Cool Cousin Steve

My cousin Steve died last fall. It was a senseless accident, really. He was riding his bike. From what I understand, he was biking along, traveling down a steep hill when he attempted to avoid a dog that suddenly jumped out at him. In his efforts, he was thrown from his bike and struck his head. The rest of the details are really immaterial; the most significant detail is that he didn’t make it.

His widow, Dawn, didn’t schedule a memorial for him until this past August. I didn’t ask about the reasons for the delay, although I’m sure I understand them. His loss hit me hard, and I rarely had the opportunity to see him; I couldn’t imagine the magnitude of the pain she must have been feeling.

That’s one of the toughest parts about growing up, and getting older, actually. The specter of death becomes more real every day. Parents die. Peers pass on. Loved ones succumb to various ailments, afflictions and accidents. The loss of Steve is a reminder of the fragility of life, and the importance of appreciating the loved ones in yours.

Steve and his brother Jeff were always my “cool” cousins. When I was growing up, they were the older cousins that a young, wannabe cool kid would naturally look up to. Steve was seven years older than I, and Jeff was four. I didn’t get to see them very often, as we lived six or seven hours away. But at holiday time, and during the occasional visit to the house, I often got a chance to see them and, for a limited time, hang out with them.

I loved hanging out with both of them. To the young, pre-teen me, they were very similar in many ways, and I was really too young to differentiate between the nuances of their very different tastes and personalities. They were just cool, and I always looked forward to spending any kind of time with them.

I learned as an adult that Steve was the gentlest of souls, but to a young pre-teenager growing up, he had a dangerous-coolness about him that I gravitated towards. Because there was a seven year difference between us, I could never hope to be cool enough for him to want to hang out with me, but he still did, because that’s what cousins are supposed to do. And I reveled in the time I got to spend with him.

A child of the ‘60s, Steve had the obligatory long hair, torn jeans, and (to me) psychedelic tastes. (That's Steve, on the left, in one of my favorite pictures of him.)



He went to college and studied fine arts, and photography. He was a true artist and was a master of the camera, and of sculpture. I learned, only after his passing, how well-respected he was in the art community, and how well received his art work was. At his memorial, I read one of the local reviews of his sculptures, which included an interview with him. He was fascinating. He saw things in art, and in design, that I could never hope to see. He had a talent, and an eye, and knew how to bring his vision to fruition, in brilliant and challenging ways.

Steve was also a car nut. It might seem incongruous – an artist and sculptor who liked to get his hands dirty under the hood. But he did. He worked on cars, tinkered with cars, repaired cars, and swapped cars like a horse-trader from the old West. He owned Porsches, and Volvos, and Volkswagens, and Alfas. He had a Morgan that he rebuilt, and an original Mini. He owned almost 70 cars in his life, having acquired them in one deal or another, and he made them all run.

He helped me revive an old Volvo I’d bought years ago. It was a bad car, really, but when I called him on the phone for advice, he’d told me it was a good deal at $250. He told me that, for that price, I was getting a great car. Although I trusted his judgment, that trust was sorely tested the first day I drove that car because the wind caught the edge of the hood and blew it clean off the car; too much rust inside the engine compartment. I had to pull off the road to pick up the hood and reattach it, holding it in place with a couple of bungie cords. When I told Steve of my misadventures, he told me to bring the car up and we’d make it road worthy. And we did. We spent a weekend rebuilding that Volvo, and literally bolting the hood back in place. It was nothing if not a colorful vehicle.

Around Christmas of 2005, I realized that I hadn’t seen Steve in more than 20 years. Oh, sure, I’d talked to him on the telephone, and exchanged an occasional note. But our lives had gone in very different directions, in very different parts of the country, and the relationship between cousins who live as far apart as we did was difficult to maintain. But I decided I wanted to change that. So I sent a card to Steve that Christmas, and he responded with a phone call and an email. It felt really good inside to be in touch with him again. He was my cool cousin Steve, and I was glad to be getting to know him again.

He sent me pictures of his work, and it was very impressive.



I had no idea how he created the things he did, but the things he did were amazing. He visited me in the summer of 2007; there was an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art that he just had to see, and I was more than happy to have him stay with me while he visited the museum. It was great fun connecting with him again, although it was a bit of a wake-up call for me to see my long-haired hippie freak of a cousin standing at my door looking like Charlie Legit. But I was so happy to have him back in my life again, and thrilled to finally meet his wife, who I’d never had the chance to meet before.

