CONTINUED FROM POST BELOW

Early morning, mid-September, 1979. Adjusted the rearview mirror of my 1976 Datsun B-210 hatchback as I headed out. About a top third of the back window was not blocked by records, clothes and my TV. Plenty of room to see where I’ve been.

I was too young and stupid to be nervous. Hell, it was 1979 baby, the era of disco music, easy sex and plentiful drugs (the first of which accounted for roughly 80 percent of my record collection, now jammed into a plastic milk crate; the other two, not so much). Here I was, a young college graduate with a stunning resume. I was co-editor of my university newspaper; I worked for a summer in Pittsburg (Calif.) on the daily newspaper where among my duties I wrote “Spotlight on Business,” a weekly feature on deserving local businesses (rotated among advertisers, and I dreaded when Vic’s One-Hour Martinizing came up); and I had the enthusiasm of youth going for me.

It wasn’t, “Please hire me, I’ll do anything.” It was, “Yeah, my background it that impressive; sure, I’ll wait.”

Until I was about 50 miles from home. Then it was, “What the hell am I doing?” There was a sudden aching in my hands until I realized I’d had the steering wheel in a death grip for the last 10 miles or so. My gut churned and suddenly those homemade chocolate chip cookies that I figured would sustain me to Utah suddenly did not look so good.

I could turn back. Easy. Every mile there was another exit. An easy merge to the right. Stop, turn left, head along the overpass. Another left. Go west, young man. Back home.

But then I was in Sacramento. Through the Sierra Nevadas, which offered a taste of Rocky Mountain High. This was not only the right thing to do, but the only thing to do. Think, in days I will have landed my dream job in Colorado, skiing on the weekends and living the kind of life other 21-year-old Americans could only dream.

This was like a trip to the Bipolar Circle.

Just inside Utah, the clouds let loose and visibility dropped to just about my front bumper. But suddenly, as if stepping into another room from behind a curtain, it was clear and crisp, the sun dipping below the horizon behind me. And just ahead, like an arch to a better future (the emotional rollercoaster was on a euphoric peak), was a rainbow. Not a halfassed rainbow that might waver for a few seconds in one corner of sky, but a full-fledged, ground to ground, Technicolor right-outta-Disney rainbow that even Leprechauns Local 501 of the Pot-o-Gold Hiding Union would’ve respected.

I pulled off to admire it. Mostly to stare for a while, and also to let the blood flow back to my ass (I haven’t had tingles back there like that before or since). I’d covered roughly 800 miles in 11 hours without a bathroom break. So I stepped off the pavement and took care of that too.

Outside of Salt Lake City, at an hour I believe to be in the ungodly range (2, maybe 3 a.m.), I pulled into a rest stop, feeling the rollercoaster of emotion flying past the station and plummeting to depths unknown when I leaned my seat back only to have it wedge against the TV just a few degrees past 90.

It was cold, the car was low on gas, and I was trying to sleep in a position meant to discourage rest. I even cursed the TV (the first and last time for that as well).

Then, about two hours later, I had a visitor. I awoke to a tap on the driver's-side window. First thought – who the hell comes calling in the middle of the night, particularly at a Utah rest stop.

Second thought – this is not good.

There was a shadow at the window, hard to make out due to lack of illuminations and the light coating of frost on the window. I rolled down the window to reveal what, based on his Smokey the Bear bat, was a Utah state trooper.

“You can't sleep here,” he said.

I could if you weren't banging on my window. No, I didn't say that. Didn't say a thing. Brain wasn't quite engaged.

“State law prohibits overnight stays at rest stops. Can I see some identification please?”

Welcome to Utah.

He returned with my license about 10 minutes later, suggesting if I were too tired to drive I could stay at some motel about five miles up the road. As if I had never heard of a motel before.

This wasn't about comfort. This was about sacrifice, this was about suffering for my career.

But that can only go so far. It would be the last night I would spent at a rest stop. As I fired up the ignition and pulled out, I realized I had hit bottom. What the hell was I doing? Did I really think I could go all Jack Kerouac (in a capitalistic kind of way) and find something I really wanted to do?

But as the sun rose, so did my mood. Until I hit Grand Junction.

I knew by the map, and by the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign, that I was in my dream state. And it was flat and ugly and nothing more than a stripmall- and hotel-filled Bakersfield (I knew Bakersfield, and yes, Grand Junction was quite a Bakersfield)?

Where the hell was my goddamned Rocky Mountain High?

I had planned to apply at the Grand Junction paper, but decided against it the way the city totally fucked me. I could not imagine driving two days and hundreds of miles to work in Butthole, CO.

Man, I'd had better days. I pulled over in an Arby's parking lot (one of roughly 28 fast-food joints on the main drag, sandwiched around Motel 6, Sleep Inn, a handful of Best Westerns, and Motel 6 Eastside). I looked over the map, trying to determine where the Rocky Mountains started.

Tracing my finger northward, I hit Steamboat Springs. Ah, I remember Steamboat Springs. Ski area. Which meant snow. Which meant elevation.

Which meant mountains.

Soon, Grand Junction was in my rearview mirror. I did not wave goodbye (and to this day, I am happy to report, I have never been back to Grand Junction, and I firmly believe am a better man for it).

The highway rose steadily, and the naïve 21-year-old in me was expecting a rocky ridge to appear on the horizon, granite cliffs soaring thousands of feet skyward.

As I pulled into Steamboat, I realized this had to be the Rocky Mountains. There was a chill in the (rather thin) air, and I noticed chairlifts strong along various slopes. But this still was not the Colorado of my dreams. Where are the vertiginous peaks, the massive peaks, the thick pine forests? Steamboat Springs had a McDonald's, a Safeway, a Union 76, a drycleaner …

Rocky Mountain High, my ass.

I continued onward. I decided I would apply at Steamboat only if the town was incredible (since the newspaper was so small). Based on Steamboat's relative similarity to my dream of Steamboat, the newspaper would have had to been on the level of the Washington Post to interest me.

Yes, I was that stupid.

Thus for the next week, I crisscrossed the state, eventually finding the Colorado that lived in my imagination. Highlights included:

--A stunning a very scary drive over Independence Pass, a two-lane road that crept up the cliffs in a “pardon me, so sorry to intrude” sort of way. The road was timid, drivers were not. At one point an RV pointed downhill took up a full lane in what was roughly a 1 ½ -lane-wide road (and there certainly was no room for a guardrail despite the precipitous drop). I stopped, the RV stopped. The driver motioned me forward (I did not know at the time that uphill traffic has the right-of-way), so I crept around him. Just as I was about to clear him, there was roughly one inch between his bumper and mine, and less than that separating me from 1,000 feet of nothingness. John Denver never sang about this shit.

--The turning aspens ran like veins of gold through green valleys. I was dutifully impressed yet continued on without stopping to admire the scene, figuring hell, I was going to live here soon, I can see this stuff anytime. Only later would I discover this was “autumn” (I'm from California, who knew from autumn?) and it was a spectacle I would never experience the way I did then).

--Invigorating hotel stays. I was a Motel 6 convert. Sure, the TV only received three channels and if you wanted to “activate” the phone, it cost you more than $6, but so what? It was cheap, clean, warm and comfortable. And not once did a Utah State trooper knock on my door. Each morning I woke up with promise. The nights were not as hopeful, but it was a routine I accepted.

--Being pulled over for a ticket in Eagle, Colorado. Apparently was going 30 in a 25 mph zone. I was very mindful of lowered speed limits since small towns dotted the highway system, and I had seen radar-equipped patrolmen in many of them. The officer, noticing my out-of-state license and plates (no dummy he), said I would have to pay the ticket right then and there. Or I could hang around until the next day and appear before a judge to plead my case. I asked him how much I owed. “Ten dollars.” Wasn't this an episode in the Andy Griffith Show?

--Running into an editor who either was having a very bad day or was a professional asshole. After giving him my resume, he promptly tossed it in his waste can (“Oh, did you want that back?”) and strongly suggested that I “start at some smaller papers, you know, weeklies, because the market here is extremely competitive and no paper the size of ours is interested in someone just out of college.” This was at the Longmont Daily Call, circulation roughly 25,000 or so at the time. To that editor: Not only was my first job at a newspaper larger than yours, but I am, and have been, employed by a major metropolitan daily for nearly 25 years, so fuck you and your shitty suburban rag.

