In The Name of Love (146)

I'm finally doing it. Finally doing something I've always dreamed about. I'm running a triathlon. Not an Iron Man distance. But still. However, it will be an Olympic distance marathon, so there's that.

To prep for it I'll be running in the Bocholter City Lauf on May 5th. I'll be doing a 5K on the 5th of month 5 (I fell asleep--literally--and when I woke up to apply for the 10k it was too late). On June 17th I'll be running my very first triathlon...the Aasee Triathlon, also located in Bocholt.

So, that's May 5th...5k Bocholter City Lauf and June 17th, Aasee Triathlon.

Why am I writing this in a blog? Two reasons...the first, and least important is that now that I'm putting this out there...I have to follow through. Otherwise I'll have to answer questions about being a quitter or wuss or both. No thanks.

But the reason I'm putting this down in the blog is the REASON I'm running.

I'm 28 years old (read: 40), I'll be 41 (gulp) by the time these events roll around. I've never done this before. I'm NOT going to finish anywhere near the top 90% of the pack (that would be the lowest 10% for the mathematically impaired). This is not a case of "hey, look at me!" because I know I'm not going to finish in a good time. The goal is to finish. I'm going to go out run a race, get a t-shirt, and sleep really well on those nights...so why share this in a blog?

I won't just be running. I'll be dribbling a basketball. No, I won't be carrying the ball with me while swimming and cycling...but in the 5K and the running leg of the triathlon I'll be dribbling a basketball. Wwwwwhhhhaaaattttttt??? I'll be running under the name of Dribble The World (www.dribbletheworld.com), a non-profit organization that helps raise money for various charities.

The charity I have chosen is Love 146.

PLEASE check this organization out. Love 146. PLEASE take the time to explore the website: www.love146.org

If you are not appalled, outraged, disgusted, or literally sick in the stomach after looking at this website I really don't know what to say. I guess you can stop reading now.

I'm going to be running to raise awareness that child sex slavery is very horrid, very real and there are real, living, defenseless victims in this. Children. Children being forced into prostitution. I'm going to be running so people look at me and think "why is that idiot dribbling a basketball?", so I can answer that question and explain WHY I'm running and for WHOM I'm running for. I'm going to be running so people hopefully take a look at the website and realize there is something that can be done...and something that NEEDS to be done.

As I write this, and as you read this children will be stolen from their parents or sold by their parents or taken "into shelter" after they have run away from home. These children will be forced to work as sex slaves. Children. Sex. Slaves. Think about that when you look at the little kids in your neighborhood walking to the bus stop to go to school. Or when you baby sit for your niece or nephew. Or when you put your own child to bed. There are children in this world who are the same ages as our own children, as our family's children, as our neighbor's children...and right now, as you read this, they are being forced to perform sexual acts on adult men and women.

We can end this.

If you are interested in this, please keep checking out my blog...I'll be posting regularly to keep people up to date. But, beyond that, please feel free to donate to Love 146 or organizations like it.

The Gift of Getting

I'm not one for going out and buying things. I mean, I love getting new things and little gadgets for my bike or a new book. But when it comes to buying things for me...I hate it. I bought a new winter jacket last year...it was about time, my other jacket was only 16 years old. I bought a new pair of Doc Martens two years ago. The old pair gave up the ghost after 12 years. I just hate buying things for me.

And don't get me started on Christmas time consumerism. Really. I have everything I need. Sure, I have wishes...but I have absolutely no grounds to complain and don't need anything. I, honestly, don't enjoy getting gifts. My Christmas list for this year contained exactly zero (0) items. I want nothing. I don't need anything.

But...

I understand the fun of getting things. I get it. I do enjoy it. And that's why I want to share with you the joy you can get by going out and buying things this Christmas.

http://www.visitingorphans.org/pages/page.asp?page_id=131575

Go crazy. Buy, buy, buy...then BUY some more. Why? Because the proceeds here go towards something better.

A friend of mine, Becky Carlson, is going on a trip to China next year to help work in an orphanage. This will be her second or third trip there (among other trips to orphanages around the world). If you decide to buy and want to help her out you just need to designate the purchase under her name and some of the proceeds will go to helping her go and help others.

