I have watched and read quite a bit about the "Occupy Wall Street" movement, which began in New York and has since spread to a number of other locales.
While some demonstrations number in the thousands, other groups would be challenged to occupy an elevator.
As much as I try, it's hard for me to grasp the message of the Occupy movement. Rich people bad, everyone else good? Wealth should be re-distributed? Corporate "fat cats" need to be held accountable? Basic cable and 4G for all?
I understand the frustration, even anger, which is real, and palpable.
For the most part, Occupy protesters are upset that so much is in the hands of so few. The so-called "1%" control most of our nation's wealth while the other 99% feel like they're looking in with lips pressed against a real life snow globe.
A CBS/New York Times poll shows that 42% of Americans majority agree with the views of the occupy movement. But what are the views?
As much as I love a good poll, this one reminds me of when Congress sends out "constituent surveys" with loaded questions like, "Should your tax dollars be used to build nuclear bombs instead of providing food and shelter to innocent, defenseless puppies?"
The Occupy movement is real, but the agenda, and sustainability, are unclear.
Some have tried to equate Occupy with the Tea Party. But the Tea Party, from the beginning, was a movement with a political agenda.
Say what you like about Tea Partiers, but they came, they saw, they conquered. They altered the landscape in 2010 by setting an agenda and running candidates for Congress. Loud ones.
So far the Occupiers operate outside the political realm. In fact, I saw Democratic Congressman Barney Frank pleading with protesters the other night to not cast aside the political process, even though most politicians have avoided Occupy like Donald Trump avoids the subway.
Perhaps the real "threat" or lasting impact of the Occupy movement is that the ranks of disenfranchised voters will grow, affecting future election turnout and leadership.
I hope not. Free speech is a precious right, and a responsibility.
What's your take on the Occupy movement? I would enjoy hearing from you.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
He Had Me At Hello
I found myself watching David Letterman the other night, which is rare. I can count on one foot the number of times I have watched Letterman through the years.
Former President Bill Clinton was the guest and I was struck by two things:
1) Clinton looks great. In fact, sans the gray hair he looks better than he did twenty years ago.
2) I love listening to a politician freed from politics, able to speak their mind without a the proverbial cup in hand.
There weren't any great revelations but Clinton was in his element, relaxed and ever eloquent.
I have read commentary lately about President Obama's disdain for "retail politics," the daily, one-on-one, behind the scenes aspect of public office.
Obama, the theory goes, is more comfortable in front of large audiences than in smaller settings. He's not particularly interested in working the phones and cashing in chits with members of Congress. One writer speculated that Obama likes humanity, but not human beings.
It's certainly debatable to what extent backslapping skills are necessary for a Commander in Chief. And connecting with Congress today must feel like knocking on a steel door. Once "inside," even infomercial king Billy Mays would probably wind up kicked in the teeth like Willy Loman.
President Bill Clinton was a master glad hander, the most effective in my lifetime.
Watching Clinton on Letterman, I felt the power of a man who simultaneously compelled two individuals (Letterman and I) along with an audience. He had me hooked for days after. Ask my wife, who is convinced I have a man crush.
Many years ago I had a client, a staunch conservative who had the opportunity to meet then candidate for president Clinton. "I don't agree with Bill Clinton about anything," he said, "but believe me, when he shook my hand and looked me in the eye, I was the only person in the room."
That I believe. I doubt Bill Clinton ever leaves a room without trying to connect with everyone. His Rolodex could power a river boat.
The most effective politicians master the public and personal; salesmanship and empathy. Despite his personal failings, Bill Clinton was effective working a room and getting legislation passed.
The man is persuasive. Heck, he got me to sit through an hour of late night T.V.
Former President Bill Clinton was the guest and I was struck by two things:
1) Clinton looks great. In fact, sans the gray hair he looks better than he did twenty years ago.
2) I love listening to a politician freed from politics, able to speak their mind without a the proverbial cup in hand.
There weren't any great revelations but Clinton was in his element, relaxed and ever eloquent.
I have read commentary lately about President Obama's disdain for "retail politics," the daily, one-on-one, behind the scenes aspect of public office.
Obama, the theory goes, is more comfortable in front of large audiences than in smaller settings. He's not particularly interested in working the phones and cashing in chits with members of Congress. One writer speculated that Obama likes humanity, but not human beings.