Over the past four years, Steve told me about his farm, and the horses his wife took care of, and his art. When my dad got sick in the fall of 2006, he expressed concern, and after my dad passed, it was Steve who tried to coordinate a reunion of my mother and his mother, sisters who hadn’t seen each other in years because life sometimes gets in the way. I tried to help Steve in his efforts by giving my mom a little push towards a trip to upstate New York. She never had the strength for that trip, and she passed, too, in the summer of 2008 before getting the chance to see her sister, and her nephews, again.

Selfishly, I was sad, both for her, and for me, because I figured I’d get her up there, and we could all sit around and tell the old stories again. And it would have been a good excuse for me to finally get up to visit Steve at his Blue Moon Farm. I just wish I hadn’t needed an excuse; I should have just gone when I wanted to.

So my cousin went on that bike ride in October 2009. I wish I knew if the bike ride was a usual thing for him. I wish I knew where he was going. I wish I knew what his daily routine was. I wish I knew what special magic made him such a popular fellow that something like 100 people showed up at his farm in August, nearly a year after his passing, to honor his memory, and to celebrate his life.

Mostly, though, I wish I knew why I never made the time to get up there to see him again, and spend time with him, and to continue to reconnect with someone who not only was a nice guy, but a special man.

No Job Is Beneath You

I have a feeling I'm going to sound old-fogey-ish with this, but I guess that happens as time goes by (although I don't ever remember feeling differently about this issue). See, when I was growing up, I wanted -- and really needed -- to work. I was responsible for my own car, my own car repairs, my own car insurance, my own bills, and any "fancy" clothes that I might want. So I worked. And I grew up with the understanding that, if you got a job, you worked it, no matter what kind of job it was. And if you couldn't find a job doing something you really wanted to do, you found a job doing something so that they would pay you every week.

So I've done everything: I picked apples. I pumped gas and learned how to change oil, tune-up cars, do brakes, and replace clutches, among other things. I worked retail in several different places -- and one lovely task involved unloading a tractor-trailer full of charcoal briquets at one particular drug store I worked at. I drove limos, worked in radio, worked as a statistician, and have (finally!) settled into a career in law. But even as a lawyer, when I moved from Ohio to New Jersey, and had to await bar results, I still had to eat and pay bills. So, I worked for a temp agency, and wound up on loading docks, on an assembly line, as a secretary, and as a records researcher -- all the while with a law degree in my back pocket. The point is I worked at whatever I had to work at because that's how you feed yourself and your family. Lounging around, waiting for the "right" opportunity, was never an option. That's not how I was raised, and that's not what you do.

But in the time we live now, too many Americans -- some young, and some old -- think that it is beneath them to work at a particular job, or in a particular field, or even to put in what they consider "long" hours. People rail against illegal immigrants taking American jobs, yet many of the jobs in question -- floor sweeper, demolition laborer on a construction site, house painter, maid, toilet cleaner at fast food joints -- are jobs that many Americans simply refuse to take. I have heard people say, "I won't take that position -- I'm better than that." Or, "I don't want to get up at 6:00 a.m. to get to work." Or, "It's too hot to work outside in the summer." Please.

People think that work is supposed to be a "fun" place. It's not. It's work. That's why they call it "work." If it was fun, they'd call it "play." Sure, some folks are fortunate enough to land in a field that they truly enjoy, but there's still crap to put up with even in a dream job. My dream job was when I was a dj -- I loved it, but not every minute of it. I worked holidays, including Christmas day. I had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to make the air by 6. But I did it because that's what you do.

People think work is supposed to be TV-type glamorous, Mary Tyler Moore-esq, "The Office"-type places to work. Again, there are moments like that in any job, but it's still a job, and you just do it.

If the only job you can get is hauling rocks from a construction site to a dumpster, who do you think you are to believe that that job is beneath you? It's a job. It pays you money. In some cases, it gives you benefits, and if it doesn't include benefits, that's all the more reason to work, so you can afford things like doctors and dentists. A job -- any job -- is guaranteed money in your pocket every week. And if it doesn't pay enough, you know what you do? You find another, better-paying job. But you keep working at the job you're at while you look, because you still have to eat.

People -- both young and old -- are so spoiled in this country, it is almost sickening. No one is guaranteed anything in life, and life doesn't owe you anything, either. You can take the bull by the horns and make a name for yourself, but you've got to take the initiative. Starring in "The Real World" is not a career path. The guys who give out jobs aren't coming to your door to offer one to you; you've got to go get it, go find it, or find something that you can do that can pay you money on a regular basis. And showing that you're a hard worker -- whether you're stocking shelves or parking cars at a restaurant -- is an important step in showing that you're a responsible human being, and not just a spoiled brat.

