, and basketball games that went late into the night courtesy of a flood light my dad would set up next to a basketball pole that he sunk two feet into the cement.

I distinctly recall–though my mom may not–scouring the grounds of my high school searching for a misplaced report card I was supposed to show to the athletic director in order to prove I had the grades to continue to play.

I am sure we all have these stories that are stored way back in the depths of our minds. They don't come to surface without some sort of trigger. It may be a childhood friend recalling instances, or music, or a son who has found the style and music of the "vintage" 1980s appealing. For me, thinking about those days came about via music. Now I am obsessed with those "glory" days and bands like Psychedelic Furs, OMD, and even Duran Duran! Thinking about the obscure New Wave bands I liked reminds me of the two Spanish exchange students who made the most awesome mix-cassette ever! I totally wish I still had that. (Hitting SAVE).

Eleven-year-old son: Dad what's a tape?
Me: It came before the CD and after the vinyl record.
Eleven-year-old son: What's a record? Do we still have CD's.
Me: Uhh.

Love this...

Tumbleweeds are smarter than squirrels...

It's weekend number three in a row of being out of town. Weekend one was a wedding, number two was a knockdown, drag out "fight" with a hoarding mom of a relative of mine. Number three would be a quiet, jaunt with two of my three kids and mama to Tahoe. A lazy drive through tired towns full of whimsical motels and mom and pop shops. I was looking forward to a packed car and random acts of random tunes from random compact discs picked randomly from my collection of randomness. A road trip in its purest form.

Things started off great. "Ah. Check out the cute little town. That's a neat motel," we consistently chimed. "Look at the cute cows and cute horses, etc, etc." Things were chipper, the weather was good and the miles ticked by. Our kids are used to travel, to the car, to being out and about. We never think twice about packing up and taking off. They can handle it. They've both been to Europe, around the country and the eight hours in the car would be a cake walk mixed with stops for grub and leg stretching.

Our first stop would be Bishop, CA. With references carefully constructed by my newbie-to-the-internet father we pulled into Erick Schat's Bakkery. When my dad recommends an eatery, you know it must be good. We walked into the place and immediately we were in pastry and bread heaven. They are known for their breads including the Sheepherder's style. Armed with cheese bread, the aforementioned Sheepherder, some cookies, and a couple of sandwiches we all agreed that grandpa's suggestion was spot-on.

Onward. Back in the rig and more free-spirited miles to come we continued on the 14 until we reached the death march of winter storms on the 395. Now it was dark and windy. Real windy. In fact, today the 395 and the surrounding areas would experience some of the worst winds in a long, long time. Combine darkness, cold weather, 100-mile-per-hour winds and mix in a large helping of snow flurries and soon the carefree "Kumbaya" road trip got very ugly. The flurries began in earnest and while mama and I thought it was just dirt and dust from the Biblical winds we soon discovered that the horizontal onslaught was indeed snow. Because the wind was blowing so hard it didn't stick to the car or the ground or to anything. It just flew by on it's way to nothing but the town of Evaporation.

Then relief. We came into another town and things subsided. Just the visual of motels and shops and people relieved my nerves, but soon it was back onto the lonely stretches of what is normally a beautiful, scenic drive. More horizontal madness. Driving a square SUV under normal circumstances is an exercise in concentration, but under these conditions, this box of metal makes me think negative thoughts like "This road is stupid," and "Why did Nissan put a First-Aid kit in that little nugget of space on the rear hatch of the Xterra?" Was it telling me something?

The white knuckle driving continued. Soon it was just wind and tumbleweeds. All shapes and sizes of tumbleweeds, lifting up and scurrying across the road. Hit one and it does two things: either instantly evaporates, or gets lodged under the front bumper. What's amazing is that the weeds seem to know when to scurry and when to turn back, unlike a stupid squirrel. Some tumbleweeds would time it and get across without getting squished, while others would get one-quarter of the way across and turn back. Some would bolt across like the medium sized ones. They were lean and quick and somehow saw a need to get to the center parkway. The large one's "Weebled" along, stopping when they sensed a car, then continuing. Occasionally they would get lodged or flattened but most made it. They were used to this and used the Biblical winds to their advantage.

This continued for hours: wind, wind and snow, more wind, etc., tumbleweeds, more towns with neat motels and hollowed out old gas stations. I am wondering at this point where Tahoe is. Does it still exist? Did it just vanish? White knuckles and sweaty palms, head in the windshield to see; it all made me think of how nice it would be to be at home with no wind and sun!

Eventually we made it to Gardnerville. It's the town just before our ascent up the 207, which would spill us out to the 50 for a second and South Lake Tahoe. The sign read "Chains Required." It was the end of our journey for the night. We turned back around and shacked at the Holiday Inn Express. The next morning the sign read "Cold and Icy, Drive with Care." An interesting sign that spells dread and positivity at the same time. We ramble on in the metal box, up the pass. Soon the boy from sunny Southern California has a parade of "mountain-types" behind him. I pull to the side, let the experienced drivers through and get back on path. No wind and sun means we'll make it, though slowly to our destination. We do. Pheww.

This year I have done some pretty big drives like from Italy to Austria on my own in a rented stick- shift Citroen, but nothing compared to this spellbinding, sweaty palm adventure. Now some chill in Tahoe.

Luke's Favorite Song...