It's certainly debatable to what extent backslapping skills are necessary for a Commander in Chief. And connecting with Congress today must feel like knocking on a steel door. Once "inside," even infomercial king Billy Mays would probably wind up kicked in the teeth like Willy Loman.
President Bill Clinton was a master glad hander, the most effective in my lifetime.
Watching Clinton on Letterman, I felt the power of a man who simultaneously compelled two individuals (Letterman and I) along with an audience. He had me hooked for days after. Ask my wife, who is convinced I have a man crush.
Many years ago I had a client, a staunch conservative who had the opportunity to meet then candidate for president Clinton. "I don't agree with Bill Clinton about anything," he said, "but believe me, when he shook my hand and looked me in the eye, I was the only person in the room."
That I believe. I doubt Bill Clinton ever leaves a room without trying to connect with everyone. His Rolodex could power a river boat.
The most effective politicians master the public and personal; salesmanship and empathy. Despite his personal failings, Bill Clinton was effective working a room and getting legislation passed.
The man is persuasive. Heck, he got me to sit through an hour of late night T.V.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Sweetness...Timeless
Author Jeff Pearlman's new Walter Payton biography, "Sweetness," has some unflattering details about the Chicago Bears Hall of Fame running back. In the book, Pearlman alleges that Payton had affairs, battled depression and abused pain killers.
I have not read "Sweetness," though I did read the Sports Illustrated excerpt containing the allegations, which I found interesting but hardly surprising. Most Chicagoans have heard rumors of Payton's infidelity through the years, while pain killers and depression were ooh so common for players active in the 1970's.
In fact, the "broken down jock" narrative would make a good county music song: Legendary player (insert name) struggles with life after (insert sport), finances and marriage fall apart while depression and addictions intensify.
Jeff Pearlman insists his book is a balanced look at an enigmatic man, a "definitive" biography, in his words.
We could debate what, if anything, is out of bounds when writing about a public figure, and to what extent they should be "outed" for their shortcomings. A good biography paints a complete picture, which often isn't pretty.
For the record, I am as objective here as a life insurance salesman in a maternity ward. Walter Payton was my childhood hero and the greatest football player I have ever seen.
I was in 4th grade in 1977 when Payton rushed for an NFL record 275 yards against the Minnesota Vikings. I remember the game, and I remember proudly wearing my Walter Payton "iron-on" from the local sports page a few days later. And every day until the t-shirt fell off my back.
Walter Payton was Zeus in shoulder pads. So quick, so strong, so tough. With legs churning like pistons, he never stopped moving, redefining the football term "forward progress."
I never saw Sweetness take an initial hit. Payton rarely "got hit." He always delivered the blow, with a stiff arm I'm sure felt like being struck by an AMC Pacer.
Walter Payton played on some lousy teams, in a city of lousy teams. He was our collective hope back when Chicago was home to more dog teams than the Yukon.
Here's my Payton story:
My grade school was a block from Northwestern's Dyche Stadium, and in those days when the field was bad at Lake Forest College (yes kids, there was a time before practice domes and heated surfaces) the Bears bused to Evanston for practice on NU's artificial concrete, I mean turf. My buds and I made the trip hoping for a sweatband, arm pad or autograph.
One time I waited outside in the snow after practice, pen and paper in hand, when Walter Payton emerged from the locker room in his game uniform.
A camera crew from Sports Illustrated was there to take Payton's picture for a cover story on the Bears. I watched him approach the crew and insist that he wouldn't appear in any shot without his offensive line.
As the crew and flunkies haggled over the photo spread, a line began to form as a Bears official herded us kids for autographs. Inexplicably, I ended up in the back (should have thrown a stiff arm or two). Payton walked up to the line, looked at the first kid and bellowed, "I'm starting at the back."
I still have the runny, worn signature, and a glimpse into Walter Payton, the man.
Sadly, we will never know whether Payton suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), the progressive brain damage which strikes so many players, including his Super Bowl teammate Dave Duerson, who committed suicide earlier this year.
Sweetness was gone too soon, but his legacy is timeless.
Despite Jeff Pearlman's salacious morsels, Walter Payton will never be "semi-sweet."
I have not read "Sweetness," though I did read the Sports Illustrated excerpt containing the allegations, which I found interesting but hardly surprising. Most Chicagoans have heard rumors of Payton's infidelity through the years, while pain killers and depression were ooh so common for players active in the 1970's.