Immigrants are people too.

Was watching ABC Primetime tonight, and they did an interesting piece on their "What Would You Do?" segment. In a deli in Linden, New Jersey, they put an actor behind the counter acting like a total tool when waiting on two other actors posing as Mexican day laborers. (For those who don't know, these are folks, some here legally, some not, who live in and around towns and gather at certain spots around town, waiting for contractors, construction firms, carpenters, painters, etc., to come round and offer them a day's worth of work. Many -- if not most -- have little, if any, ability to speak English, but they can work, so they do, and contractors use them freely, easily, and voluntarily.)

Anyway, with hidden cameras rolling, the actor behind the counter took the position that he would not serve the actor-day laborers who were trying to buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee, because they couldn't speak English. He called them illegals, told them to go to Taco Bell to get service, and said he wouldn't serve them. It got ugly (play-acting ugly, of course, but it looked real enough). The point of the story was to elicit reactions from others in the store.

88 people were subject to the "show." 44 took no position. 9 sided with the clerk, some vehemently, telling the workers to get out of the store or the cops would be called, another saying he'd like to hang out with the clerk. But the rest stood up -- vigorously -- in support of the workers. One lady was in tears over the treatment, canceled her food order, and left. Another guy -- an obvious regular -- called the manager over and told him to straighten out the obnoxious clerk. One lady I thought was gonna go over the counter after the clerk, calling him an asshole, and looked like she'd rip his throat out with her bare hands if she could get to him.

It was good to see. Yes, I know -- illegal immigrants take jobs. I know they don't "follow the rules" and they should. I know they don't speak the language, and they should try to assimilate more. But they're still people. Legal or illegal, that doesn't change the fact that they are entitled to the same humane, decent treatment you would show any other human being. And, they do take jobs -- but the jobs that a good number of Americans these days find "beneath them" (which I'm going to discuss in a minute, in another post.) It would be one thing if illegals were coming to this country and taking CEO positions, and IT jobs and such. But they're coming here and picking apples in orchards, and cleaning toilets in McDonalds, and hauling rocks from a construction site. Should they be legal? Of course. But should they not be here at all? See what happens to this country if that ever happens.

My "Glad" List for 2009

I've seen too many posts to start this year about people "wishing" for that, or "hoping" for this.....I thought an "I'm Glad For" list might be appropriate:

1. I’m glad we didn’t have macbooks, psp’s, gameboys, and dvd players when I was a kid — it helped me learn to interact with people (my parents and siblings) on long drives and on tv-free vacations, and it forced us to be creative to entertain ourselves with games like “The Alphabet Game” and “20 Questions” (which I’ve passed on to my kids).

2. I’m glad we had to sit around the table for dinner every night when I was a kid, instead of eating in front of the TV, or on the couch, because I learned how to have a conversation, how to listen, and how to behave in a restaurant.

3. I’m glad my parents didn’t overindulge me with every gift I could conceive of (not that they were in any position to do so) because it taught me how to appreciate those gifts that I did get.

4. I’m glad I had to start working at 15 in order to make enough money for my own car, car insurance, and expenses, because it taught me to appreciate my things more, and taught me responsibility.

5. I’m glad that I learned how to apologize as a kid, because it is far better to take ownership of the mistakes you make, rather than try to pin the blame on someone else.

6. I’m glad I turned out the way I am, because, while I’m not perfect by any stretch, I’m cofortable in my own skin, and in my life.

A Message to Our Children

I gave you life, but I can not live it for you.
I can teach you things, but I can not make you learn.
I can give you directions, but I can not always be there to lead you.
I can allow you freedom, but I can not account for it.
I can take you to church, but I can not make you believe.
I can teach you right from wrong, but I can not always decide for you.
I can buy you beautiful clothes, but I can not make you lovely inside.
I can offer you advice, but I can not accept it for you.
I can give you love, but I can not force it upon you.
I can teach you to be a friend, but I can not make you one.
I can teach you to share, but I can not make you unselfish.
I can teach you repsect, but I can not teach you honor.
I can grieve about your report card, but I can not doubt your teachers.
I can advise you about friends, but I can not choose them for you.
I can teach you about sex, but I can not keep you pure.
I can tell you the facts of life, but I can not build your reputation.
I can tell you about drink, but I can not say NO for you.
I can warn you about drugs, but I can not prevent you from using them.
I can tell you about lofty goals, but I can not achieve them for you.
I can let you babysit, but I can not be accountable for your actions.
I can teach you kindness, but I can not force you to be gracious.
I can warn you about sins, but I can not make your morals.
I can love you as a daughter or son, but I can not place you in God’s family.
I can pray for you, but I can not make you walk with God.

