tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13408706913127573092024-02-08T07:38:53.625-08:00Off The MicA collection of thoughts, essays, opinion and nonsense from a former morning show host with way too much time on his hands.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.comBlogger219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-90346120061857102112015-01-19T17:00:00.002-08:002015-01-19T17:00:55.664-08:00Common Sense, and Other Classic Tales of MonotonyMuch has been made of the new study that says 1% of the world will soon control 50% of the wealth. This seems outrageous until you realize how unsurprising it is. People don't do a lot of things well, but pissing away money sure is one of them<br />
<br />
I had the bad judgment to choose radio for a career, knowing full well that unless I was in the top 1% (!), it wouldn't be a high paying job. Not only was it low paying, but it was the antithesis of secure. Every radio newsletter contains an except about who lost their job that day. Thus, I went into it thinking how important it was to save. Save save save. My streak of days with a Buddig meat sandwich once hit 20 days. My weekly allowance from the ATM was $20. That was my fun money. Money spent? No more fun. It wasn't that hard to do.<br />
<br />
Fast forward a few years. The jobs got better, the money got better, the approach stayed the same. Sure, my so-called "allowance" changed, but I've never lost the habit for saving and making moves that made economic sense. Married well. Chose not to have children. Bought a small house (no pool). Paid off my car 2 years early (NOTE; No car payments for 12 years is great fun). Again, these aren't things that are hard.<br />
<br />
My parents were raised in an era with no handouts. Nothing came easy. Not making enough at your job? Get another job. Can't afford it? Don't buy it. That kind of stuff was passed down to me, and I thankfully married a gal that now also sees it that way. It didn't come easy for her, but she knows now how nice it is to have money in the bank (and the stock market). You can go to school for 20 years, but the lessons you'll carry with you as you get older are usually the ones you learn under your roof growing up.<br />
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Yeah, there's plenty of cool stuff to buy. Nothing's cooler than not living paycheck to paycheck, hand to mouth. I'm not even close to the 1%. Never will be. That's fine. The view is plenty sweet in the Top 20.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-55160279951101441022015-01-06T18:23:00.000-08:002015-01-06T18:23:28.138-08:00Cloudy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">"When you die, it does not mean that you lose to cancer," Stuart Scott told the audience. "You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner in which you live."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Optimistic words from a man who had every reason to be otherwise. At the time he said those words, Scott, longtime ESPN "Sportscenter" anchor, knew that cancer was going to take him. He certainly couldn't have inspired anyone by going on stage at the 2014 ESPY's and saying "F**k it, this is BULL***t!", even though everyone would've understood if he had. So he went with the inspiring quote, even if it's one of the dumbest things ever said by mankind.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I lost my mom to cancer on December 17th at the age of 80. She had held off three cancers (breast, lymphoma, thyroid) over the last 6 years, but Number 4 (lung) got her.She went quickly, quietly, peacefully. She just stopped breathing. No last words, no dramatic speeches, no goodbye kisses. Poof. She was gone. Cells related to her lymphoma had "gone to sleep", and when they awakened it was like one army had grown into ten, ravaging her already weakened immune system. Beating cancer once is hard. Twice is incredible. Three times is unheard of. The reward? Here's Number 4. Goodnight.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Mom would always roll her eyes when people would speak of how brave she was. "What's brave about wanting to keep living? You have to do what you have to do". Her biggest concern was having to put too much of a burden on my dad, and too much worry on her kids. In our last conversation, she said "Don't worry about me", then asked how my dog was doing. When I asked if I could allot just 20 percent of my daily amount of worry (I am my mother's son, after all) toward her, there was a pause and she quietly said, "ok". That's when I knew things had taken a much more sinister turn. She was gone 3 days later.