MC Luke Part II

In this mix Luke is blazing the keyboards and sporting the JBL's. Part 2 of the reel is Luke shredding the blow-up guitar. He's destroying the thing! Makes Hendrix look like a weeping school girl. Cry Jimi, cry!

Mix Master Luke Schamber on the turntables.

My 5-year-old son thinks he's a DJ. It usually happens in the early morning say 6:30am. The mix master in him takes over and while today's mix wasn't his strongest it still rivals any bit of hacking out there.

It's officially over...

Why must you forsake me FB? Yep, I have become disillusioned with the mighty Facebook. Her intentions are good but for some reason FB has been clawing at my throat, strangling time, pushing my buttons. Before I made the shift to FB I was on MSP. Myspace was raw and uncertain, chaotic and boisterous. Like a teenager on a Friday night with not much to do except push a grocery cart around the streets and scream out obscenities. It's funny for a moment but then it just becomes annoying. MSP worked for a second for me, but then I graduated and moved to the more grown-up "adult contemporary" FB. In the beginning it worked. It was easy and clean and concise. I wasn't inundated with garbage, but instead I chose the garbage I wanted...I opted in!

My intentions were to use it for work, to stay in contact with the people in my industry, to stay in-tuned with the ever-changing, ever-growing "friends" I accumulated. It seemed to be going well, FB was nice to me and she accepted the fact that I didn't want everything but just the essentials. Then she turned on me. Soon I was barraged with requests and options and bugs and trash. People I barely knew back in high school wanted to be my "friend", and I accepted. Slowly, invites to random get-togethers and specific groups began pouring in and I denied every single one of them. "Hey bro, wanna hang out and shoot hoops and go to 'lame Mexican restaurant name here'?" "'Name here' has invited you to join the stupid so-and-so group for saving Praying Mantis'." And on and on the invites flowed daily. The news feed was suddenly bursting with images of people I barely knew, videos of things I don't care about, and status reports about crap that doesn't interest me. And yet with all this happening, I contributed to this mess. I too posted images and told people I was eating mac-and-cheese while watching bad television. I found myself sucked in to the Farm Town application, and joining my old high school group thing. I became a fan of random things whether it was a specific television show or rock band or food. I took quizzes and filled out surveys to see which celebrity looked like me and vice-versa, and I did so without blinking. In fact I chuckled a time or two whether I was reading someone's paragraph-long status or watching a stupid pet trick video someone had embedded into the feed.

I became part of the culture of FB, it was ingrained in my head, it was an app. on my iPhone, it was a subconscious beast that I had no clue was affecting my psyche. This beast would scratch the surface just slightly but not enough to make me itch it. Suddenly my professional intention turned to being strictly social in a blink of an eye. At the heart of FB is the social connection, but the problem I was facing was that people thought that I was the same "I" from 23 years ago.

So why did I come to this "FB No Longer" conclusion? It literally clicked with me this morning. I was thinking about my stupid farm (Farm Town) and something went "ting". I could live my life without FB. Contrary to what the social media Kool-Aid drinking know-it-alls spout, we were just fine without this form of "communication". We have now become a country of self-indulgent, me-obsessed, narcissists. Yep I said it. Why has it come to this? Why do some people think I care about pictures of their pet rat or what they ate for dinner or pictures of the "fucking awesome" weekend at Lake Havasu? Better yet, why did I contribute to this indirect method of interaction? I sipped my latté this morning pondering where I went off the rails. I weighed the odds. On one shoulder sat "Could I live without FB?" Along with "Has the Kool-Aid been forever embedded into my soul?" While on the other shoulder "You were just fine without it before, so you may miss it for a little bit, but soon it will go the way of that old t-shirt you finally let go of" sat perched with legs crossed and a wry grin on its face. Also on this shoulder are some good things like old classmates I have reconnected with and friends in New York City and Florence and all over. There are good elements that FB has to offer, but I am convinced I don't need them. So yes it clicked over an early-morning latté that social networking is more social than networking for me. I have enough friends as it is! I hope my 504 (whose counting right?) friends are cool with me leaving the planet of FB. Shit, who am I kiddin', they won't even know I left. And that's the funny thing with FB. You can disappear from something that is so "social" without leaving a trail or without anyone much caring.

For now I have officially "deleted" my FB account. What's interesting is that it won't go into effect for another 14 days. FB is a tricky chick. She will let you come in easily, but she won't let you exit without stewing about it, in your head, for 14 days as to whether you made the "right" choice. FB is nicotine, or Coca Cola, or coffee. You can quit it but you have to dig deep to find the will to stay off it. I'm good with my decision. I'll find other things to do like read or write.

Prosthetics aren't allowed in soccer

It's a Saturday and while most of the planet is rejoicing in the free time away from work with family, friends, pets or other, I am headed to Alta Dena for a date with the AYSO referee school. I put it off for months pissing and moaning inside and out to be quite frank: "I played soccer for years and years. I know the rules of the game. Geez." Etc. Etc. Etc. On I go rambling and mumbling about the glory days of youth soccer when shin guards were for wussies and your socks were low. The names were different too: Rumblers, Hawks, and some obscure name from a Dutch team. Now it was filled with superheroes and cuddly stuffed animals or puppy dogs of some breed. Are the kids of today in today's over-massaged-everyone-wins-nobody-keeps-score-everyone-gets-a-trophy-world-of-soccer turning soft? Or are the parents who fear their kids will suffer if they encounter a sliver of disappointment the one's to "blame"? Hold on. I am truly over-thinking this. Soccer is different these days. I recall those days when I would play against teams who would bite into onions to get fired up and kids had longer locks than my feather-haired sister. When running until you couldn't stand it anymore was a drill and when the snack at half-time was orange slices and water and not candy and cake-like creatures.