— The Rev. Dr. John L. Hines

Smoking

I first smoked when I was in the second grade. No, really. My family was living overseas and I fell in with a crowd of older kids who got their kicks pinching cigarettes from folks who'd left them with their belongings at poolside while they swam a few laps. So, my "gang" would lift a few cigarettes here and there, and then we'd all run off into the bushes to smoke. I don't remember too much about the actual "smoking" itself, but I was accepted by the "big" kids, so I remember being content. When we got back to the US, there was no pool, no "cool" big kids, and no one pinching cigarettes for me so, in a non-smoking household, I had no reason, and no opportunity, to keep up the habit.

I didn't pick up a cigarette again for another twelve years. Then, in college, I hooked up with a girl who smoked, and she found it relaxing and calming, so I tried it again (college being a semi-stressful time, especially around exam time). And she was right -- the act of smoking, and the nicotine, was relaxing and calming. Lighting a cigarette, by itself, was a ritualistic event. Then, the slow inhale of smoke, and the slight nicotine buzz you got, had a calming effect.

At the time, though, I was also playing basketball. Smoking and basketball does not mix (imagine that). All that smoke tends to clog up the lungs, and basketball was far more important to me, so I stopped after a few months. Cold turkey. No problem. I just stopped, and didn't pick up another cigarette for almost a decade.

Law school brought the cigarettes home again. Stressed out and anxious during my first year (which took place after I'd worked in the "real world" for a few years), I remembered the calming effect of the cigs, so went back to them, to help get me through the first few months of being a 1L (first year law student). But basketball saved me again; I hooked up with a bunch of basketball players during that first year and, three times a week, we all had a 3 hour block of time between classes, so we'd play pick-up games for a couple hours, to relieve stress and escape from the rigors of class. That, plus my running (I was doing about four miles a day on non-basketball days), kept me from letting the cigarettes take over. So I stopped smoking again, cold turkey, for a few more years.

I picked them up again in 1993, during the first year of my now soon-to-be-ending marriage. Again, stress and anxiety brought them into my life, and again working out and athletics (mostly running) chased them out.

2007 brought the return of the cigarettes. The recent loss of my dad, the demise of the marriage, the sickness and ultimate passing of my mom (and several other personal things going on that I have yet to chronicle) brought stress back into my life by the boatload. Enter the Camel (my brand of choice). I started up again in November 2007, and have yet to put them down. I'm only smoking about a half-pack (usually less) each day, but they certainly do help me handle the stress. It's something about the nicotine, and it's something about the act of lighting up, and sitting still, and not doing anything else but focusing on the cigarette, that slows life down, and calms me down. And, unfortunately for me, I don't have basketball right now, and I'm so tired of running (after many, many years of doing it) that I don't have the athletic counter that always seemed to intervene on my behalf.

Of course I know that smoking's not healthy. But it certainly is enjoyable, at least to me, and at least for now. Plus, smoking is cool, right? That's what it says here, isn't it?

And here, too, right?

And here are six reasons why I should keep smoking.

And what about the cool image that smoking projects?






I know I should quit. But this is actually the first time that I haven't really wanted to, and haven't really had the incentive to do so. There's still too much stress, I still look forward to the little peace that a cigarette break can bring, and I do enjoy my cigarette and coffee on those mornings when I actually have time for them.

But I will quit. I'm actually starting to miss basketball again, and I'm actually starting to miss my running again. I'm not smoking enough to stop me from doing either one of these things, but I know that I'll do them better without tobacco. So I will quit. I should. Just not quite yet.

The Bad Year . . . Or Two

So I've mentioned in various places that I lost a lot of time from keeping up with both this blog, and my self-imposed duties at my Ask A Lawyer blog. As I sort of explained in May 2007, I lost my dad in November 2006. He and my mom were married for 47 years, and, as you might expect, she did not handle his passing very well.

There was a year there, from about March 2007 to about January 2008 where she really needed a lot of hand-holding and guidance and I, being the oldest (and geographically the closest) was the obvious choice to do the guiding and hand-holding (well, at least the bulk of it.) Well, she took ill in March 2008, and began a slow spiral downward, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I'm pretty sure she just gave up on life; she just didn't want to go on without my dad. She died on 8/8/08.

In this same time frame, my wife and I split, in November 2007. My choice, for various reasons. So, during the same time I'm holding my mother's hand through life, I'm divvying up property with my wife, and, at the same time, trying to make this . . . . transitional family unit, for lack of a better term, as pain-free as possible for my kids. (My soon-to-be-ex and I have actually been very successful in that regard because, if nothing else, we both put the kids first.)