You can donate directly at: https://www.visitingorphans.org/donations/donate.aspx

Direct donations are great and she would benefit...and, ultimately, Chinese orphans will benefit in the long run. But she'd prefer you buy a gift for someone. Here are her words: I love the acacia necklaces, because they are hand made by widowed women in Uganda, and a portion of the proceeds also goes back to help support these women. Its my favorite thing to buy for gifts.

So, please, if you need to get something for someone, if you feel the desire to get something for yourself...please consider getting something here. Not only will you get something...but you'll be potentially helping widows, and, eventually and ultimately, helping these orphans.

So, please, this Christmas, be generous with your getting.

Economics 101?: Buy my poop!

Remember the story of the emperor's new clothes? The king wanted new clothes so his yes men came up with a regally invisible line of evening wear...so the king puts on nothing--as in, wearing nothing--and walks around his kingdom naked. Naked. The king. Naked. Walking around.

I don’t remember the moral of the story. I’m still trying to get past the mental picture of someone like, say, the Queen Mum, walking around naked. I can’t unthink these thoughts. I hope you enjoy my pain.

But what does come to mind is how the whole idea of wearing nothing, and parading it around as clothing, makes absolutely NO sense. None. Nil. Zilch. No sense at all.

So, following this rationale...excuse me, lack of rationale, I would like to present my plan to kick start our economy.

Buy my poop!

Yep. My poop. Buy it. At best sounds terrible, at worst sounds crass...but...my plan, as stinky (pardon the pun) as it might be, may actually have some legs. I’ll admit, it sounds pointless and makes very little sense...but just hear me out.

I once saw people using dried up animal droppings as “coal.” They had no other choice but to burn poop to boil water and to cook their meals. So, buy my poop...heat your food. You can even put my poop in your fire place and heat your house. Bonus poop usage!

Depending on the size of your yard you can use my poop as fertilizer. I’m almost positive you’ll want to use it in combination with a mulch pile...but...you can save money in mass fertilizer purchases by buying my poop. I’ll market it as: Stearnsilizer.

And finally, you may need some sort of machine to get the methane out of my processed meat and potatoes but you could eventually get enough to make your own petrol. You can power your car with my poop. I’ll even include a “Powered by Rob’s Poop” bumper sticker for your car.

So, you can cook your meals with my poop. You can heat your house and run your car...and you’ll have plush and desired-by-all-your-neighbors front lawn. That’s four uses from simply buying my poop.

Now, just for a moment, imagine the financial ramifications of an economy running on poop. We all can become entrepepoopers. If the Stearnsilizer aspect picks up we can all have our own vegetable gardens, so we'll save money on groceries. You'll save money on gas...well, at least the gas you put in your cars. The more people who poop means saving water by not flushing as much.

Again, makes no sense, right? Well, does this?

The 2011 Nobel Prize for Economics. I’m not even going to go into the Nobel Peace prize going to someone who planted trees a few years ago...I’m talking about this years award for economics.

Keep in mind, this makes no sense.

The first sign of alarm is that it was awarded to two Americans. Um...am I missing something here? The only developing country with an economy as dysfunctional as ours is Greece. Ok, the Irish may want to chime in here...oh, wait, no they won’t. Let’s say Ireland and Greece are ahead of us--or, below us--on this list. That means that two country’s economies are worse than ours. Two. Worse. Than us.

For those of you who might be a bit slow, that means that just about everybody else is better than us.

So, how in the world did two Americans get this award? Our economy is shambles. The bi-partisan parties can’t agree on anything and now American citizen’s are trying to occupy our economy. And, yet, we get awarded with a nobel prize for economics? This makes sense, how?

And if they are so good, why in the world hasn’t our government adopted their policies? Wouldn’t it make sense that if we had these geniuses in our backyard we would ask them for help? Or...did Obama just say, “Uh, never mind.”