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">My days have been foggy ever since. I think the healing may begin when I convince myself that I'm not okay. Then I can begin to grieve. Maybe I'm still in denial about never getting the chance to talk with her again. The hardest part has been seeing what it's done to my dad. They were attached at the hip for 56 years. It's funny how the person you thought was the tougher in the parental relationship turns out to be the more needy. In death, I came to realize my mom was the toughest person under that roof.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">"When you die, it does not mean that you lose to cancer," </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Just got off the phone with my dad. The tone was anything but celebratory</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-9905283726491061312013-08-05T17:19:00.002-07:002013-08-05T17:19:32.572-07:00BadgeredMy last post was May 13th. I brought home a puppy on May 26th. That's all you need to know.<br />
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It's been two months on never letting a dog out of my sight. Two months of cleaning up accidents in the house. Two months of "puppy proofing" the backyard. Two months of unbelievable tension between me and my gal (she pushed, I caved). As I type this, Badger (a Rottweiler of 4.5 months) is sleeping on the front tile. Over the last week there's been an astonishing transformation from hellion to angel. Either he's finally come around to our ways of thinking and training, or he's got some intestinal disease that's eating away at his insides. I'll prefer to side with the former for the time being. Peace has returned, and lessons have been learned.<br />
<br />
I'm done with puppies. When my parents' dog passed away in 1990 at the age of 14, I wanted to ask why they never got another one. I never did. My answer was supplied on Badger's first day. They simply didn't have the time or the energy that they did in 1976 when Cindy was brought home (that, and they didn't have any more kids in the house to nag them into such a purchase). I'm in good shape for my age, but my levels of energy and patience are nowhere near what they were when Maverick came into our lives in 2003. Badger was/is simply nothing more than a normal puppy. Jumpy, hyper, enthusiastic, whiny, not to be trusted, challenging. Puppies are babies without the tax credit. My longing to fill the hole left behind by Maverick led me to push for a puppy and my gal in no way pushed back.<br />
<br />
You shouldn't get a dog to replace a dog. I learned after Badger came home that I didn't miss having <i>A</i> dog. I missed having<i> THAT</i> dog. Mav. That was my dog. As much as my gal tried and tried and tried, he was always mine. Through no fault of Badger, he's coming into a home where he has to succeed a dog of incredible sweetness (and medical bills) and win over an increasingly curmudgeon- like owner. Unthinkable even last week at these time, he's allowed me the time to share a few thoughts and take a few sips. Maybe we'll actually make it through this. What I've taken away most is this: knowing what you can't do can be more important than knowing what you can.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-81538718474788552692013-05-13T16:43:00.003-07:002013-05-13T16:43:54.506-07:00A Joke Of A SoakIn the time that we've been without a dog, I've taken to going to the gym most afternoons. It gets me out of the house and I know once another fuzzball starts to roam, my exercise is going to be limited to running him outside when he attempts to mark all of our rug. Benefit: I'm in as good a shape as I've been in years. Drawback: Something different hurts every day. I mean, it's like a "What's THAT?" type of pain. On days that I don't go to the gym I take myself a nice soak. 20 minutes, epsom salts, maybe even a glass of Walgreens wine while I'm at it. I guess it helps a bit, but it was just so damn boring, laying there in a tepid pool of warm water and silence. Then I had a revelation.<br />
<br />
I have a smart phone! I have the Tune In app! I can listen to any radio station in the world while I soak! This is gonna be great! Yep.<br />
<br />
I picked a legendary rock station from my home state- The Iconic WAPL, "The Rockin' Apple", in Appleton Wisconsin. Why hadn't I thought of this before? The question was answered within minutes<br />
<br />
Here's the order of what I heard during my Soak<br />
<br />
1) The end of "Patience", Guns N' Roses<br />
2) "Money Talks"- AC/DC<br />
3) Jock Talk- WAPL has two guys on in the afternoon. Some stations do this to bring the jocularity and reverie of the morning zoo to the afternoon as well. Problem with this? People may want talk in the morning, but on the way home, they only want music. They've been talking to and talked at all day. They're talked out. No more talk. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. 2 unfunny minutes on a Florida woman who stole things from graves. Cue the zither<br />