In fact, the "broken down jock" narrative would make a good county music song: Legendary player (insert name) struggles with life after (insert sport), finances and marriage fall apart while depression and addictions intensify.
Jeff Pearlman insists his book is a balanced look at an enigmatic man, a "definitive" biography, in his words.
We could debate what, if anything, is out of bounds when writing about a public figure, and to what extent they should be "outed" for their shortcomings. A good biography paints a complete picture, which often isn't pretty.
For the record, I am as objective here as a life insurance salesman in a maternity ward. Walter Payton was my childhood hero and the greatest football player I have ever seen.
I was in 4th grade in 1977 when Payton rushed for an NFL record 275 yards against the Minnesota Vikings. I remember the game, and I remember proudly wearing my Walter Payton "iron-on" from the local sports page a few days later. And every day until the t-shirt fell off my back.
Walter Payton was Zeus in shoulder pads. So quick, so strong, so tough. With legs churning like pistons, he never stopped moving, redefining the football term "forward progress."
I never saw Sweetness take an initial hit. Payton rarely "got hit." He always delivered the blow, with a stiff arm I'm sure felt like being struck by an AMC Pacer.
Walter Payton played on some lousy teams, in a city of lousy teams. He was our collective hope back when Chicago was home to more dog teams than the Yukon.
Here's my Payton story:
My grade school was a block from Northwestern's Dyche Stadium, and in those days when the field was bad at Lake Forest College (yes kids, there was a time before practice domes and heated surfaces) the Bears bused to Evanston for practice on NU's artificial concrete, I mean turf. My buds and I made the trip hoping for a sweatband, arm pad or autograph.
One time I waited outside in the snow after practice, pen and paper in hand, when Walter Payton emerged from the locker room in his game uniform.
A camera crew from Sports Illustrated was there to take Payton's picture for a cover story on the Bears. I watched him approach the crew and insist that he wouldn't appear in any shot without his offensive line.
As the crew and flunkies haggled over the photo spread, a line began to form as a Bears official herded us kids for autographs. Inexplicably, I ended up in the back (should have thrown a stiff arm or two). Payton walked up to the line, looked at the first kid and bellowed, "I'm starting at the back."
I still have the runny, worn signature, and a glimpse into Walter Payton, the man.
Sadly, we will never know whether Payton suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), the progressive brain damage which strikes so many players, including his Super Bowl teammate Dave Duerson, who committed suicide earlier this year.
Sweetness was gone too soon, but his legacy is timeless.
Despite Jeff Pearlman's salacious morsels, Walter Payton will never be "semi-sweet."
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Some Zzzs Please
Have you heard about "Go the Fu*k To Sleep?" Described as a "children's book for adults," it's pure genius. Check out Samuel L. Jackson on this youtube link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNhnCD0EZtE
C'mon, this is funny stuff. It's O.K. to laugh.
I love "Go The F*ck to Sleep" because it's another chink in the "perfect parent" armor; A sippy cup in the eye of the parenting fantasy as nothing but smooches and ice cream.
Parenting is a full contact sport. I would love for my kids to go to sleep on demand, just like I'd love walls without hand prints or a bedroom that doesn't double as a doll and toy minefield. And while we're at it, I'd like to wear dry cleaning within a mile of my house.
How can beings so small, so cute, be so utterly destructive and exhausting?
As far as kids and sleep goes, so far I'm 2-for-4. My twins were easy on the sleep front once they passed age two, though early on it felt like Vietnam.
These days, my younger ones are creating their own legacy.
When Audra was two she went through a diva phase, constantly changing her clothes. One night I awoke to the thump of little feet. Over the next week or so I would open her bedroom door and find her in one of three states:
1. Naked in front of a pile of clothes.
2. Asleep on top of a pile of clothes, either naked or in a, ahem, creative ensemble.
3. Running around the room in a creative ensemble.
We were forced to move all clothes to the top shelves of her closet.
As parents, we continually move things higher, out of a kid's way, as if a flood has struck the living room. Show me your refrigerator door and I can guess your kids age within two years.
Then there's Drea, who somehow can't fall asleep unless strapped into a car seat, and appears ready to vault out of her crib a la Mary Lou Retton.
If I can stay awake long enough, look for my follow-up book, "I'm Too Old For This Sh*t."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNhnCD0EZtE
C'mon, this is funny stuff. It's O.K. to laugh.