Now, if Obama did ignore these experts, I can’t blame him. This has nothing to do with the Republican-Democratic war of imbeciles...actually, it has to do with making sense. Somehow, ignoring these experts makes sense.

CNN: Research doesn’t have any direct solutions for economic ailments, one winner says.

Oh, well, that’s good. So, in other words, we just gave arguably the world’s most prestigious award to an expert in a field and this expert’s findings can’t help us out.

Keeping with the poop theme, I’ll just say it: Oh, shit.

Christopher Sims, one of the winners said, “the answers (to our economy’s current problems) are not likely to be simple...” Ok, fair enough. I get it. But he went on to say, “Asking for an opinion off the top of our heads, you shouldn’t expect much.”

WHAT?!? We shouldn’t expect much from an expert? From the cream of the crop? Uh, why not? You’re the best. Our economy is on life support. I want an opinion. NOW. I, for one, do expect much.

Until then...please buy my poop. It may be a crappy idea...but I’ve just given you my opinion right off the top of head, or, the bottom of my, well, bottom. And, at the least, you can keep your house heated.

Lunchtime Lessons

Many kids, when pressed to answer the question: What is your favorite subject?, will answer with Lunch. And for a variety of reasons. Most will tell you it’s because they aren’t in class. Some will say it’s because they get to hang out with their friends. Others--especially those with a car or with a friend who has a car--because they get to leave school and grab a Tommy’s Special or two burgers, a large fry, a future triple by-pass and a large diet soft drink (since we need to pay attention to our figures). Another reason is because the kids are growing and are, well, basically, hungry.

But there are so many lessons to be learned at lunch. Mostly along the social lines and not necessarily having anything to do with the classroom...unless you count copying homework as having something to do with the classroom. The lessons we learn, however, are still lessons...and lifelong ones at that.

For example, when I was two I learned that dropping my face into a bowl of pudding made people laugh. I also learned that my mom could go from a doting “Oh, you’re so cute” to a stern “Ok, that’s enough!” in about 0.6 seconds.

As a young child visiting my grandparents in Arizona I learned that eating zucchini and/or asparagus is a form of coercion performed by parents/grandparents that should have been addressed in the Geneva Conference. Alas.

In grade school I learned how to make deals. “I’ll trade you that Zebra Cake for my Nutty Bar.” (This blog entry is sponsored by Little Debbie).

In the fourth grade I learned to only make bets you know you can win. I won $7 from my friend and locker partner, Jarod. By the way, Jarod, you never paid up and the juice is still running some 30 years later...AND...I know where you live.

In the sixth grade I learned that turning the lights off in the cafeteria to make all the kids sing “ooooohhhhhhhh” in unison not only lands you a date in Mr. Anderson’s office, but also scars your permanent record with “Cafeteria Suspension: One Week.” That’s perhaps why Yale never called.

In the seventh grade I honed my point guard court vision skills. Not by playing basketball but by keeping my eyes open and seeing every possible angle of a possible bully attack.

I also learned it’s easier than you think to mix up chicken breast with my grandma’s dog’s cow hearts. Don’t ask. Let’s move on.

My senior year in high school I ended up being the only guy from my “clique” to have lunch with the majority of the girls in our group. I learned enough that year to where I could have skipped the first two years of gynecologist school. I’m still scarred.

And today I’m still learning. But this time my son is teaching me.

I’m learning that sitting up straight to get a mouthful of food is overrated.

I’m learning that a variation of that old toy “Sit and Spin” exists. It’s called Spit and Smash. This is where a child of, say, 11 months, spits his food out onto the table (a floor can also be a viable option here, for those of you playing at home) and starts smashing it around with his hands. Fun for the whole family!

I’m learning that we can all save money by no longer buying hair gel. Any food product can be run through the hair to derive any style of preference.

I’m learning that when a baby coughs and spits a bit out, that’s fine. When said baby coughs and spits enough out to the point where he notices this wonderful process it’s as if they are enlightened and heavier coughing ensues, added by dash of laughter and a touch of joy, and usually an esophagus propelled carrot ends up somewhere in the vicinity of me.