--Pulling into Boulder. Now this is what I was envisioning. Granite peaks bursting from the valley floor like stone sentinels, snow-covered peaks in the distance – all that poetic shit. Downtown was quaint, and with the University of Colorado right there, plenty to do and see. Unfortunately, every journalism major in Colorado felt the same way and my resume was among the hundreds editors received over a month. “And turnover is almost nonexistent, but good luck to you,” the editor said. “That's something driving around the state looking for a job. We have CU graduates send us resumes and they don't even bother to visit. You'll find something.”

I did. But it wasn't about what I had to offer.

Timing was everything.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED FROM POST BELOW

The only thing I knew about Colorado, other than it was mostly mountains (and I was fairly sure Denver was the capital) came from John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. Yes, I liked the song (still do). And he made it sound like a cool place, being reborn and all.

Made sense for me, what with my sudden epiphany. It was time to reinvent myself, to take a risk. I had to venture toward a place I could not see, placing trust in my own abilities rather than sit back and let life come to me. Yeah, that had paid off pretty well at this point. Here I was with a college education and no bills, and a rent-free place waiting for me.

But if I were to remain, I would get complacent. This future, the one that awaited me in my hometown, was pretty clear. If I didn’t find a newspaper job, well, I could work behind the counter of Shop ‘n’ Go, as I had the last two summers. Minimum wage, medical benefits, spending downtime with some quality adult magazines. The I’d send out another batch of resumes waiting for something to land on my lap.

Or I could get off my ass. Carpe diem, so to speak (not that I would actually say that because even I wasn’t that big a doofus).

The decision had been made, in those few seconds at the urinal when Mr. Hayes gave me his “So what the fuck are you gonna do with your life?” look.

I was going to go to Colorado. That’s what.

As time went on, it made more sense. A few months ago I had sent out 50 resumes (job hunting was such a pain in the ass before the Internet and monster.com; you really had to work hard on sending out meaningless crap that had about as much chance landing you a job as winning Powerball). I received five replies, if you count the one sent by the Portland Oregonian, which returned my resume with a form letter that said, in essence, “Dude, we so want to kick your ass for wasting our time with this.”

Ten percent got back to me, zero job offers. I could have done better if I’d stood on a street corner with a sign that said “Will write for food, and a beer every now and then.” Even if I’d had any wind in my sails (effectively deflated by Mr. Hayes), I knew I was dead in the water at that point.

Shop ‘n’ Go looked likely. Unless I did something drastic. Like pack the back of my car and drive to Colorado.

There was only one problem, and his name was Harry. I was not sure how my dad would react to my decision, though I new it could be summed up in two words: “Not well.”

I said nothing to him that summer as I finished my studies. The grand plan was to steal away in the night, for I was nothing if not a coward. I discounted that scheme once I knew how difficult it would be for me to put my stereo in the back of my Datsun B210 hatchback without help (this was in the day when the measure of a man was taken by his stereo speakers, and mine were massive, making up for shortcomings as Hummers do now).

No, I would tell my dad when he came to help me move back home, the day after school ended. How tough could it be? My dad had always wanted the best for me, and did what he could to make my wishes come true.

What he never realized that sometimes, those weren’t my wishes.

It was a gorgeous summer day, sunny and not too hot. An ocean breeze blew in gently from the Pacific (god, how I took the weather in San Luis Obispo for granted). I had taken my last final exam the day before, had said goodbye to friends, promising to keep in touch forever (no idea where they are now), and woke that morning early to start putting my things in milk crates I had collected over the years.

By the time my dad arrived, everything was ready to go. We worked quickly and silently. Me, wondering what my next few weeks were going to be like; my dad, happy his son was coming home.

I placed my last crate of albums in the car (now crammed with enough vinyl to fill maybe one-tenth of my MP3 player now). My dad reached for his car key, reminding me to follow him along Highway 101 during the four-hour drive home.

“Dad, one thing. I’m, uh, I think I know what I want to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, after I get home.”

“No need to worry about that now, son. Look, take some time, a few weeks, your mom and I don’t mind. She’s even going to help you with your resumes.”

And he reminded me once again how close the local paper was, that he would not be surprised if something opened up there in a few months. “You’ll be fine, trust me. You’re good at what you do. Even if you don’t get something right away, it’ll happen. Have faith in yourself.”

“I’m going to Colorado.”

I’ve always believed that the faster you rip off the Band-Aid, the less it hurts.

In most cases, anway.

“You’re what?”

“I had a talk with my advisor and I know you want me to—“

“Colorado? What the hell is in Colorado? You’ve never been to Colorado. You know it’s cold in Colorado. How many newspapers are in Colorado? Do you know how far it is from here to Colorado?”

My dad had just said “Colorado” more times in those few seconds than he had in all my 21 years combined.

“It’s just that I need something different,” I said. “I need to shake things up a little.”

“Well, this is certainly going to shake up your mother. You know she’s expecting you home for a while. Baked cookies last night for you.”

I had no words for that. I simply stood in silence.

My dad did too. Then he jammed his car key back in his pocket, turned and started walking.

“I need to think,” he said. He disappeared behind the wall separating the apartment complex’s parking lot with the train tracks that probably ran all the way to Colorado.

I went back to my apartment, sat on the carpet, leaned against the wall. Waited.

When he came back about 30 minutes later, all he said was, “Let’s go” and we headed back to Concord. By way of Highway 101.

Four hours spent wondering if I was doing the right thing. When we pulled into the driveway, the garage door opening, my mom waving from the front door, it was clear.

It was Colorado.

My parents eventually got used to the idea. Never really accepted it. This wasn’t the way to accumulate a nest egg, to be careful, to be safe. No, this was just too risky.

Two weeks later I was ready to go. The Datsun was packed with all my earthly belongings (and they were, in order of importance, the stereo, 17-inch color TV, and clothes).

My dad left for work about an hour before I hit the road. His was a morning ritual – shower, shave, cook two fried eggs to eat while sipping coffee and reading the paper, put on his tie and coat, and get in the car.

He called to me as he was putting on his tie. The scent of Old Spice was still strong.

“You know we’re going to miss you,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you know that we think it would be best if you stayed here for a while.”

“I know that too.” I’d been dreading this moment for two weeks. Not because I was terrified of my decision (I was), but because of what the last words of my father might be.

“But you’re set on this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Finished with his tie, he pulled on his coat and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing an envelope.

“There’s $600 in there,” he said. “Even though we disagree on this, we’re always going to support you. We will always be your mom and dad. Call from the road, let us know you’re OK. And you get out there and do your best, OK?

“We’re proud of you.”

We hugged. Not another word was said as I slipped the envelope into my back jeans pocket. I walked to the front door with him, watched as he got in the car and drove away.

This really was real.

I was going to Colorado. With all my stuff in the car. And $600 in my back pocket.

TO BE CONTINUED

Destiny rarely hovers between urinals, since it is full bladders, and not fate, that brings men together.

Yet my life changed in the men’s room.

It was the spring of 1979. On a Friday, if I remember correctly (and I do, much of those few minutes remain very clear – destiny is like that).

I had to go. I don’t particularly remember having to urinate, but my location leaves no room for doubt.

I likely was taking a quick time out from my job as co-editor of the Mustang Daily newspaper at Cal Poly-San Luis Obispo, a university whose proud alumni include All-Star shortstop Ozzie Smith, NFL coach and commentator John Madden and musical satirist Weird Al Yankovic (who has a connection to that men’s room where my life changed – perhaps it is a room of fate considering how it changed his life as well – but more on that later).

It was a small men’s room as men’s rooms go – two urinals placed uncomfortably close together, just to the left of two sinks, with two stalls opposite the sinks. An odd arrangement as I think about it, since in the hundreds of men’s rooms I’ve been in since then almost always had more stalls than urinals, a mathematical formula likely a result of time management. You can probably figure that out for yourself.

I’m not sure who arrived first on that Friday afternoon, but either way it was seconds apart because in the end Mr. Hayes and I would zip up and wash at roughly the same time.

Mr. Hayes (to this day I still call him that, though he has insisted many times that I call him Jim, which looks just as unnatural in print as it does rolling off my tongue) was my advisot. My mentor. My god. (Not “my god” as in “oh my god,” but really and truly a man that I worshipped at the time).