I am reliving my past. Boo. Onward.

So it's different these days. All things in sport change. Look at a game like baseball where players make way too much money, brand themselves individually, get in way too much trouble, train too little and play for the money (mostly) than for the love of the game. Replace the word "baseball" with any other team sport and the same holds true. Except for soccer. Well maybe Beckham plays for the money, but for most I truly believe their is a passion. Even the American guys. The Euros, no question.

So soccer. Here I am on that fateful Saturday in a room full of the same people. All looking a little down but at the same time we're all here for the love of the game, err, because we had to choose an area where we could donate time to AYSO. It sounds bad, but deep down inside I had a slight desire to be a ref. The word slight became the word "no" as I sat and begin listening to the chubby, mid-50's man who began spouting bad jokes and fumbling with his presentation. This was going to be a long one.

The master of ceremonies. We'll call him Steve has been a ref for about 10 years. Cindy, his wife, was an AYSO "high-up" managing the district office. We were "introduced" to his daughter and son who were now teenagers and "really good" players. Of course they were. Smart too. Saw that coming. This was Steve's moment though, so he immediately went into the beauty of the game. And for a brief, fleeting moment he had me. He captured my imagination and ran with this for, well, not long enough. Soon Steve was knee-deep into examples of his ref skills and moments when he was calling a U-14 game and something happen. Nothing significant but to Steve an offside call in the final moments of an "any Saturday, any time" game was a mind blower. Jokes were interspersed here and there. I must say that soccer jokes aren't funny but Steve's awkward delivery and cherub-like demeanor made them bearable. Courtesy laughs were flying all over the storage space. The worksheets we were working from were also classic. They were corporate, for beginners, outlining the game and things you couldn't do on the field. Things were flowing but slowly. I was beginning to curse my decision to ref. I could've been that dad setting up the simple goal, or the one passing out snacks at half-time. Instead I went to the upper echelon and I was real uptight. At this moment. On this day. With Steve as my teacher.

Things pick up a little when the kid two seats down from me, raises his hand every two seconds. He's about 13 and is a little off kilter. He stutters and twitches as if he's completely nervous. He's ref'd before so he's knows the game. Kinda. He strikes me as a massive whistle blower with a short attention span. I think he's going to blurt a profound question about some obscure rule, but instead he recites a similar situation as Steve where the ball went out bounds but it was questionable whose ball it should be. He said it was raining and muddy all day. He said it was confusing. Then he stopped. He just stopped. We all sort of stopped. Steve picked up telling "Roger" that he made a good call, whatever it was. Who cares. This kid now bugged me. He wasn't done though, he had 7-8 more of these "interruptions". All of them were similar.

The crowd for me was a mix. You had mom's who all looked sporty, looked like they jogged a lot, had sporty sport watches and sport hair. You know the hair-do that is just pulled back or covered with a USC or UCLA hat. They are all business and they chose to be refs! The dads, on the other hand, are the typical South Pasadena/San Marino guys. Saturday is golf day perhaps so sweat pants and a USC shirt is the garb. Mix that combination with a set of Nike cross trainers or New Balance running shoes and you have typical Saturday dad who wants to be at home on the couch or on the course. So I am surrounded by aggro soccer moms and JPL or CalTech dads. Smart, keen, unaware of the beauty of the game of soccer. I can sense that.

Now Steve brings out the holy grail of ref paraphanelia: the backpack of ref stuff. Meanwhile two other refs enter the room. One is a teenager with a slight mullet and he too has a nervousness about him. He fumbles with the soccer ball attempting to show skill but doesn't have it at this moment. The other is a lurch of a man with a cul-de-sac hair head, short, thin, also nervous. Steve pulls out 4 whistles. He needs four and explains why: "Just in case I am on a field with other games around me I can choose a different sounding whistle. That's why I have four." He stomps around like Mussolini as if his 4-whistle setup is genius. It's not genius but it's smart. Steve has captured my attention again. He moves on to the cone-like bits. "I use these to mark spots on the field that may be of danger. Not to the kids, but to me! I need to know that I won't hit a sprinkler or a puddle when I am running up and down the field." God forbid Steve looks out for the little gremlins. Again he paces around. Another good tip but certainly not earth shattering. His fellow refs nod in agreement. They whisper to each other either saying Steve's a jackass or Steve stole my line. Not sure. Who cares anyway, Steve's on a roll. More things come out of the bag: extra shin guards, tape, gauze, stopwatch, etc. It's all there. Steve is certainly prepared.

More recall comes forth. Apparently being a ref is powerful. Steve has and has had the ability to stop games because of parents or aggressive play or lame coaches. I am intrigued by the power and Steve's perception of power. Steve's in it for the power. He fooled me. Steve moves on and Bob, the Chief of all refs in this area of AYSO steps forth. It's Steve's boss. Bob gives the seal of approval and begins his awkward spiel about power and certain calls and more scenarios. He recalls similar fouls and calls and results. Name dropping people in the AYSO who we don't know and who carry titles that make no difference to me. I am annoyed by Bob but his uneasiness in presenting makes me giggle. He makes no eye contact, has bad jokes, drops things, but he's wearing the black and whites stripes. He's the man in this small region of the AYSO ref world. Section whatever, district who cares. While his awkward stance makes me laugh he also scares me. I think to myself "I would not want to ref with this guy." His lack of eye contact intimidates me. I don't want him to call on me. The kookie kid a couple doors down is oblivious to Bob. He doesn't give a rats ass if Bob is the "big cheese" he's gonna give another ridiculous example of his little sisters game a year ago. Then he stops when I am expecting more. He throws Bob off. Silence. Lunch time.