I love "Go The F*ck to Sleep" because it's another chink in the "perfect parent" armor; A sippy cup in the eye of the parenting fantasy as nothing but smooches and ice cream.
Parenting is a full contact sport. I would love for my kids to go to sleep on demand, just like I'd love walls without hand prints or a bedroom that doesn't double as a doll and toy minefield. And while we're at it, I'd like to wear dry cleaning within a mile of my house.
How can beings so small, so cute, be so utterly destructive and exhausting?
As far as kids and sleep goes, so far I'm 2-for-4. My twins were easy on the sleep front once they passed age two, though early on it felt like Vietnam.
These days, my younger ones are creating their own legacy.
When Audra was two she went through a diva phase, constantly changing her clothes. One night I awoke to the thump of little feet. Over the next week or so I would open her bedroom door and find her in one of three states:
1. Naked in front of a pile of clothes.
2. Asleep on top of a pile of clothes, either naked or in a, ahem, creative ensemble.
3. Running around the room in a creative ensemble.
We were forced to move all clothes to the top shelves of her closet.
As parents, we continually move things higher, out of a kid's way, as if a flood has struck the living room. Show me your refrigerator door and I can guess your kids age within two years.
Then there's Drea, who somehow can't fall asleep unless strapped into a car seat, and appears ready to vault out of her crib a la Mary Lou Retton.
If I can stay awake long enough, look for my follow-up book, "I'm Too Old For This Sh*t."
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Unknown Blogger
A friend of mine was recently lamenting the fact that a member of his family, an elected official, is often attacked on Internet message boards.
He's not bothered by criticism per say but that the fact that most of it comes via anonymous "comments" on political and newsie websites.
In the old days a dissenter had a few choices. Either show up at a meeting or hearing, call or write letters. And if your letter made it into the local rag, it was signed. By you. Name and city.
I'm not a fan of message boards, which are kind of like shouting out the window at passing cars.
But they're here to stay, along with our increasingly "anonymous" society.
Ironically, we become more anonymous by embracing Facebook and Twitter, "sharing" technologies that allow us to secretly view each others lives.
Does anonymity have limits?
The other day I came across this item in the Chicago Tribune in a story about President Obama's jobs plan.
"In his remarks, the president will make clear he's not going to support any plan that asks something of some Americans and nothing of others." This was according to a White House aide, speaking on condition of anonymity in a conference call with reporters.
Something is amiss here, beyond my "well duh" reaction to Deep Throat's earth shattering revelation.
A conference call?
First I've heard of that one. When I hear "anonymous source" I think of trench coats, chapeaus and parking garages, not a conference line and bank of microphones. I suppose the source used one of those voice altering machines you see on shows like 60 Minutes, or maybe as an extra precaution sat behind one of those kiddie "puppet stages" with the shade drawn.
And how did this source get the word out for the conference call? Maybe via email: "Please join me as I leak very special information about the Obama jobs plan." Or perhaps, borrowing from Gordon Gekko, "Blue Horseshoe loves Obama's jobs plan."
The conference call had to be set up en masse, no phone calls, because any reporter worth a darn would beg for an exclusive.
This is cheating, plain and simple. The annonymous source meets message boards.
If you are going to hurl tomatoes, or leak information, follow the rules.
Signed,
The Unknown Blogger
He's not bothered by criticism per say but that the fact that most of it comes via anonymous "comments" on political and newsie websites.
In the old days a dissenter had a few choices. Either show up at a meeting or hearing, call or write letters. And if your letter made it into the local rag, it was signed. By you. Name and city.
I'm not a fan of message boards, which are kind of like shouting out the window at passing cars.
But they're here to stay, along with our increasingly "anonymous" society.
Ironically, we become more anonymous by embracing Facebook and Twitter, "sharing" technologies that allow us to secretly view each others lives.
Does anonymity have limits?
The other day I came across this item in the Chicago Tribune in a story about President Obama's jobs plan.
"In his remarks, the president will make clear he's not going to support any plan that asks something of some Americans and nothing of others." This was according to a White House aide, speaking on condition of anonymity in a conference call with reporters.
Something is amiss here, beyond my "well duh" reaction to Deep Throat's earth shattering revelation.
A conference call?
First I've heard of that one. When I hear "anonymous source" I think of trench coats, chapeaus and parking garages, not a conference line and bank of microphones. I suppose the source used one of those voice altering machines you see on shows like 60 Minutes, or maybe as an extra precaution sat behind one of those kiddie "puppet stages" with the shade drawn.