I’m learning that kids don’t need computer games to improve their hand-eye coordination. They just need a spoon full of goo to swipe at. I'm beginning to think he actually aims the goo at me like a good hitter going opposite field.

I’m learning that a tired child rubs his eyes when he’s tired. (Actually I knew that). But I’m also learning that a tired child who happens to be eating somehow feels the instinctual need to rub his mouth first then his eyes. This of course leads to eye lashes swimming in noodles or mashed potatoes.

I’m learning I don’t care that people look at me funny for wearing the same shirt for the past three days. What’s the point? He’s just going to laugh, cough or sneeze whatever’s in his mouth on me anyway.

I’m learning that making a baby laugh to get their mouth to open can cause one of two options. Option 1: Baby laughs adorably, baby opens mouth, food goes in. Option 2: Baby laughs adorably, baby opens mouth, food goes in, baby continues to laugh adorably, projectile laughing ensues. Usually option two wins out.

And that’s when I look at my son longingly into his big blue eyes, smile, laugh with him and dote, “Ooohh, you’re so cute”...followed by a stern “Ok, that’s enough!” about 0.6 seconds later.

Play Ball!

It's been a while. And in honor of the baseball playoffs...


It started out a great day. My son was wearing his White Sox jersey and I was enjoying some Skoal...the perfect setting for baseball. OR...eating lunch. Lunch would be a better bet since he’s only (almost) 11 months old. Although we settled on lunch the baseball comparison shall remain.

There we were. A father-son moment. Two men. One kitchen. Enjoying a plate of mashed potatoes, carrots, and broccoli. His new favorite food. Not as good as cracker jacks or a hot dog, but still. Everything was going great. I was cruising. Everything was sliding down his gullet and not a speck of food was on his clothes or mine.

I was basically carrying a perfect game going into 7th. Then the announcer (read: Me) said the equivalent of announcing that a pitcher had a perfect game going...curse of all curses...”Jaden, you’re being such a good eater today!”

The wheels came off from there.

The first sign of trouble was a back-at-you hit right to the pitcher...and the pitcher throws the ball to first for the next out and the ball lands in the stands...E1. I’m watching Jaden and as quickly as the pitcher throws the ball into Row 5 Jaden just reaches over and grabs a handful of potatoes/carrots/broccoli then starts inspecting it.

Two hands full of food. Error on my part. Perfect game lost...but instead of regrouping...I, the pitcher, let the game slip away.

Just as a rattled pitcher would then allow back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back singles into the opposite fields, suddenly Jaden was swinging (his arms) and connecting with the spoon. Spraying food here and slapping food there.

Now I’m a frustrated pitcher just hoping to get out of the inning. Jaden had other plans.

The squeeze play. A sudden and surprise at bat that renders the desired results...unless you’re the pitcher. Jaden threw in the squeeze play by laying down (all over my shirt) a sneeze that had formerly been a mouthful of potatoes/carrots/broccoli. This wasn't a "ha...ha...ha...choo!" sneeze. No. It was just a "CHOO!" As in, "Choo wearing my food now, dad."

For a moment, his rally seemed to be slowing down. I managed to wipe most of the food off his hands and face, and by this time, his hair...oh, and get a piece of broccoli out if his nose. By this point, I’m dealing with clean up duty and just trying to get out of a bases loaded jam with as little damage as possible.

However, Jaden was on a roll. His batting average was climbing. Sadly, so was my ERA.

Peaches and yogurt. Hoping to stem the tide. Jaden’s eyes widened. Not so much the excitement for desert, but more of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

Me: Jaden, why are your eyes so big?
Jaden: The better to grab that spoon of peaches and yogurt, my dear!

And here is where it gets even better...or worse. Just depends on who you ask. Jaden decides to become a switch hitter. I’m avoiding his right hand but his left hand grabs the spoon. Avoid the left and the right hand is now oozing with desert. The kind of double play that is definitely NOT the pitcher’s best friend.