After lunch we head outside with the master: Bob. The Chief of Refs essentially repeats many of the same things he explained inside. He tells us to not go "All Barney Fife on anxious and annoying parents." He giggles. I giggle. That's genius. Never heard that before. Probably never will. Touché Bob!

More examples follow. We get into a discussion about knee braces and it's a serious one. No knee braces that have metal on them are allowed. "They could tear a kid up real easy," says Bob. No arm braces either. Then the bonanza of all questions. Not from the quirky teenager with the twitch but from a USC-clad dad who asks about prosthetic limbs. "What about a kid with a prosthetic leg or arm?" We all shutter. Stop. Wrinkle our lips as if to say either: A) Take that Bob!; or B) That's a serious, though-provoking question that should be answered. Bob hesitates. He twitches that twitch as if he just saw a naked woman appear at his front doorstep or a ghost or whatever scares or shocks Bob... Maybe eye contact. Bob puts his hand to his chin, rubs it, massages it. We all stand still, wanting to go home. It's that time. But at the same time I am intrigued by what Bob will come back with. The twitchy teenager is twitching but seems to be thinking about unicorns and lemon drops. Bob has an answer, you can tell by his ref stance and his eye contact that is now fixated on the genius-question-asker's New Balance shoelace. "Well. Well. Hmm. Don't prosthetic arms usually have hooks on the end? So, uhh, no I don't think that's allowed. But, but, wait a minute. Wait a darn second. It's the kid's arm right, so we have to let him play. Oh geez, you know I am not sure quite frankly. Hmm." Then New Balance dad replies "Well is there someone you can ask?" Oh great. Game on. "Well yeah, I should ask someone, but that someone is me. I am the person to ask." Oh snap! Silence. Nervous laughter. Bob makes brief eye contact with New Balance dad and for a brief moment super-ref is human. Twitchy kid has his arm raised. Nothing comes of it. What a day.

In the end it was entertaining and come our first game I was no longer needed. Sandy the super mom who knows too much about ref'ing had someone else. I soon became assistant coach of the Rotten Banana Rockets. A flock of cute, round faced kids including my son Luke who love the game, run around in a pack, make incredible contact with each other, which ultimately makes me and the coach laugh. I love this game!

Toes meet the pedi

It was bound to happen. The toes were in danger of puncturing soccer balls with their sharp edges. They have gone too many years and too many miles without a proper tune-up. You can't call a simple rip and tear by my own fingers a true act of landscaping. The cuticles too had edges not seen by the Asian girl who would work them over, probably ever. Around these parts a nail salon is a dime a dozen. Down the main drag is one every three to four storefronts. Every time I walk past one I mumble to myself "I should really get the caveman paws looked at." But I never do. Can't find the nerve to walk in with grubby, dirty feet and say "Wash 'em!". Contrary to what my inner self thinks and believes I am fearful of what the two Asian girls will think and subsequently chatter about to their colleagues. Chinese of Thai or Korean is not like Spanish where I can pick out a few words here and there and piece together what I think would be their reaction. So I never walk in. My flip-flopped feet and toes with the typical flip-flop tan lines live another day with dirt under the nails and cuticles from hell.

Let's face it, most man toes are beasts. They are big and grungy and the toes mis-shapen and well, manly. That's okay but at times I see a man toe that looks refined and polished and cut just right and think "That guy is either gay, or he frequents a mani-pedi-massage parlor, uhh, shop." I have yet to realize that men do get mani-pedis. Without question I have a big heap of metrosexual in me, but going to get the boys looked after has never been on my short list. And so it went. Walking past the nail places. Often. Not pulling me in.

Then one day it happened. Passing by a nail place around the time of my birthday recently, I bee-lined into the door of a woman-wonderland. I have never been in one before. What was I getting myself into. To the right was a counter with an older Asian man giving me the once-over. In in his real broke English he asked me what I wanted today. "Uhh, a, uhh, pedicure, I think, err, and mani, err, manicure?" Sure no problem, we have this special and that one and this type and that type, etc. I was in a blur of broken English. I am not alone. My lady and my son Luke and baby Hope are in tow. Hope's asleep and Luke has no idea where he's at, so my lady is the only one I can look to for guidance. Like a professional she steps up for the lame caveman (me) and sets things straight. Soon I am whisked away into a 1980s wonderland full of creme, light blue and peach. Where am I? Is this safe? What are these monster chairs with monster arms and a pool thingamajig at the feet? I sit down, flop the flips off and assume the position. I look to my left and my lady is knee-deep in a People magazine. Nearest my left is another woman about three monster chairs down. She looks like she's asleep, blissful, unaware of the soccer mom duties that consume her daily life. That is why ladies come here. Yep to get the nails done, but also to grab a sliver of time that is lost to changing diapers, making PB&J's and Trader Joe's. It's not a secret society, but for an hour it very well could be an escape.