Even now, 30 years later, I don’t know how old Mr. Hayes is (yes, he remains with us, a blessing), so I’m not sure he was back then. But he seemed ageless. So probably early 50s.

Like most journalism students who took their calling far too seriously, I hinged on Mr. Hayes’ every word. Many times I would hand in a story, typewritten on long sheets of yellow paper, with faith that every word was as good as it could be. It would return dripping in red, a victim of Mr. Hayes’ Jack-the-Ripper editing, his marker a scalpel manipulated with surgical precision. And then it all came clear how truly pathetic I was (one day, as he returned butchered stories to students who had so carefully raised and nurtured them, he grasped mine from the pile with just his thumb and forefinger grasping the tiniest corner as one might handle a soiled diaper – no words were needed).

As I said, Mr. Hayes was, and still is, a god.

An thus, in the spring of my senior year, we met in Room 226 of the Cal Poly Journalism building, where two years prior Weird Al Yankovic lugged his accordion and practiced (and some believe recorded) what would be his first hit, My Bologna (played to the tune of My Sharona, which seems to obvious now).

The year was almost over and although I had enrolled for the summer session to finish up my last few required courses, the talk was about the next step – graduation and the real world.

So I was not surprised by Mr. Hayes’ questionb.

“So Scott, have you decided what you’re going to do when you leave here?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, still facing the wall because it seemed the right thing to do. “I’ve got summer session, then I’m going to go home and probably stay with my folks while I look for a job.”

My parents not only approved of this plan but suggested it. Something about “nest egg.”

“Oh, OK. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question.”

Didn’t seem odd considering where we were. “Sure.”

“Have you ever faced a challenge? I mean a real challenge. Something that changed you, made you take a completely different direction than one you’d intended.”

“I, uh, I’m not sure, I—“

“How did you come to Cal Poly?”

“Oh, I knew since I was a freshman in high school that I’d be coming here because my dad’s friend had two daughters who went here and he always said how—“

“Why journalism?”

“I, well, I took journalism when I was a sophomore and really liked it so I knew since then—“

“Have you ever suffered a tragedy that really shook you? Your parents are alive, right? Anyone close to you die, something that made you question what the hell was going on in your life?”

“A couple of years ago my dog died. But I was here when it happened and my dad called—“

“So, really, you’ve lead a pretty easy life. No big surprises. Things turning out the way you planned.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I suddenly felt very guilty.

“Have you ever thought about shaking things up? Turning things around? Going somewhere that’s going to make you uncomfortable?”

“Not really, no.”

“Because I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve seen hundreds of students come through here. Some of them have God-given talent. Everything they do, it just comes to them. Hardly any effort at all.

But others have to really work at it. They struggle and the fail and they get back up again. But every time they fall, they see what happened. They stand up again, a little stronger. Only they don’t realize it. All they know is they keep falling. But I see it. I can see them getting better and better. You know which one you are?”

“I guess I’m—“

“You don’t have a fairy godmother who’s going to come down from the sky, touch her wand to your dick and suddenly make it 12 inches long. You’re not that kind of guy. You have to really work at it. And the last thing you need is to be comfortable.”

And right then, I knew. Looking back, it seems the moment for which the word “epiphany” was created.

At that point, my life changed.

TO BE CONTINUED

No need to wait for Thanksgiving to wait for people to carve some stuff up, How about the way Obama turned McCain into tiny pieces of red-state meat? Obama's acceptance speech was magical and, more importantly, presidential. He knows to make things work he has to reach out, even to the roughly 18 percent who thought Bush did a great job, ranking up there in denial with James Gandolfini's belief that one day he will be one of the 10 Sexiest Men Alive as named by Cosmo.

I am not surprised that there are many red-stater who still insist the vote was a travesty, unable even to see the historic nature of how a member of a race once enslaved, then trod upon, then threatened and segregated, could rise above it all and lead the world's most powerful country. I'm not mad at those people, I simply feel pity that they let their arrogance blind them to a world-changing event. It's fine to feel frustration your man didn't win, and many Republicans on TV and Internet certainly are voicing that frustration. But many of them are at least conceding some good can come out of this (while the rest of us reasoned folk are looking forward with great glee to the next 8 years of Obama rule). Yet there are still those conservatives who seem to think life as they know it is over, that nothing good can come from a Democratic administration. And I remind them, as they reminded all the whiny liberals over the years, you are always free to leave. Beware, Mexico has some pretty stringent immigration laws. You might want to call ahead first.

That said, can't say what I took more satisfaction in -- Obama up there in front of 100,000 Chicagoans giving one hell of a speech, or seeing Sarah Palin standing beside McCain as he conceded (though I must admit, he was extremely gracious in defeat). But there was Palin, her mouth shut, smiling, and you know she is dying inside. Because now she has to go back to the subarctic and work hard to keep those oil companies in check, companies who pay every Alaska resident nearly $3K a year. But at least I know she'll be vigilant for Russian attacks, keeping an eye to the sky for intruders and shouting, a la Herve Vellachaiz in Fantasy Island, "The planes, the planes, from Russia!! Oh, wait, never mind, looks like United."

Pundits last night were saying that the start of the utter Palin collapse began with the Katie Couric interview and how she insisted that, yes, she kept an eye on Russia. Even though twice Katie allowed her an out, asking if she was sure. "Oh yeah, Katie, you never know what that Vladimir Putin will do, but when he does it, it will be over Alaska, and we'll be America's first line of defense." To which Putin no doubt was thinking, "Why would we waste good bombs on wilderness, one with just enough people to elect a narrow-minded beauty queen who undoubtedly would pass laws against premarital sex and yet cannot even enforce it in her own household? It's not even worth sending a hockey team to Alaska, let alone an army."

Not that McCain would have won even he had not make such a ridiculously mavericky choice. He is now out of touch with 52 percent of Americans, people who realize Iraq had nothing do with 9-11 (nor did ever have any weapons of mass destruction), people who want a leader willing to reach out to other countries to address problems diplomatically rather than one who puffs up his chest and acts like a schoolyard bully and then sends others to fight and die for misguided idealism, people who are tired of tax breaks for the rich, people who think the answer to energy problems lies in conservation and renewable resources rather than raping the environment for fuels that are running out, people who think everyone deserves quality healthcare. People who are, for the most part, rational.

Came across a story the other day on The Onion, and the headline it ran a few days before Bush's inauguration said "Finally, the 8-year national nightmare of peace and prosperity is finally over." The editor said it was never his intention to be prophetic. Yet there you go. And now our real 8-year national nightmare is over.

Yes, McCain would have been better than Bush. But an 8-year-old prone to temper tantrums would be better than Bush. The war, the economy, the mortgage mess ... Republicans don't deserve any more chances. Last night, most of America agreed.

It's been a while, but politics has finally gotten to me. Specifically, Sarah Palin.

Even though palin was just found guilty of abusing her gubernatorial power in having her sister's ex fired as head cop, my guess is that the decision will only bolster her standing. People have criticized her experience, but hell, she abused power like a real pro. It took Alaska's Ted Stevens years to bully people to the point of getting what is essentially a free house. Palin did it early in her first term. She's a phenom. And I can certainly see what would happen if she were in the Oval Office. "Todd, fetch me my slippers and fire the head of homeland security on your way out. e forgot to wipe his feet last time."

Plus Palin is pretty cute. I'd bet as soon as she was announced, google got a million search requests for "sarah palin nude" (which only comes up with dozens of results, all of which appear to be photoshopped). Now I have voted for people for reasons even more shallow than "she's cute." Often, I have cast votes for corporate commissioners based on the appeal of their names. An Angela would be fine, but I don't like anyone named after a city, particulary those in Texas (I can proudly say I have never voted for a Dallas or Austin or Houston or El Paso). and while Republicans boast about how Palin is just one of us, I don't want just one of us in the White House.

I would hate to think a person who just sat down to have a beer with me would also be in charge of national security. "Another Sam Adams Octoberfest would be great, and so it that planned bombing run on Pakistan so let's do that too." I want someone smarter than me, someone who is worldly and elite and not prone to acting out when, say. you slice your thumb cutting tomatoes and immediately want some sort of mindless retribution (and yes, instead of slamming my hand on the counter and curse the knife, as Leader of the Free World I would probably want to invade Korea to get my anger out, because what's better for your temper than to be able to invade a sovereign nation?)