I finally decide to bring in the cooler. I had to cool his hot bat off. I give him his little water bottle to distract him. To stop his hot batting. Does this stop him from making a mess? Of course not. Now he’s banging it against his diapers and his forehead. Don’t ask. But, now we have water spraying everywhere...even on to the important legal documents that needed to be sent out this week. Oops.

Now that Jaden had completely rattled his opposition I had to finally call the closer in. Enter Sandman wasn’t playing but it should have been as I narrowed my eyes and dialed in for the last few spoonfuls of peaches and yogurt. I literally had Jaden in lock-down mode. I’m not talking baseball here...I literally had both of his arms pinned down by my left arm.

Finally it was over. The mercy rule had been avoided. Barely. One with a toothless smile and a full belly. The other a rattled father having to deal with major mop up duty. And just like a good baseball game, both opponents left the stadium tired.

Two men...stained with sweat.

And produce.

Maybe Someday

This is a poem about letting things pass you by. For whatever reason(s) that may be. Life, dreams, life’s dreams pass us by because of our decisions, because of our laziness, because of our lack of focus, because of time, because of circumstances, because...just because.

But this poem is also about hope. Just because we are where we are in life doesn’t mean that we can’t still rekindle the flames to said dreams and plans. I know in my case, it’s not going to be easy to live my dreams out...but it’s still possible. This I know. My dreams may be dormant, for now, but they aren’t dead. And as worried as I can sometimes be about the future, I know something is burning inside of me. There is something that needs to be released, there is a dream waiting to be let out.

This is a poem that needs to be shared. It needs to be shared with others who feel this way. It’s a poem that needs to be shared with friends. Or, a friend.



Maybe Someday

It haunts me
what’s passed by
a life wasted
before I awoke
visions not seen
a soul not free
but in my mind
my dreams run fort
and in my heart
they never tire
the sun sets slowly
my dreams start to wake
someday maybe
my dreams to live
maybe someday

It chases me
what awaits today
another day lost
before it begins
dreams lay dormant
the sun not to see
but in my mind
my dreams run wild
and in my heart
they never sleep
the sun rises slowly
my dreams still alive
someday maybe
my dreams to live
maybe someday

It leads me
what calls my soul
a new day dawning
my eyes not shut
my future to find
a life to live
but in my mind
my dreams are shared
and in my heart
they never die
the sun shines brightly
my dreams now reality
someday maybe
my dreams to live
maybe someday

Tears of the Incarcerated

I was recently at a funeral. It was--as funerals are wont to be--a sad event. But the saddest part for me was watching one of the sons of the deceased mourn.

Most people mourn their loved one’s deaths. Especially immediate family. And that is how it should be. But this was different.

The guy had put up a brave front--for lack of better term--the entire weekend of the funeral. He hadn’t shed a tear for anyone to see. He was one of a handful of children that the man had and they were all there to celebrate their father’s life and mourn his death. All of the children had made arrangements to be there.

This one son, however, was different. He had to have the arrangements made for him. He was in no position to make any decisions about his daily routine. He was freed from jail to attend his father’s funeral. He was able to live a “normal life” in 18 hour shifts. He was free...yet he wasn’t free.

What made me cry the most that weekend, what depressed me the most, was the dynamic between this man and his deceased father. The last thing his father will have seen of his son is that his son was behind bars, the last time the son will have seen his dad would have been in a jail visiting room.

The wake came and went. The funeral took place. And we started to leave. Then he stood there grieving. Unable to say “sorry.” Unable to re-right the wrongs...at least during his father’s lifetime. Unable to go back home that night and mourn. Instead, he had to go back to his cell and contemplate what could have been.

And that is when I mourned the most.

Tears of the Incarcerated

He stood there trembling
tears streaming
chest heaving
his eyes were closed in shame
his hand on the casket
of his father now dead
no more chances to change his life
no more words that could be said
a man stood there broken
a life behind bars
too late--
to prove his father otherwise

He stood there unconsoled
In his brothers’ arms
In his sister’s grasp
his life still in a cage
His hand on the casket
of his father now dead
one last chance to say good-bye
one last chance to say he tired
a man freed fora time
a life behind bars
too late--
to prove his father otherwise.