This is going to be awesome. I sense it. I feel it. Shit, I hope it doesn't go sideways. The Asian ladies haven't even seen my toes yet. This could go horribly wrong. These toes are rare. They may have soil samples from 1995 in there, and gnarled cuticles that haven't been seen, well, ever. Asian girl Number 1 sits down, puts my feet in the pool thing. It feels good but when my feet get pruned the toes take on a different appearance. Now they are angry toes that look like an old-grizzled man. She doesn't bat an eye. This is ground zero for her. She may have worked on an old woman named Edith who has massive corns and bent nails that are as thick as plywood. Mine, it seems, are basic man toes. A little grungy but nothing to make her flinch. She digs in, literally, and plows out things. I can't watch. I sink into an US Weekly. Thanks Britany!

The cleaning and scouring continues and then Asian woman Number 2 steps in and goes about my finger nails. Some muttering, giggling and a fair bit of chatter ensues. They are talking about my toes I can sense it! More US Weekly. What's up with Rachel Zoe? A couple digs hurt. I know which part of the big toe she was visiting. It had yesterday's yard work in it and she didn't give a rats ass how it felt. She needed that stuff out. This is her job. Imagine Paul Pierce not going full gas to the basket? You get my point. After work she may talk about her day and the nails she buffed with her significant other. Similar to a financial analyst who may rattle on about saving a company or beating the system. She dug and it hurt. I flinched. Some mutter between 1 and 2. A quick pause. Onward.

The nail session went well. Number 2 was older and more compassionate it seemed. She realized she was working on a newbie and a man no-less. She was however, completely broken in her English. She was, in fact, beyond broken. It was unrepairable. She muttered something to me about something. I said yes. I said yes again, And then sure, and then just a nod in agreement along with a smile. I may have bowed for all I know.

In the end my nails were buffed, and had a slight shiny polish to them. Not pimping, but enough to make me wary of my manhood. Perhaps the most uncomfortable moment, aside from Number 1 digging for gold in my big toe, was when Number 1 buffed the bottom of my feet. While it seems like a soothing and relaxing affair it just caused me to giggle and hold my breathe, clinch my fist and do anything to keep me from bursting out in either tears of wild laughter. It was awful. It shouldn't have been, but it was. My son Luke laughed too. I had a partner. Phew. My lady just mouthed from across the room what appeared to be "What is it????"

Now I have done it. I get up. My nails looked fabulous as did my tired old toes. Basically the pigs had lipstick put on them and lipstick is temporary. But I could see the toes stand up taller. They were proud. No longer was one hiding under the other. At this moment they were real toes sans soil and edges. They were buffed and clean, trimmed and shaped. For a moment, a day, maybe 72 hours they were admired by the family. "Look at daddy's toes!" Luke says. "Wow honey, they really look good," says mama. A successful trip to the place I dreaded. The woman-filled grotto with snickering Asian girls was what I imagined but not the reality. Will I go back again? I may try another place. I need to shop around. Number 1 really dug into big papa on the end and Number 2 was solid, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying. I need Asian girls who will treat the pigs with more respect and who will not continue to ask me if I want a buff or shine or whatever. We'll see what happens.

For now, the toes are back to the pre-pedi-state. Too many flip-flop days in the garden, but I sense the old boys wouldn't want it any other way. This is their life. They are utilitarian extensions meant to grind in soil and walk on hot cement, and get hard, and run and jump and all that. At the same time, they want love. All the work they do should be rewarded and I suppose a pedi is the right thing to do. Just keep the Loofah away from my soles Number 1!

The DMV and riff-raff

The license has expired. It's been a decade at least, and then suddenly it came. Quick. Too quick. "Shit, now I have to go to the DMV!" Maybe I can renew it online. Login. Click, clack, sigh. Sorry can't do it. Next up a call goes in to the labyrinth of hell. "Your wait will be about 10 minutes, please hold or call back at another time," was the voice on the other side. Probably from a guy who no longer works there, but Jenny in the "operations" department thought José's voice sounded perfect for the recording. Since then José has left for greener pastures to work in the jury room of the Sacramento county court house. Onward.

I wait. Put the phone on speaker, burn my shitty AT&T minutes and hope that something will come from it. Finally, a voice. Annoyed, disgruntled, flat-out wondering why I have disrupted her morning. I can hear it in her tone. I get through it, make the appointment for July 29, 2009 at 10:30 am. Sweet, an appointment. Like with any appointment this will go well. Wait, like most appointments in the real world, this means nothing, zero, zip, nada. Go the dentist for the 9:30 am on a Monday, and it soon becomes the 10:30 am. Same with the car dealership and everything else. But here's the reality: if I went by this motto and arrived an hour later it would be just my luck that the dentist, or doctor or pissed-off DMV employee would somehow, magically, by the grace of God, be on time and have the best performance day of their career. Can't use that motto Skippy. Gotta go earlier than 10:30 am, maybe 9:45. I do.

I get there at 9:45 am. Pull into the driveway and park. I head over to the line that is always there, any day, all day, all the time, forever. Why is there a line forever? Who are all these people? Why do they all look like they just fell out of bed, or jail, or came from a fight? The DMV seems to be full of riff-raff. I said it, and I believe it. I am going on the shallow assumption of initial appearance but I survey the crowd and make grand assumptions below my breath: "That crazy looking Asian kid was caught with pot, speeding and wrecked his lowered Acura," "That beat looking white trash woman lost her license because her dirty boyfriend got a DUI and she was holding the Schnapps." Everyone, in my head, has a tragic story pinned to their shirt. Likely most are here to do what I am doing, renewing my license. Others like the fresh-faced teen is getting her driving permit or license. And that old man over there with no teeth is taking a test. Where's his huge Lincoln Town Car, I wonder.