So no, I really don't want one of us in the Oval Office. I'd rather have someone who knows what they are doing.

There are stages to being a son or daughter, and I’ve experienced most of them, from the joy of early times when it is perfectly acceptable for you to go in your pants and having someone else clean it up, to enduring the surliness of the teen years, to expressing your independence by asking your folks for a few thousand dollars so you can get your own apartment.

But recently I entered a latter stage of being someone’s child: Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit.

I had not idea I’d entered this stage until a recent visit to the ancestral home in California. Mom, Dad and I were enjoying a beer on the patio when I mentioned how much I liked the landscape hanging in the family room. In the pastel sketch, a small sailboat was moored at the end of the small dock, on top of which was perched a weathered wooden shack. Behind that, trees crowded along the shore leaving only a sliver for the beach. Each line was meticulous and perfectly drawn, and it was the kind of sketch that made drawing look easy (knowing in the back of your mind that it certainly isn’t).

“That was done by your great great grandmother, it’s been in the family for years,” Mom said. “She didn’t take up painting until very late in life, so she didn’t do many. That was always one of our favorites.”

As I took another sip, wondering why such talents had not been passed down to me. Mom added, “Your brother is getting it when we go. He put his name on it years ago.”

Mom thought (wrongly) that Gary had actually written his name on the back of the painting, which, when it comes to inheritance, clearly made the painting his. That would stand up in any probate court. (Judge: “I see from submitted documents your brother did not just make casual references to his interest in the sketch, but actually put his name to the back of the canvas. Thus according to ordinances and rules pertaining to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the sketch is his. Now let us continue to the silverware and the applicability of Post-Its.”)

Of course, I had a couple of problems with this. First, I had no idea the starter’s gun had fired and we were allowed to start marking territory. Yes, Mom and Dad are straddling their 80s, but they’re in relatively good health (remarkable given their nicotine habit) and have shown no signs of going anytime soon. Gary clearly got an unacceptable head start. It would be one thing if perhaps Mom or Dad were in the hospital being treated for a serious condition (and when you are in your 80s, just about everything is a serious condition). There would be an argument there starting to pick off your parents’ shit. And if they were hooked to life support or in a hospice, then it’s almost required to children to start picking shit off.

Secondly, I live in Arizona and Gary lives 15 minutes from the ancestral home. He has abused his home field advantage. I would be OK with that if Mom and Dad were in ill health and he had to stop by often to take care of them, either turning them or cleaning up after unsightly accidents. Then by all means, you certainly get the top picks when it comes to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit. But that is not happening. In fact, Mom and Dad are still taking Gary out to dinner once or twice a week (while like a sucker, I’m still paying for every meal in Arizona).

So this is why I had a problem with the situation. It wasn’t about Gary getting the sketch. It was about not receiving advance notice that we had now entered the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit stage.

“So as far as you’re concerned, that painting is already spoken for, right?” I asked.

“Well, you never said anything,” Dad said.

“Of course not,” I said. “I had no idea it was time to start marking territory. Now I’m going to have to start looking at things a little differently. Like inventory.”

This was no longer the ancestral home. It was now an estate sale, and I was in the front of the line with a price gun I could use to mark everything “Free.” It was time for Picking Off My Parents’ Shit.

“What about the painting in the living room? Is that still on the block?”

“Which one?” Mom said. “There’s the one I did and the one by your Aunt Barb.”

While there are few rules to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the golden one is “Do not piss off the original owners while they remain in sound enough mind to know who just pissed them off.”

But here’s the problem. Mom took a few lessons in her 30s and 40s and painted a lot of fruit. There’s fruit hanging all over the house. Apples, oranges, bananas – she stuck to basic fruit (grapes were a bit out of reach).

Aunt Barb, on the other hand, co-owns a gallery back east, one she bought with earnings as an artist. Her cheapest creations go for $5,000, and my guess is that her three kids likely picked off her shit years ago (“Mom, this one is too special to be sold, it should remain in the family, here, let me just put my name on the back of it to remind us not to put it in the gallery”).

So at this point I could state the obvious, or lie and protect further interests as I pick off my parents’ shit.

“Are you kidding? Aunt Barb’s.”

Yeah, I totally violated the Gold Rule. Ah, she’ll forget. These are people who, and I swear this is true, not only watch their favorite shows, but tape them to watch later, and then tape the reruns. I was banking on their frail grasp of short-term memory.

“Honey, has Gary said anything about Aunt Barb’s painting?” Mom said.

“Which one?”

Note to self: Look for other Aunt Barb painting with Sharpie in hand.

“The one in the living room.”

“Not that I know of. No, wait, yes, I think he has. The one in the living room, is that the original? What about the one in our bedroom?”

“The one in the living room is original. The one in our bedroom is a photo of one of her paintings.”

Note to self: Forget the Sharpei, but sell Gary on idea that second Aunt Barb painting is original and worth a high pick.

“OK, so I’d like the one in the living … “ I stopped. I was being a bit hasty here. “So Gary put his name on a painting and it’s his, right? OK, so you know what? Mom, do you have marker handy?”

“Why?”

“I’m putting my name on the wall there, just right of the patio door. The house” pause for dramatic effect “is mine. Based on established rules of getting your shit.”

Mom and Dad laughed, but I knew what I was going to do. “Don’t worry, next time I see Gary I’ll say, ‘Hey, just found out you had first pick and chose that painting. With the second pick in the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit draft, I took the house. You’re up.”

Of course, my 13-year-old son happened to hear our discussion. He grabbed the Toyota. Which made me think, where was I when it was time for Picking Off My Grandparents’ Shit?

This is hardly the best of times thanks to gas, the war and the economy. But for the worst of times, the male groin area has that hands down.

First, Chris Snyder suffered an injury that few outside the medical community probably knew was possible. The catcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks fractured a testicle. Yes, he fractured a testicle (those with a Y chromosome know why I had to repeat that, as the sheer horror makes it so unbelievable). Snyder takes all the usual precautions when suiting up for duty behind the plate, but I am sure that if he thought for one second that there was just a minuscule chance he would break a nut, he'd be in right field before you could say, "Don't forget your cup."

Apparently a fractured testicle involves tearing of the soft tissue. I imagined an overripe grapefruit that is slammed against the wall and split, pulp oozing from the gash. Then I stopped imagining that for obvious reasons. I am pretty sure if given a choice, 99.9 percent of men would choose Novocain-free dental surgery over even the slightest possibility of fracturing a testicle. The other .1 percent are eunuchs.

I thought that was the worst thing that could happen until I came across this story out of Romania -- a court there ordered a surgeon to pay $795,000 to a man whose penis he accidentally severed during surgery on the man's testicles (note to Snyder: do not outsource your medical care to Romania to save a few bucks).

At first you might not think this is a bad thing. A penis worth a nice home in Scottsdale, or a lovely walkup in Manhattan? Not bad. Or you could sell it on eBay and not have to worry about your plummeting 401k. And everytime you went to the bathroom, you'd have this comfortable feeling that your financial future was in your hands.

But wait, there's more. Doctors took a tendon from the arm of the man with no penis and attached it down there, Why? For aesthetic reasons. And perhaps aiming as well.

There are worse things than going through life with an aesthetic penis. I just can't come up with any right now.

Overheard in line at the Indiana Jones ride in Disneyland, as uttered by a 6-year-old girl in a very dire voice: "Don't look into the eye of the idol or it will make you curse."

Father’s Day, 2008. Not a bad time for reflection.

My father, now in his 80s, was extraordinarily ordinary as I grew up. Neither the perfect dad who assured his son a life of one wonderful adventure after another, nor so dysfunctional as to inspire and be at the center of a bestselling memoir.

He was, and still is, simply, a good father. And for that I am grateful.

We did the usual things a family did in the 60s and 70s. Twice a year we went to Disneyland, sandwiched around an annual vacation to Santa Barbara. My brother and I would look forward to a week in the quiet bungalow on the edge of the Miramar Hotel property, considering ourselves very lucky to stay in our own little part rather than in the rooms that surrounded the pool or faced the beach. Little did we know, nor did our parents ever let on, that this bungalow room was half the price of the other accommodations, and if not for the bungalow we would never be able to stay at the resort.