So anyway, there, in three paragraphs, is the nutshell version of where I've been and what I've been doing.

Yeah, I know. You want to details. Well, I'm not so good on details. I guess if you've read this far, you probably want to know more, but I'm not so good at "opening up," which is probably a bad thing when running a blog like this. I mean, this generation (listen to me, sounding like my old man) is all about openness, and having no secrets, and sharing feelings, and blah-de-blah. Yeah, well, I'm not so good at that. Snarky reviews. Sure. Sarcastic observations. Check. Analytical essays. That I can do. Opening up in an on-line diary? Not so much.

But, who knows? Maybe in time, I'll feel compelled to provide more detail. Let's see what happens.

What's the opposite of gouging?

I've talked about gas prices a few times, most notably here. That's back when gas jumped a ridiculous 60 cents between morning and night, for no apparent reason. Back then, in September 2005, $3.57 a gallon was not unheard of. Last summer, in June and July 2008, it was even worse. I paid more than $4.00 a gallon at some points.

Now, look:



I actually paid $1.54 for regular today. That's almost 66% less than I paid 5 months ago, and just goes to prove how artificial the oil prices are, how manipulative the oil companies are, and how gullible the people are. The "powers that be" blame the drop on the recession. Okay, except, what other product has dropped it's retail price 66% in the past five months? Can I get a 32 inch LCD HDTV anywhere for $200 today? Nope. Is my Quik Chek coffee costing me only 37 cents a cup now? Nope. Is my grocery bill two-thirds what it was last summer? Nope. Only gas.

Prices for barrels of oil are WAY down. The average price of a gallon of gas dropped 22 cents in the past two weeks, and has dropped over two dollars and forty-five cents in the past five months. That just proves it's all fake. Whether it's OPEC, or the oil companies, or speculators, or what have you -- the prices were always artificially inflated and kept that way.

What I'm hoping now is that all those speculators who were buying oil futures last summer, who kept prices at artificially high levels, and did so expecting a huge profit because of the rising oil prices, are taking the financial beating they deserve. Those prices hurt so many people, and changed so many things. Airlines increased fares, and added "baggage charges," supposedly to offset their increased fuel costs. Groceries cost more because trucking things around cost more. But have those prices come down? Nope.

I blame them all. Oil companies, speculators, and OPEC producers all rakes in their millions (or at least attempted to do so) at the expense of you and me. They all deserve what they get.

The Usurpation of Country Music

Another rant, this time on behalf and in defense of my beloved country music.

Yes, I am a country music fan. My tastes don’t extend quite back to Patsy Cline, or early Johnny Cash, or Mel Tillis or George Jones. I’m more of a “new country” kind of guy. I liked Garth Brooks in his day; I like Alan Jackson, George Strait, Reba McIntire, and I’m a huge fan of Gretchen Wilson, Toby Keith, and Kenny Chesney. Martina McBride and Brooks & Dunn, and Sugarland also make regular appearances on my playlists.

But lately, there has been an influx of singers into the country world that really bothers me. Jewel is not a country singer. Ashley Simpson (*hack-phooey!*) is not a country singer. John Mellencamp (who I actually enjoy) is not a country singer. The Eagles is not a country band. Darius Rucker (the former lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish) is not a country singer. But they’re all putting out country-sounding records now, and it really bothers me.

I know what they’re doing, and why they’re doing it, but it still bothers me. They all want to sell records, and there is no “adult contemporary” market anymore, not like there was in the 70s, 80s and early 90s. But there is a “country” market that is alive and well, and these folks are just trying to find a place to sell their records. So they “cross-over” into country. But, for me, country has a certain meaning, and a certain sound, and a certain history, that these posers don’t really have any connection to, and never will.

Gretchen, Toby, Kenny, Alan, George, Reba — they all have real roots in and a legitimate connection to country music. When any one of them sings a song about drinking, or heartbreak, or happiness, or family, or love, or humor, you can feel and hear the connection to “country.” But putting a fiddle or a Dobro guitar into a song doesn’t make you a country singer, doesn’t make your song a country song, and doesn’t give you any country credibility.

And I hate to see outlets like CMT on television, and satellite radio, wasting valuable air time on non-country acts, simply because they have a recognizable name, at the expense of legitimate country acts that could benefit from the exposure they might get if I didn’t have to waste time watching Jewel videos and listening to Ashley Simpson songs. It stinks, and I don’t like it.