This line, do I have to stand in it? I go to the front and ask the tiny Asian dude who is the master of ceremonies. He's directing people here, there, down there, back over there and on and on. Most have to stay in line while he directs me to sit on the bench, the dirty one over there with the other people and the discarded Carl's Jr. cups and wrappers that for some reason the jackass who brought it couldn't put it in the trash can three steps away. I push it aside. We are the appointment crew. The smart one's who made the choice to get a time and not the retards who decided that standing in line was the best choice. He asks in broken English: "Wuh ime you hab pointmen?" "10:00 my friend." "Ohhhhh you too ewlee."

So I sit and wait. I make eye contact with the maestro so he doesn't forget me. He looks at me with a face that says to me, "You stupi whi boy. Come too ewlee. Naw tin clock yeh. Phhhh." Finally he orders me to a line. I head down rambling through people, jockeying for position in the appointment line where the clerk behind the fiberglass processes my information and gives me a computer generated number. I am now "G14". I sit in the dreary waiting room while people on my right wait for their own stuff: taking a driver's test. The computer screen and computer voice spit out numbers, it seems, at random: "A20, D25, G10..." There's no science to it. It's pure American inefficiency. If it were Germany the place would be organized and rebuilt from the ground up with concierge and a beer garden. Here I am in Pasadena in a run down 1970's building with build-out upon build-out. Sitting there makes me wonder about infrastructure and service. "Sure we are rich and powerful, but we can't even figure this basic shit out?" Finally "G14, window 25." That was easy. Shouldn't doubt my country!

Up to the window and 20-something Asian guy process my stuff, one finger type at a time. He must be new, or maybe they don't expect a lot from Window 25 guy. Whatever. He asks me to read the top two lines of letters to "test" my vision. It's five feet away and the type is huge. Easy. What a joke. If you need glasses to read those things, you are in deep trouble. Off to the next line where I get my picture.

Around the corner and past all the snarling riff-raff I get to the picture line. A couple people in front of me touch up faces and the old Asian man currently talking to the picture clerk can't speak a lick of English. His USC-educated son is translating. "Now you have to take a picture. A picture. A picture, dad." I am assuming he's saying this but I don't know for sure because, well, he's speaking Chinese.

My turn. I scribble my signature on the disintegrating digital pad. Do it once. "No good" says clerk. Do it a second time and the end result is half print, half cursive that looks like a 7-year-old did it. Whatever, take my picture. Snap. "Looks good" says picture clerk. What a dreadful job he has. "Four to six weeks, you will get it." What the fuck takes so long. Isn't it essentially done right there? I don't get it. Why not five weeks? Or two days?

Two weeks later I get it. Looks nice, though I am rounder in my face and heavier in my weight listing. I remember thinking when I filled out the information: "Oh man, I would love to be 155 pounds still. Should I put that in there? That's what my old one said. Nope, can't do it." Didn't.

Two-thousand-fourteen is when my new license expires. I can bet with certainty that the DMV will have the same type of people, the same lines, the same chaos, the same dirty building and the same (well different people) type of grumpy, somber people working there.

Kids, eating out and bathrooms

I have fond memories of the days before kids. Lazy weekends spent on the couch eating pretzels, sipping a frosty Sierra Nevada, watching bad television, or a This Old House marathon. In between this glorious laziness were 15-minute power naps that were complete with heavy snoring, slobbering and the realization when I woke that another episode of Huell Howser is on. Sweet days. Days that are gone.

Kid number 1 came, then 2, now we are 7 months into number 3. Numbers that add up to beautiful days and long ones at the same time. While the world is full of schedule mongers and helicopter parents, our style is loose. When is nap time? When baby girl is tired. When is bath time? When they are dirty. When do they go to bed? When it's time. Why create a schedule when it functionally messes with your life? To each his/her own.

So our life continues, though in a much more chaotic manner compared to the glory days of doing whatever, whenever. Now there's a crew in tow. Simply going to the market whether normal or flea is a process. Cole (10) is self-sufficient, Luke (5) is getting there, and Hope (7 mos) is a baby nugget. Enough said. But we do it because we want to. Simple exposure to daily life unsheltered brings experiences that they may not remember completely, but exposes them to life unfiltered, unscheduled, uninhibited.

Same goes for going out to eat. It too is an adventure and we don't do the blue-plate special schedule of 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. We go when we go. When the crew is ready. When shirts are on right-side out, the diaper is refreshed, and toys are tucked away in the bag only to see the light of night when a possible meltdown may occur. Preparation is key of course for the excursion to the local haunt. Spare diapers, wipes? Check. Cash? Yep. Onward.