While I remember the pool and the beach and the railroad tracks (upon which each morning I placed a penny, hoping to return the next day to find it flattened, my hope undeterred by each unsuccessful search), what I recall with the most detail are the quiet walks my father and I shared to start each day in Santa Barbara. Warming a carafe of water with a heating coil, he would make himself instant coffee while I enjoyed hot chocolate. With plastic cups in hand, we slipped out of the room while my mom and brother slept, often accompanied by our dog Misty. We walked past the pool, the tennis courts, the railroad tracks (pausing briefly to look for a flattened penny I would never find, taking another penny from my dad and placing it on the tracks), and to the beach. I slipped off my shoes and enjoyed the cool sand, throwing a tennis ball into the surf for Misty. We would turn around at the same house – not one door to the left or right, but the same beach home each time, a familiarity I found oddly comforting. By the time we returned to the room, my mom would have taken a shower, leaving it free for me to wash away traces of sand.

I don’t remember exactly what he talked about, time eroding so many details of growing up. But I still feel today the specialness of it, just as the other moments that now make up my childhood. So many feature my dad.

I remember donning my Bob Aspromonte baseball glove and playing catch in our cul-de-sac. I remember going out for long passes, my dad calling the signals. At “Hike!” I sprinted down the street, looking over my shoulder for the leather football with its stray thread that whipped through the air as the ball spiraled toward me. More often than not it would hit me in stride, another touchdown recorded on Osage Place. A return to the huddle. Same play, on “Hike.”

Sometimes he would drive us to the to junior high where we would play one-on-one, the only rule being that while on defense, he had to remain inside the key, a handicap that more than made up for the difference in our heights (and many victories for Team Son).

Of we would settle in front of the TV and enjoy head-to-head battles on that amazing new system, the video game. We guided our monochromatic pixels around the screen with a fervor rarely before seen in the living room. Before that our competitive natures were defined by paper football, which we would flick along the linoleum floor, making sure to clear furniture before the epic battle was to begin.

But our most raucous behavior was saved for Nerf-based games. Surely the makers of the modest foam balls never envisioned their products as the basis of household pride, where lengthy games of basketball (hoop nailed to the garage wall), baseball (a paint stirrer was the bat) or tennis (with ping pong paddles and a net made of newspapers folded over a taut string tied to a nail on one side and car door handle on the other) routinely occurred on weekends.

These are the moments I remember most clearly. This is the father I remember, one who was there, one who was happy to spend time with his son in between work and chores and the other things in life that clutter the time.

Like most sons, I really only appreciated my father when I had a boy of my own. That’s when it crystallized, when I realized everything I had quietly and slowly learned from him over the years. And how much of my parenthood I owed to him – particularly as I think about the (rare) stories he told of his own childhood.

His father was cold and distant, rarely involving himself in his son’s life unless it was to punish (and he had passed long before I was born). This is the one story that stands out – my father borrowed his dad’s car, and was told to keep it under 35 mph. When my dad returned, his father carefully inspected the vehicle, soon angry that the car had gone over 35 mph.

“Those bug splats,” the man said, “could only have been made by a car going faster than 35 mph.”

These are the lessons of fatherhood learned by my dad. So when my older brother was born, all my dad knew about raising a son was strict discipline not to be marred by coddling, where respect was more treasured than love.

But these are not the lessons my father passed on to us. He had the strength to turn it around, powered by an innate desire to make up for his own childhood, to pass onto his sons the lessons that only strong love could provide.

And my father certainly isn’t alone. Millions of fathers each day to the same thing for their children. A friend of mine often shares the treasured memories of her own father, who sadly passed away several years ago. Though gone he clearly lives through her, kept alive by the stories he’s inspired, tales that will no doubt live through her own children.

That’s because the love of fathers – the good fathers, the ones many of us are lucky to have – echo through the generations. I am lucky that my dad is still alive, and I see him yearly when my son and I travel to see his grandparents. But since he has yet to figure out immortality, I know this will one day be a world without him.

And yet it won’t be, because his love is still with me. And it’s also with my son, who will pass it on to his own children.

So it wasn’t too long ago that California legalized marriage among gays, leading many people (you know who you are) to proclaim the end of civilization as we know it (and if anybody had a right to feel that way, it was Iraqis the moment Bush allegedly was elected president in 2000).

I still don’t get the opposition. How exactly does this affect someone to the point that they are willing to sign petition, hold protests and donate money to stop this thing at all costs? Now if they were to force gays to arm themselves and randomly shoot people who may or may not pose a threat, then I’d be a bit miffed. Then again, they’d be members of the US military in the mideast protecting our freedom, so it would be OK, right?

(Uh oh, that last throwaway line could be considered anti-patriotic, so to put minds at ease, I know thousands of our troops have died to defend your ability to affix those “Support Our Troops” magnets you place on your car to send the message to the magnet-free that their Anti-American policies won’t be tolerated in a free society.)

Anyway, gay marriage. What I see mostly from the opposition that how allowing homosexuals to marry will violate the “sanctity of marriage.”

Holy crap, are you kidding me? Divorce has been violating the sanctity of marriage for centuries. If you really want to defend the sanctity of marriage, abolish marriage because that’s the only way that particular institution will ever become virtuous.

I don’t say this merely because I am among the millions who are divorced. But those who think marriage is somehow inviolate to the forces of society are deluding themselves.

But if you are serious about keeping the sanctity of marriage, then you should turn your attention away from homosexuals and to the thousands of redneck hillbillies who each day wed in double-wide churches. In the presence of their various children, these people join in matrimony without a thought given to the number of ways they will burden the welfare system in years to come. Yes, they are a boon to the trailer industry, and their herds are regularly culled by tornadoes, but they will continue to inflict upon America generation after generation of beer-swilling NASCAR fans waiting to be laid off at the plant. Only when we ban this sort of marriage will be effectively cure West Virginia.

On the way home from school, I usually ask my 13-year-old son how his day went. And sometimes he even answers in a constructive and informative way. Like the other day.

“In Spanish, we danced,” he said. Good, because he is probably a lot better at dancing than he is at conjugating.

“Oh, right, you told me about that,” I said. “The samba?”

“No, the salsa.”

“Ah, right.”

“And you know who we danced with?”

“Your friends?”

“No. Girls. And it was a lot of fun.”

“Wow, tough day. Had to dance, huh? Was this for a grade?”

“Yeah, I think so. And I did pretty well. Didn’t forget any of the steps, and there were a lot of them.”

“Man, school sure has changed. In the old days, we were graded on stuff like tests and homework. Now all you have to do is dance.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Bryson said. “I wish I went to school back when you did. It was so easy. Now we have way more stuff to learn because so much more has happened. And with technology and stuff, things are way harder.”

I thought about this. In Social Studies, Bryson has been studying the Civil War and reconstruction. I wondered how much more history has been uncovered by the latest technology. And surely the atomic structure of water has changed as science has benefited from the wonders of technology.

So I called him on it.

“You really think so?” I said.

“Yeah, definitely. You had it so much easier. Stuff was way simpler. Now there is all this stuff we have to learn.”

“OK, let me tell you my side and see if you still agree. When I went to school, there were no computers. That meant if I needed some information on a report, I couldn’t go into my bedroom, turn on a machine and enter a few words.

“I had to go to a library. Not a media center filled with even more computers that are there so you never really have to look at a book. Which, honestly, I still don’t get.

“But at the library, that was just the start. I would have to use a card catalog to look up a subject, and on those cards would be the names of books, and each one would have a number. I would have to write those numbers down and go find them in the shelves, and after 10 minutes of looking I would find that the book wasn’t there, it had been checked out, because everybody else in my class doing a report wanted that book. And if the book was there, I would take it back to a desk and start searching through it, page by page, looking for information I needed. If I found it, I would either have to copy it by hand or wait in a long line at the copier, where at guy at the front of the line was trying to find change for a buck because he ran out of nickels, and that’s only if it was on those rare occasions where the copier was actually working.

“Now as there were no computers, we had to type our reports. When you made a mistake, you had to stop, get some White Out, paint out the error, and type over it. Odds were you’d make the very same mistake again. I used enough White Out in college to paint a house.

“And then there was math. Which, by the way, hasn’t changed all that much unless technology has made 2 + 2 = 3.539 or something. It’s not that we couldn’t use calculators. It’s that they weren’t even invented yet.”