And how did this source get the word out for the conference call? Maybe via email: "Please join me as I leak very special information about the Obama jobs plan." Or perhaps, borrowing from Gordon Gekko, "Blue Horseshoe loves Obama's jobs plan."
The conference call had to be set up en masse, no phone calls, because any reporter worth a darn would beg for an exclusive.
This is cheating, plain and simple. The annonymous source meets message boards.
If you are going to hurl tomatoes, or leak information, follow the rules.
Signed,
The Unknown Blogger
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Nobody's Foil on 9/11
Aluminum foil.
My wife will tell you I have an aversion to it. A big one.
I'm not afraid of it, but won't use it, unless I have no choice.
Growing up, my father used aluminum foil. And reused it. There was a drawer in our kitchen full of crumpled, crinkly used pieces of foil.
In fact, I don't recall seeing a fresh sheet of aluminum foil, coming from the box, until my mid-twenties.
We didn't grow up poor, and my parents aren't cheap.
My father, my parents, were children of war.
My Dad was 8 years old on December 7, 1941.
He grew up outside of St. Louis in a home often shared with soldiers from a nearby military base.
He knew sacrifice. As part of the war effort, aluminum was rationed along with food and other commodities.
He never forgot.
Growing up I remember hijackings and showdowns with the Soviets. I remember sitting in the school hallway with my head under a book, hiding from nukes, or whatever was headed our way.
I wondered how, when I heard about guerrilla warfare, they managed to escape the zoo and learn how to use a gun.
I remember vividly "The Day After," a movie about life after a nuclear bomb hits Lawrence, Kansas.
Have you seen any 9/11 specials, or read any articles?
So far I've seen little. It's too raw, too soon, too real.
They say 9/11 is our generations' Pearl Harbor.
If 9/11 was our Pearl Harbor, the parallel ends there, as we engaged in two wars which involved no shared sacrifice. No draft, war bonds or rationing. A missed opportunity by our leaders to truly unite our country.
My oldest children (twins) were 3 years old on 9/11.
My children, like my parents, are children of war, but they're growing up with little sense that life is different. They need to be reminded of war, which is sad.
So do we. Other than a longer wait for an airplane, we have little tangible evidence of war, other than lives sacrificed and a $3 trillion Visa bill.
Are we safer today than ten years ago? It seems we are, but seems is the operative word.
My twins, now in 8th grade, came home from school this week with a questionnaire for parents about 9/11. I found myself defining terrorism. "If we're scared or back down from our way of life, the terrorists win."
My daughter Nora asked, "What can we do to remember 9/11?"
That's an easy one. Cherish our freedom, and never forget.
My parents probably don't know Kid Rock from a pet rock, but they would appreciate his anthem "Born Free." My kids do.
And they don't use aluminum foil.
My wife will tell you I have an aversion to it. A big one.
I'm not afraid of it, but won't use it, unless I have no choice.
Growing up, my father used aluminum foil. And reused it. There was a drawer in our kitchen full of crumpled, crinkly used pieces of foil.
In fact, I don't recall seeing a fresh sheet of aluminum foil, coming from the box, until my mid-twenties.
We didn't grow up poor, and my parents aren't cheap.
My father, my parents, were children of war.
My Dad was 8 years old on December 7, 1941.
He grew up outside of St. Louis in a home often shared with soldiers from a nearby military base.
He knew sacrifice. As part of the war effort, aluminum was rationed along with food and other commodities.
He never forgot.
Growing up I remember hijackings and showdowns with the Soviets. I remember sitting in the school hallway with my head under a book, hiding from nukes, or whatever was headed our way.
I wondered how, when I heard about guerrilla warfare, they managed to escape the zoo and learn how to use a gun.
I remember vividly "The Day After," a movie about life after a nuclear bomb hits Lawrence, Kansas.
Have you seen any 9/11 specials, or read any articles?
So far I've seen little. It's too raw, too soon, too real.
They say 9/11 is our generations' Pearl Harbor.
If 9/11 was our Pearl Harbor, the parallel ends there, as we engaged in two wars which involved no shared sacrifice. No draft, war bonds or rationing. A missed opportunity by our leaders to truly unite our country.
My oldest children (twins) were 3 years old on 9/11.