While it's always nice to actually go out to dinner with just mama and I, it's not always feasible so the army of 5 hit it. Wait for a booth. Sit down. Get the Chianti rolling, the milk, the Sprite, the formula too. All set. Order the pizza, get some bread, maybe a salad. Bingo! All ordered, time to look at each other, chat, people watch. Things are rolling along fine. Luke has his cars. Cole's drawing, baby girl is giggling at the old man in the next booth... The cheap Chianti tastes like a million bucks. Here comes the bread and salad. We dig in. The cheap salad tastes like a thousand bucks. Life at this very moment is off the charts. I have restaurant high. It's similar to a workout high where you have this feeling of levitation of maybe 1/2 inch off the floor. The sweaty, springless, naugahyde booth bench can't be felt. People watching is at its all-time high. "What did they order? Why is the middle-aged couple not talking to each other? Damn this cheap Chianti is good." Then the pizza comes. Eggplant, basil and tomato. The best pizza on earth made even better by my restaurant high. Scoop a piece out for each character, mama first of course. Then the boys, then me. "Oh sweet Jesus, this fruit you bring me renders me speechless," I think. One successful bite, washed down with Chianti interspersed with cold tap water that tastes like a hundred bucks... Restaurant high catapulted.

Then it happens. "I need to go poop," says a grimmacing 5-year-old. "Grunttttt, ughhhhh, errrrr," says baby nugget. Mama and I look at each other. Default is she handles nugget and I handle the pooper. The high drops a few levels back to where I began at the beginning of this adventure. The seating situation creates another drop in the "high" level. Luke scurries out from under the table. The "cool" family out late is now the center of attention, but we never let our guard down. We have experienced this before. It happens. Shit happens. The schedule folk don't know this because they are done with the bath, reading stories, sheets tucked tight. Our mojo has a slight dent, but nothing that can't be fixed with a slight tap. The goddess of patience (mama) takes nugget, taps on her back, flips her around, gives a few sweet "Shhhhhhhhsssss" and baby girl is back to her wide-eyed, dimple faced freshness.

Meanwhile I am off to the outhouse. Single toilet, paper on the floor, the john in need of a second flush. Little Champ climbs aboard the seat, telling me to look away. I do. The moment last a few minutes. I sense a lineup outside the door. Whatever. Hold up hipster, this little fella has some business to tend to. We're done. Hands washed, stomach cleared, back to pizza. At this point baby Hope is passed out on the naugahyde, Cole's playing cars and Luke crawls under the table to his spot. The restaurant high is still flat-lined, but another slice and gulp of the sweet juice will bring it up a notch. It does. Kids are in check, doing their thing, nibbling, sipping, playing. Chit-chat about life, things, work, travel, gardening, you name it. Another slice, more Chianti. I am back up to the level I was at before things slightly unfolded moments ago. Tables turn over. An old couple compliment us on our kids, things are good.

The check comes. Nugget is still asleep. The boys are tired. I'm full, as is mama. I scoop up baby girl, Cole takes the leftovers, Luke the toys and we're off. Into the car. Back home we go. A successful outing. Not unlike the hundred other times we've headed out. We don't fear meltdowns or scowls or situations. We confront them when they happen and remedy the situation. We are all on the same playing field. Our life is not determined or dictated by a schedule. This exposure is important, children are resilient and I think deep down they are truly enjoying the adventure.

So while those days of being kidless sitting on the couch watching Norm Abram rebuild an interior wall or Tom Silva frame-in a window, the deep naps and cold pizza are long gone, there's really nothing better than a posse of 2 kids sitting on naugahyde (1 in the high chair eating mashed bananas) chowing on pizza, a fresh-faced 10-year-old giddy about a Lesney Matchbox purchase for a bargain, or the deep-dimpled strawberry blond ball of fire with a blow up guitar impersonating Pete Townsend at the local concert in the park. These are priceless, unscheduled moments that will be brought up in conversation on the front porch days later and perhaps years down the line. "Remember that one time..."

Waiting for the moment my 10-year-old says...

While there are so many things I am anticipating my son Cole saying in the next few years, the one phrase I have thinking about constantly is this: "Umm yeah, I'm kinda done playing with my little brother." He's been the perfect brother (Cole), though he lives with us part-time. He has accommodated his little brother Luke and his baby sister Hope seamlessly. Certainly the boys have their moments, but Cole has dug deep and when he is with us has been the perfect playmate. While I see boys and girls Cole's age getting into more complex things, Cole has maintained this beautiful balance between becoming a tween and staying a little kid. He still finds playing cars with his little brother interesting and appealing. While he may not like the cartoons or shows that Luke likes, he still sucks it up and accompanies him most of the time in front of the television. He helps his brother accomplish things and fix things and get dressed if he needs the help. At the park he will pull his brother and his brothers' friends in a wagon, around the park, for hours.

In the small room they share it's clear they have their separate spaces, but they ultimately end up playing together on the rug in the middle of the room. And so all of this works, and aside from the normal turmoil that can be expected when a 5-year-old and a 10-year-old with different personalities clash, the living situation is pretty darn nice.

But the day will come when they separate. Not physically but mentally, emotionally. I can see when Cole is, say 13 and Luke will 8. What will Cole be into? Girls, sports, himself, all of it? What will Luke like? Video games, sports, his own friends? The age difference is significant enough to warrant this separation at some point. Maybe it comes later when Cole is 15 or 16. I fear the day that he may not want to come up from his mom's house in Dana Point because he may have a chick or his buddies want to go out. I hope it never gets to this point, but teenagers are teenagers.

For now I relish this time these two buds have together. They are like an old married couple in a way. Bicker, fight, separate followed by play, be pals, ride bikes, go nite-nite. I can sense the loyalty that Cole has toward Luke and the admiration that Luke has toward Cole. I know that in any given, uncomfortable situation at the park or wherever, that Cole will have his brother's back. I know that when they are out riding their bikes together, ahead of us, up the street, that Cole watches his brother's every move. Making sure he's safe and in line. I know that Luke is watching his brother and how he rides his bike, the turns he does, the way he stops, the sounds he may make and is storing it in his little head.