(That was true until my freshman year in high school when the head resident of our dorm bought a four-function handheld calculator with futuristic LED lights. It was amazing. We’d plug in all sorts of problems, mostly multiplication and division because that was a higher functioning math. We even had an engineering student test it. “OK, 469 times 732, what is it?” “Hang on, let’s see … yeah, and carry … I’ve got 343,308.” “Dude, yeah, the calculator had it right and in way less time, this is amazing!”)

“And even when he had calculators, they didn’t do much beyond add and subtract. You may get into math that involves logarithms and cosines, and we had to figure out all that with charts and graphs and slide rules.

“And you know how you can tell a computer to do just about anything? My college only had one computer, and you had to write instructions on these cardboard punch cards, sometimes as many as 200 or so, and then turn them in for the computer guys to feed into the machine. And you’d come back the next day hoping your program worked, only usually it didn’t and you’d have to find out which cards didn’t work and start all over. And these were programs that just counted. Counted!

“Oh, and Spanish is still pretty much Spanish, despite all your fancy technology. Only now there are Web sites to tell you what words mean, and some that will translate pages (though not very well). Still think it’s a lot tougher now?”

“Huh, what? So some kids had to dance with girls in another class because there are more boys than girls in Spanish. I danced with Samantha, Justine, Audrey and one more I forget her name.”

“So you had a good time?”

“Yeah, I said it was fun. Weren’t you listening?”

As the government-appointed expert on incredibly stupid uses of technology (because such rants tend to make a federal case of dumb stuff like this), I have convicted Coors of violating Ordinance 08-WTFWYT in relation to its latest two “advances” in beer-delivery systems.

For those who thought the aluminum can really didn’t need enhancements when it came to containing mass-produced (meaning cheap) malt-based beverages, Coors’ recent innovations have proven you correct. The only one who didn’t understand the near-perfection of the aluminum can, from its lightweight feel to the fact even “geeklings” (weakling geeks) can crush an empty one on their foreheads, Coors has “improved” the can by A) including an indicator telling you it was cold; and 2) venting it so the beer was more accessible.

Perhaps there are some people who truly appreciate the way the mountain on the Coors Light cans turn blue when the beer is appropriately cold. To those people we say: “Man, evolution has been too kind recently.”

And now Coors has unveiled vents on the side of the mouth-hole that allegedly improve the flow of its light beer. Meaning you can drink more, faster.

Until Coors actually works on improving what’s in the can rather than the can itself, a mechanism that allows you to drink more Coors Lights faster is pretty much like inventing a pill that will make dogs crap larger piles more often.

And that’s all I will say on that.

It’s happened to everyone at some point – you are sleeping at home, minding your own business just as your state of consciousness implies, and some stranger breaks in intent on doing you harm. Or to ask you to stop snoring.

Either way, you’re not asking questions and instead reaching for your shotgun. Then it hits you. You keep your shotgun in the closet, up on a shelf, completely unmindful of the constant threat of people breaking in intent on doing you harm. And you think, “We can put a man on the moon, even send him up there with a weapon, yet there is no device capable of allowing me to sleep comfortably knowing that my shotgun is within easy reach.”

Be vexed no more, my NRA friend. The good people at Home Back-up Protection, LLC of Newark, Delaware are well aware of your plight, and they’ve done something about it.

No longer will you have to worry about not having your shotgun near you, and thus constantly vulnerable to strangers breaking in intent on doing you harm. For when you flip off the lights, your mind will be eased gently into sleep with the knowledge you’ve got potent firepower racked bedside thanks to the Back-Up Shotgun Racking System.

This is the kind of simple yet ingenious design that will have you thinking, “Why didn’t I think of a device that allows me to sleep as comfortably with a shotgun by my side?”

The adjustable rack (available at www.the-backup.com) is connected to two flat brackets that slip gently between mattress and bedspring (and if you sleep on a futon, you are a hippie and undeserving of a bedside shotgun rack). The two C-shaped curves at the end of these brackets gently cradle your shotgun with no need of pesky latch or lock. The Back-Up is a holster for your bed, turning your sleeping area into a lethal firing range. Mr. Break-In Guy, meet Mr. 30-Aught-6 with a spray pattern guaranteed to make it difficult to get you out of the carpet after police leave.

No longer will you have to toss and turn with the 9mm that just wasn’t designed to fit comfortably under a pillow. Now you can put that pistol in the nightstand where it belongs, letting your spouse go for your backup piece if, for some reason, your first few shots go wild in the dark.

The makers of the Back-Up do suggest you not use the device when there are children in the home, leaving you completely vulnerable to the break-in guys just waiting for that night you choose not to sleep with your shotgun. Or you can just tell the kids not to touch daddy’s boomstick. Yeah, that sounds good.

To order your very own Back-Up Shotgun Racking System, and thus return to the kind of sleep you had before kicking the booze and painkillers, visit www.the-backup.com. Just one night of paranoid-free peace will have you believing the rest of the world is in for a pretty Goddamn big shock if it thinks it can just walk into your bedroom in the middle of the night and soundlessly take that shotgun from its rack and make you one with the bedding. Because that just won’t happen.

It’s been almost a week now and still so many people are trying to come to grips with what happened. And it’s not easy. Life will never be the same.

Brett Favre retired. Oh, seeing that in black and white is more painful than I thought. And things are just so bleak, I mean, the NFL without Brett Favre, one of the hundreds of quarterbacks who ever played, it’s incomprehensible and … please, just give me a minute. I have to collect myself here.

OK, thank you. I don’t mean to be so emotional, but I am replaying in my mind Brett’s three-hanky press conference in which he and a nation had to come to grips with a Brett-less NFL. Is it really possible? Is it? When the league starts up again in September, will we really be able to plunk down that $175 for a ticket (not including $15 facility fee and $11.50 handling charge) and wonder if we can really bring ourselves to watch a sport in which there is no Brett Favre? And is football really a sport anymore? Without Brett, it’s just a game. A simple meaningless game that will have us asking every Sunday, and Monday nights, and some Thursdays, whether it’s all worth it.

As I watched Brett struggle to find the words to express his depth of emotion (and truly, there are no words, except for maybe, “As you’ve known for days, I’m retiring”), I too was overcome with emotion. All I could think about was how hard this was on Brett, how unfair life truly was to take a man from what he loved. Oh, time, you are a cruel mistress.

Here he was, a man in his prime, just 38 or whatever, faced with years and years of leisure in front of him. While the rest of us struggle to make enough money to retire, keeping busy as fry cooks and Wal-Mart greeters well into our 70s, Brett has to find a way to fill the time in a way that will take into account the millions of dollars he’s made as a quarterback.

Imagine as Brett rises on an NFL Sunday morning, realizing that halfway across the world from his Tuscan villa, large men are beating themselves senseless without him. And has he slowly picks at his breakfast on the veranda, wondering if he should spend a few days in Greece or perhaps tour the Italian Alps for a while, you just know his thoughts will stray to Green Bay and he will think, “I’ll have to check the Net later to get some scores.” And I wonder how Brett will deal with that moment when football once again tugs at him, and I pray that maybe by that time there will be an ESPN Italiano allowing Brett to see those play the game that was stolen from him, not counting the times he has a bunch of friends over to the farm for a game of touch.

Brett, I just wanted you to know that even though you won’t ever play in the NFL again, save for when you are paid $50,000 to participate in an old-timers game, every American – no, every citizen on the globe – admires you for your bravery to retire comfortably at 38. I can’t think of another man or woman who would willingly make the same decision, unless they too were forced to subsist on personal appearances, speaking engagements and lucrative autograph sessions.

I will never forget you, Brett Favre. You are an inspiration to us all.

Was at the gym this morning and saw a sad sad sight. There was a man there lifting incredibly heavy weights who looked to be healthy but was wearing a tank top that came to just above his six-pack abs. And it was obvious his nylon shorts had not been the right size for years, showing far too much of his thick muscled thighs.

It's so sad to see people who can no longer afford clothes that fit. Let me know if you can assist this gentleman. With just a few dollars, we can hlep him buy clothes that will adequately cover his steroid-enhanced physique. And maybe someday we will live in a world where everyone who spends 10 hours in a gym will be able to afford extra large T-shirts and shorts so they won't have to spend so much time staring at themselves in the mirror, wondering how their lives would be if dressed like everyone else.