My children, like my parents, are children of war, but they're growing up with little sense that life is different. They need to be reminded of war, which is sad.
So do we. Other than a longer wait for an airplane, we have little tangible evidence of war, other than lives sacrificed and a $3 trillion Visa bill.
Are we safer today than ten years ago? It seems we are, but seems is the operative word.
My twins, now in 8th grade, came home from school this week with a questionnaire for parents about 9/11. I found myself defining terrorism. "If we're scared or back down from our way of life, the terrorists win."
My daughter Nora asked, "What can we do to remember 9/11?"
That's an easy one. Cherish our freedom, and never forget.
My parents probably don't know Kid Rock from a pet rock, but they would appreciate his anthem "Born Free." My kids do.
And they don't use aluminum foil.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Remember When...
"Remember when' is the lowest form of conversation".
So says Tony Soprano during an episode of "The Sopranos" the other night.
Some shows never get old. I find myself watching reruns of shows like "The Sopranos," "King of Queens" or movies like "Caddyshack" over and over. I've seen "Goodfellas" so many times that I am prepared to perform it live for birthdays, Bat Mitvahs and Shriner dinners.
Guy thing.
The quote struck me, but "remember when" requires context. In Tony Soprano's case, he said it to a group over dinner as he left the table. The group included one of his captains, Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri. Paulie had been holding court, telling tales of life in the mob to a couple of buxom blondes. As in, "Remember when our friend disappeared off Long Island?"
So yes, Tony is right. It's best not to reminisce about capital crimes in public.
But is "remember when" the lowest form of conversation? Lower than gossip?
And isn't "remember when" important not only for linking ourselves to our past but also our family and friends?
Our family has had a challenging year. Harassment, the death of my father-in-law, work stress.
As they say, a crisis doesn't change people, it just exposes them.
We have also had some wonderful moments.
I got to watch my middle daughter perfect her latest dance moves.
I watched my son grow like a weed. I still beat him at arm wrestling, but it's getting close.
I held my oldest daughter's hand as we merrily jumped off a raft while on vacation.
And I chased my youngest daughter, everywhere. At 15 months, think of her as a top being pulled with a rip cord.
I had a chance to attend my 25th high school reunion, the ultimate "remember when." Those touchdown runs only get longer with time, especially for brutes like me who never carried the ball. Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?
We also had a family member diagnosed with dementia. So painful, watching a vibrant, successful woman slowly lose touch with her surroundings. And yet there still is a twinkle in her eye, a glimpse of what once was.
So no, Mr. Soprano, I think you have it wrong.
"Remember when" might seem mundane. Until you can't.
So says Tony Soprano during an episode of "The Sopranos" the other night.
Some shows never get old. I find myself watching reruns of shows like "The Sopranos," "King of Queens" or movies like "Caddyshack" over and over. I've seen "Goodfellas" so many times that I am prepared to perform it live for birthdays, Bat Mitvahs and Shriner dinners.
Guy thing.
The quote struck me, but "remember when" requires context. In Tony Soprano's case, he said it to a group over dinner as he left the table. The group included one of his captains, Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri. Paulie had been holding court, telling tales of life in the mob to a couple of buxom blondes. As in, "Remember when our friend disappeared off Long Island?"
So yes, Tony is right. It's best not to reminisce about capital crimes in public.
But is "remember when" the lowest form of conversation? Lower than gossip?
And isn't "remember when" important not only for linking ourselves to our past but also our family and friends?
Our family has had a challenging year. Harassment, the death of my father-in-law, work stress.
As they say, a crisis doesn't change people, it just exposes them.
We have also had some wonderful moments.
I got to watch my middle daughter perfect her latest dance moves.
I watched my son grow like a weed. I still beat him at arm wrestling, but it's getting close.
I held my oldest daughter's hand as we merrily jumped off a raft while on vacation.
And I chased my youngest daughter, everywhere. At 15 months, think of her as a top being pulled with a rip cord.
I had a chance to attend my 25th high school reunion, the ultimate "remember when." Those touchdown runs only get longer with time, especially for brutes like me who never carried the ball. Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?
We also had a family member diagnosed with dementia. So painful, watching a vibrant, successful woman slowly lose touch with her surroundings. And yet there still is a twinkle in her eye, a glimpse of what once was.
So no, Mr. Soprano, I think you have it wrong.
"Remember when" might seem mundane. Until you can't.
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