It's a beautiful thing to watch: two brothers growing up, in crazy times, together half the time. My hope is that this connection will maintain, that while both will grow and spread their wings, that they will still come back to the connection they have as brothers and roommates. I think they will keep this bond no matter what, through time, forever. There's something there that I can't necessarily see but can sense. Even through the tempers and attitude, they still come back to an innocent place that is blissful and accented with the sounds of Matchbox car horns and make believe security officers.

Meanwhile little sister Hope is sitting back with a binkie in her mouth thinking "What is wrong with these guys?" It's poetry in motion.

The little blue bike

My five-year-old is a mysterious boy. Forget the fact that he truly is an old soul or that his imagination is miles apart from most little kids I know. He has this trigger that will engage when he feels it's the absolute right time to pull it. Essentially he's that kid who likely knows how to do something but clearly wants to do it on his terms, at his pace, on his schedule. It has worked this way for everything, from letting go of his thumb sucking, wiping his own butt, riding his scooter, swimming, and now bicycling.

The journey begin with the wooden bike, the one with no pedals, made in Germany... The one I could sell the shit out of to local hipsters and Calabasas MILF's. Anyway, Luke never used the bike for a year. He looked at it, touched it, walked by it to get to his tricycle. The "cool" wooden bike that all the parents dig, was simply a wooden bike he didn't feel like riding. It went this way until finally the stubborn little man got on, coasted off and begin understanding the feel of the bike with no pedals. He did it for a short time, and now that I think back, I realize it was his intention. He likely thought the bike was cool all along, and probably wanted to jump right on that thing and take off, feet in the air, howling at the blue sky. But his "Cool Hand Luke" persona kicked in and he showed just enough to make me grin and kept the rest in the vault of his tiny little head until the day he was 100 percent fired-up to ride the wooden bike again. So he propped the bike back up where it belonged, pulled out the tricycle and screamed down the sidewalk.

This played out in the same manner for some time, little-by-little he would ride a bit longer, put it back, get in his big plastic car and zip down the street. I always wondered how the circuits were firing in his head. I was beginning to wonder if he would just never get it, not give in, be too fearful of crashing, whatever. Was he just thinking that he would just toy with me for a bit longer until I promised some plastic reward like a Playmobil character, Matchbox car or banana split at Fosselman's. Was this "hold-back" a calculated move on his part that will last his whole life. Will he be that kid who had his hands on his hips on the soccer field, but had talent in the end? Or that teenager who never studied for anything but somehow pulled it off? Perhaps he's that same guy in college who had the same study high school habits, but by sheer last minute will and a few Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Barleywine Ales somehow wrote decent things. I don't think he will be that guy because I think he's smarter than that. He's witty and imaginative, compassionate and loving, outspoken and shy at the same time. He just does it on his own terms... everything.

So ultimately Luke got on the wooden bike, took off with his feet in the air, howling at the sky, full of life, piss and vinegar. He stopped at the corner, waited for me. We crossed together. He scooted over, made room for people walking by, imagined he was a motorcycle rider or policeman or security guard chasing down a bad guy. It was instant, in the moment, it was his method. I shook my head likely saying 'that little fucker!' and basked in the moment he made the little wooden bike look like a play toy. He went from unsure to certain in a glimpse, as with everything else. He went on to master the wooden bike and soon began to grow out of it. The seat was raised to its limit and it was clear it was time to move on.

My mom bought a 16-inch bike at a yard sale and my dad delivered it. Luke's eyes lit up when he saw the selfless grandma's purchase perched against the wall. It's a blue Trek with fenders, and padding and a coaster brake. It's the first real step to a traditional 20-inch bike. He wanted to ride it right off. So we pulled it down to the sidewalk, buckled his helmet to his head and perched him on top of the saddle. It was about the right height for his skinny-tall body and I grabbed on to the back of his shirt and away we went. I ran and he pedaled for about 10 feet all-the-while letting go to see where he stood. He was firm, assured with a slight wobble but nothing to fear. Back and forth we went several times, each pass with a longer "let-go" on my part. He understand the braking and steering and seemed comfortable with the feeling. Ten minutes went by and he stopped, dragged it up to where it was originally perched, took off his helmet and went inside. We exchanged "high-fives" and hugs and that was it.

Later in the day we revisited the little blue bike for a short trip/ride to the park up the street. We followed the same procedure, which consisted of me running next to him, letting go, grabbing back, letting go, braking, pushing, starting, riding. Within five minutes it was just him, the little blue bike, the sidewalk, the air. He braked, stopped at the corner, waited for me, then we crossed and he took off again. On the way back it was less of me helping and more of him riding, on his own, in his own head, imagination running wild as a police officer catching bad guys. He's now a true bike rider, skipping the training wheels, and doing it on his own terms.

For me I waffle between being proud of his quickness, and it not being enough of a struggle for him. Part of me wanted him to pick it up and take baby steps until he got it. I wanted him to have a tough time with it so he knows how great it is to accomplish something as complex as balancing on two wheels, while being aware of your surroundings, and steering at the same time. I vaguely remember learning to ride a two-wheeler but it couldn't have been this easy for me! At the same time, deep inside, I am doing back-flips, saying "fuck yeahs!" over and over, because of this grand achievement from a little boy who does things on his own terms with his feet in the air, howling at the sky, full of life, piss and vinegar.