Thank you in advance.

If there is one thing we know about Oprah Winfrey, the guru of our times, it is that she believes in one simple philosophy: “I shamelessly self-promote, therefore I am.”

While relatively 6.5 billion people live their lives in relative quiet, giving to their fellow man in ways that do not require a media empire, Oprah prefers network coverage every time she does something nice.

The latest example – the TV show Oprah’s Big Give. She has chosen 10 people to make dreams come true for those who have faced extremely hard times, turning stuff like foreclosures and the deaths of loved ones into the feel-good show of the year.

Sure, Oprah could merely toss a million bucks at families lucky enough to have suffered untold hardships, but that would not be Oprah enough. Instead, in Oprah’s Big Give, the person who gives the best and hardest wins.

Yup, Oprah has turned charity into a competition. Kinda makes you wish you were recently diagnosed with cancer while not qualifying for insurance at any of the three jobs you work because you had to take time off while clearing legal troubles created by your ex-husband who hasn’t paid child support in 12 years.

In Big Give, competitive givers must fulfill dreams to Oprah standards. Which likely means in addition to the No. 1 Oprah standard: “When giving, make sure it is broadcast and later available for downloading on iTunes.”

And if you don’t give hard enough and long enough to satisfy Oprah, consider yourself gone. The last giver standing wins one million bucks as well as the chance to fawn all over Oprah for being so damn generous.

As if Oprah would be putting any of her cash into this endeavor. If nothing else, Oprah will take home more far more than a million bucks from this show thanks to so many suckers who would gladly tattoo “In Oprah we trust” on the body part of her choosing.

Her altruism is directly proportional to the amount of media coverage it would generate. And since she has her own talk show, magazine and production company, she couldn’t fart without it appearing in the “Ways Oprah enriched us today” column at oprah.com.

Bill Gates can give a billion dollars to world health and maybe be the subject of a press conference or two. Millions of Americans give weekly to United Way and other charities, some in excess of 10 percent of their salaries, and are happy knowing they are doing some good.

It was a bit surprising when Oprah started a school for African women, mentioning it once or twice on her talk show, as well as in her magazine. Pretty muted by Oprah standards. But that’s because she was saving it for a Major Television Event: Oprah goes to Africa for a global group hug. She shows off these young, poor African women because, with a little Oprah magic, they sure clean up nicely.

(And of course when it is discovered one of the teachers is abusing students, Oprah disappears until she can conduct another carefully orchestrated press conference where, surrounded by happy smiling young African women, she explains she was shocked and saddened when she was told about it, and to whom should she make out the check?)

No doubt Oprah’s Big Give will reel in big ratings, a testament to the number of people who need to get off their ass and get a job instead of watching so much daytime TV.

I always thought the worst thing Oprah could have done for America was to give us Dr. Phil. But it looks like her Big Give will top it.

Can’t help but think of this timeless philosophical puzzle – if Oprah gives to a rainforest, does it make a sound? Hell yes, and probably a book series as well.

Not long after 4 a.m., as I whirled away on the elliptical machine at my local gym, three men on the machines behind me were engaged in conversation. Two, a 60-something Hispanic and 52-year-old African American junior-high school teacher who often came at that time, were talking politics with a 50-something Anglo who, I’d never seen before. Wearing a gray sweatsuit with a towel tucked around his neck, he hunched over the machine and cycled slowly.

It started innocently, the white guy butting in on a conversation between the other two gentleman about how the teacher was thinking about taking dancing lessons. The man said how great it was to do something new, to put different things in your life. That when one thing gets boring, you can go on to something else.

“Last night, for example, I was at Encanto Park with a bunch of buddies practicing kenpo. That’s a martial art. For two hours we’re beating the hell out of each other. Sure, I have a few bruises, but I’ll live. And I delivered a few bruises as well. Enough to be remembered, you know?”

No, I don’t know. But what happened next, yeah, that’s what I’ll remember him for.

“Barack Obama scares me.”

Yup, just like that. The teacher, being a teacher, asked him why.

This is the monologue, as I remember it. And I remember it pretty well.

“Well, a lot of reasons. First, the Muslim thing. He says he isn’t a Muslim. OK. But then he dresses like a Muslim. What’s that about? Muslims aren’t like us. Sure, some of them are OK, but al-Qaida? Muslim. Terrorists? Muslim. There’s something seriously wrong with people who only want to spread violence.

“But past that, I just don’t know what he stands for. Let’s take the economy. Nobody wants to talk about it, but we’re headed to a depression, just like the 30s. It’s not if, only when. People are blind if they can’t see it. This country is going to be in sorry shape and no one is doing anything about it.

“Then gun control. That’s a huge thing. Terrorists are coming here, if they’re not here already. And unless everyone carries a gun, we can’t defend ourselves. They’re gonna come over here and just take us over if we’re not careful. Al-Qaida knows that, knows we’re soft. Unless we do something about that right away, and I don’t mean a year from now, I mean now, it’s going to be bad. And all those people who wanted gun control are going to see what it cost them.

“Here’s the thing – you know how that guy walked into that college class and started shooting? No one could defend themselves. No one. But if just one guy had a gun, game over. The shooter would have been toast. And all those people who died would be alive today. A happy ending. But no, we don’t want guns in schools. As long as we continue with that mentality, more innocent people are going to die.

“You know what we need to do, right? Everyone should have a gun. Take them to the mall, school, church, wherever. Because when that one guy who wants to kill people takes out his gun, forget it. He’s gone. But see, that’s the thing. He knows everyone has a gun, and you know what happens? He never even takes it out. Everyone is safe. Guns keep us safe. Now you’re getting my point, right? How can you argue with that? You just can’t.

“Remember what I said about the depression? It’s gonna be bad. Real bad. If people were smart, this is what they’d start doing now. First, get their money out of banks before it becomes worthless. Next, buy a bunch of water and food. A ton. More than they thought they would ever need. Then get rifles, pistols, maybe two or three per person. And lots of ammo. Like food, more than they’d think they’d ever need. Now they’re ready. When the depression hits, hunker down because there will be people who will come for them. Because they were ready and no one else is. That’s what I’m doing. I’m taking no chances.”

A series of beeps interrupted him and the two other gentleman climbed off their machines. As did he, following the older man into the weight-machine area.

About 10 minutes later I saw the teacher working out with free weights.

“Nice friend you made,” I said.

“That was disturbing,” he said. “People like that make me really nervous.”

“No kidding.”

I hit the shower, hoping to wash all that crap off.

Some of life’s better moments occur when something goes wrong (notice I said “some.” Meaning “pretty few,” because stuff CAN really suck when things go wrong, from a flat tire on the freeway to the admittance of Florida as a bonafide United State).

Something had just gone wrong a few minutes ago when I found myself walking more than a mile home with my son (a bike repair thing; his was in the shop and since I did not want to ride my bike home, leaving him alone, we walked together).

Not long after leaving the repair shop, the conversation drifted to politics. I forget how exactly. Normally in front of my almost-13-year-old son I refrain from saying, “I can understand how we can elect the dumbest US president in history; hey, even Millard Fillmore made it to the White House. But twice? Are you kidding me?”

Either way, the following conversation occurred, and because of it the world was made a better place because another Democrat was born, though I now he will sell his political soul should he ever fall in love with a Republican (“You’re right, honey, if this country is ever going to have a right-wing evangelical president bent on making the world safe for the narrow-minded, gun-holding, unforgiving non-Hispanic majority, a vote for Huckabee isn’t just essential, it’s also the only morally correct thing to do”).

It went something like this (quotes mostly accurate, relying on this aging mind as I must):

“Dad, this is George Bush’s last year, right? I don’t really like him all that much.”

“Why is that?”

“Because so many soldiers are dying. Why can’t we just get everybody out of there?”

“Well, as much as I would like to see that happen, I’m not so sure that would be the best thing. Not leaving all at once. But slowly. Even though I’m not so sure that would do any good either.”

“Why not? I don’t understand. Either we leave or we just take over, right? We leave, I mean, who cares, right?”

“But look at what we’d leave behind. A country in a lot of turmoil. There are people there who don’t get along, and they haven’t gotten along for hundreds of years. Right now we’re doing out best to get them to talk, to form a government in which they all have a voice. If we can do that, great. But even if we do that, I’m not sure peace will last.”

“Because they’ve been so long?”

“Exactly. OK, you’ve studied the Civil War, right? The North and South really hated one another. Imagine in the middle of that another country invaded. France, let’s say. And they came in and took all of our weapons and started setting the rules. Then they made us put together a government with half North, half South. When everything looked OK, France said, ‘See ya.’ What do you think would have happened?”

“We would have started fighting again.”

“Pretty much. And the North and South didn’t get along for just a few decades or so.* The Shia and Sunni, who are both Muslim but don’t agree on all the particulars, have been kinda miffed at one another for centuries.”

“So why did we even get involved?”

“Ah, there’s the question that has split the nation. Most of this goes back to 9-11. You know that the attackers were from al-Qaeda, right? OK, we went into Afghanistan because we had proof that al-Qaeda had been training there, and that its leader, right, Osama Bin Laden, was living there. Fine, right?”

“I guess. I mean, if they sent people to kill us, we should go get them.”

“Later on, George W Bush tells us that they have developed intelligence that Iraq … well, the leader of Iraq, who was a pretty …”

“Bad guy. Saddam Hassan. We talked about him in school.”

“Right. Saddam Hussein. Definitely a bad guy. Killed thousands of his won people. According to George W Bush, Saddam was a threat to the US. Not only was he connected to al-Qaeda, but he was developing really powerful bombs. Nuclear stuff, bombs with chemicals that can wipe out everyone within a few miles. Weapons of mass destruction. So George W Bush decided we needed to invade Iraq.”

“But we captured Saddam. Why didn’t we just get out then?”

“We did get Hussein, but in the meantime, guess what happened? Turns out Saddam wasn’t connected to al-Qaeda. And he wasn’t making weapons of mass destruction. See, when Saddam was doing all this bad stuff, the rest of the world cut him off. Didn’t send him food or money. Iraq became a very poor country. Thousands were starving. You think this is the kind of country we should be afraid of? No. But George W Bush was.”

“So we sent soldiers because of what Bush thought? Man, that is so stupid.” (Ah, the Democrat emerges like a butterfly from the cocoon.)

“A lot of people still believe that invading Iraq is a good thing, that Iraq was a threat to us. Others believe it had something to do with oil.”

(Conversation ensues about oil supply and political ramifications, which goes largely over his head.)

“But dad, I don’t get why the Iraqis keep blowing themselves up and killing everyone. We’re trying to bring peace and they won’t let us. That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re right, but let’s put it another way. We’re the most powerful nation in the world and no one would dare invade us. But let’s just say that one day America is not so powerful, and other countries think we’re dangerous. So one day all these soldier show up from different countries, and none of them speak our language but it’s pretty obvious they’re telling us what to do. And they make sure to tell us it’s for our own good. They’ll even help us set up a new government where everyone will have a say. What do you think we’d do?”

“We’d fight back … yeah, I don’t think we’d just sit there. I kind of get it.”

“I wish things would be more peaceful in Iraq, and I do think there are some really bad people over there, people who would kill civilians to make a point. And I would never defend them. But I also think it’s important we at least try to understand it from another point of view.”

“How long are we going to keep being over there?”

“I wish I knew. I just hope we pull out long before you turn 18.”

“But we could be there another 10 years. Or even 50 years. A hundred years. And when we leave, they could all go back to fighting anyway. So what’s the point?”

“I have no idea. But hopefully whoever’s elected president will.”

*Having not studied the Civil War for a few decades or so, my apology to the stick-up-their-butt historians who insist my figures are wrong.

Ah, it's almost spring training once again. Is there any better time in the universe than the start of baseball? Let me answer that for you -- no.

A close runner-up, however, is the beginning of Sausage Racing Season. Last year, I was lucky enough to be the chugging Chorizo, going against such wiener luminaries at Italian, Polish and the Hot Dog at a Milwaukee Brewer spring training game.

Check out the video here (and if copying and pasting this link does not work for some reason, go to azcentral.com. Scroll to the bottom and click on "Videos" in the site map. Once at the videos screen, scroll down to Arizona Republic videos and click on More videos. Scroll to March 07, go down about three-quarters of the way and click on Sausage Races. Yes, you will probably be disappointed. So? It's only 90 seconds) :

www.azcentral.com/phpAPP/multimedia/flash.php?path
=rtmp://azcentral.com/news/azr/0310sausage_r','mediaplayer',
'toolbar=no,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,width=300,height=300'

As I get older, generalities lose their veracity and mean less and less. For example, when I was 20, I knew that everyone going the speed limit in the fast lane was a jerk. Now that I’m 50, I realize that only some of those people are jerks, the ones who insist the speed limit is absolutely the fastest you should go, thus they are “proving a point” (and being jerks) by remaining in the fast lane. Others are simply misguided or not paying attention. And I’ve also come to realize that relatively slower people in the fast lane are not there solely to tick me off.

Not everyone comes to this realization as their brains ferment (becoming more refined and of a higher quality) over the decades. There are millions who firmly believe such generalities as “Iraq is a threat to America” and “Illegal is illegal.” Yet if they were to pause and think of those statements on a case-by-case basis, they would realize the words are as hollow as a Wal-Mart promise to pay its clerks a living wage.

With that in mind, here are generalities that I still generally believe:

Aisle seats are way better, mostly at sporting events, with theaters and airplanes right behind.

Those 80 and older should not be driving. Those 70 and older should not be driving without an annual driving test. Anyone who thinks, “I love being behind the wheel of this RV” should not be driving at all.

Just because you can afford to buy something way bigger than you need does not mean you should.

If there truly was a God, chocolate would cure cancer.

George W. Bush may not be the dumbest U.S. president ever, but he is certainly in the top 3.

Once I get to know a Republican, I can actually get to like him or her. Given time.

We don’t own up to our problems like our parents did (yes, I’m talking to those people who took out risky home loans and then blamed the availability of those loans when financial troubles started).

Not everyone who buys a Hummer is trying to make up for having a tiny penis. Women, for example.

Leave Britney alone.

Spirituality can be fulfilling. Religion is merely polarizing.

It is not a crime to want you hair cut in silence.

Dogs rule, cats drool.

Those who believe abstinence is the solution to teen pregnancy either have forgotten their own teenage years or were such total geeks they never had a shot at getting any.

If the Super Bowl continues to hire talented yet irrelevant halftime acts, Earth Wind and Fire would be an excellent choice.

Double Stuf Oreos with peanut butter crème are the best mass-produced cookies in the US.

Molly Johnson’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies are the best homemade cookies in the US, if not the world.

Ugliest English word is definitely the “c” word – “censorship.”

A sharing of opinions and ideas can be enriching, especially when those opinions and ideas conflict. Spewing vile thoughts anonymously across the Internet is cowardly.

Arrested Development was one of the best shows on TV, and I blame you for not watching and having it canceled.

I am a decent man with a few dickish tendencies rather than a dick with a few decent tendencies.

If you are caught in this country illegally, let’s still treat you humanly, if not humanely.

Worst household chore: dusting.

Best household chore: yeah, right.

Those who ignore history are most likely high school students, and are certainly doomed to repeat it if they don’t get their act together.

Superman could beat any other superhero in a fair fight.

As you get older, you become more appreciative of others’ talents. Not counting those talents of romance writers.

Loyalty to your company stopped being an admirable trait about 15 years ago.

In more cases than not, he who smelt it is not the one who dealt it.

If you are against affirmative action and belong to a class that has never been subject to centuries of racial oppression, from slavery to systematic segregation to profiling, four words: Shut the hell up.

Two statements guarantee to make any reasonable person cringe: “Everything in my life has led up to this moment” (true whether you’ve just made love for the first time or decided on cherry over raspberry Toaster Pastries) and “He died doing what he loved to do” (apparently far worse than dying while doing what you don’t like to do).

Marriage is a flawed institution, and kudos to those who make it work.

Those who have asked “What part of ‘illegal’ don’t you understand?” should meet the girl from Mexico who came with her parents when she was two, received outstanding grades while working two jobs to help her family, saved enough for college and, after a routine check of records just prior to her graduation and the start of her job at a bioresearch company, was deported to a country she considered foreign. Yeah, that’s the part of “illegal” I don’t understand.

Feel free to leave comments. Who knows, I may have a part 2.