4) Spots. For years, there's been a problem with commercials playing on a radio station's online stream. Long story short, you won't hear spots online that you hear on radio. What DO you hear? Public service announcements. Minute after minute of public service announcements. I heard the same loop. 4 times. I'd estimate the spot block lasted 6-8 minutes<br />
5) "Comfortably Numb"- Pink Floyd (interrupted halfway through by the alarm telling me my 20 minutes were up and it was time to get out of the tub)<br />
<br />
What started with anticipatory excitement ended with another reminder of why radio continues to be in a death spiral. In 20 minutes I got one great song I hadn't heard in awhile followed by dumb jocks, a ton of spots, and a song I never need to hear again in my life. Had I just listened to an iPod, it would've been 4-6 songs that I love and no idiotic chatter. Radio now exists only to serve the clients. Listener serve thyselfMitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-44127826909352613222013-04-02T18:15:00.000-07:002013-04-02T18:15:16.069-07:00Foolproof Doesn't Apply Here"Why does radio suck so much?"- James, bartender, Putter's Las Vegas<br />
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Mind you, this question was asked in a mostly deserted bar during the first round of one of the most anticipated sporting events of the year. I could've turned it around on James and ask why his sports bar had me and only me as a customer. You don't ever mess the the people who fix your food or mix your drinks, so I let it go. Besides, James was right.<br />
<br />
Radio has this dilemma. They very thing that saves it (sales) is the very thing that's killing it. It's really that simple, and the reason why there's no quick fix. Like a flesh-eating bacteria, the sales arm of radio has taken over so much of the industry that we're more likely to eliminate morbid obesity in Samoa than we are to see terrestrial radio become relevant again .<br />
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The first thing I do after starting my car is turn on the radio. This afternoon, I tuned in in the middle of a spot break. 5 minutes later, on came a two-fer (it's Tuesday after all!) from Black Sabbath. Off went the radio, in went a cd. A 5-minute wait to hear something I could easily live without, and radio just lost a valued customer for the rest of the drive. People don't have to suffer through that anymore. An iPod guarantees you a) commercial-free listening combined with b) songs you love. Because, you know, you put them there. <br />
<br />
Radio's effort to counter-program against the competition has been so monumentally wrongheaded you could almost charge the large radio groups with arson. No one could be this stupid on purpose. Radio's biggest moneymakers are its biggest personalities- Stern, Limbaugh, Hendrie, Seacrest (ugh). People want to hear what they have to say. What's radio's response to get more listeners? SILENCE THE PERSONALITIES! Less talk, more rock! The problem with that is that there isn't more rock. There's more inventory. The less the talk, the more sales can squeeze another ;15 or :30 spot. Ratings stagnate, jocks get let go and hands wring wondering what can be done. Their solution? More commercial time per hour.<br />
<br />
My solution is a simple one, but since sales has taken over programming it's unlikely to happen. Let the personalities run with it. If people want music, they'll go to their iPod. If they want personality, they'll go to their radio. If it's entertaining, people will listen. They'll tell others what they heard, and maybe that person becomes a listener. How many people are going to tell their friends "Dude, I heard a two-fer from Sabbath today!" No one, of course. Don't be ridiculous.<br />
<br />
People tune out the commercials, not the talk. Try telling this to the salesperson who would sell his daughter's soul for a sweet commission. I'm off to charge my iPod in case I get a block of Soundgarden during the always groundbreaking "All Request Lunch Hour" tomorrowMitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-60059609217386351842013-03-26T18:16:00.000-07:002013-03-26T18:16:22.232-07:00Don't Do Something You Like, Do Something OTHERS LikeMy work hours are 4:30a-12p. Some call that brutal. I think it's perfect. No rush hours to deal with, and my afternoons are free for whatever appointments come up. Or I can do something as simple as going out for a drink.<br />
<br />
Last Friday was the 1st round (screw the play-in games) of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, so with the rare chance of seeing some live sports that actually mattered during lunch time, I found myself at a place stumbling distance from my house (just in case I was over-served). Surprisingly, I was the only customer. Being the only customer in a bar can be like being the only shopper in a high class boutique. The employee won't leave you alone. Back when I was tending bar, my boss always told me "when they come in alone, they want to be left alone. Serve 'em and shut up". If only today's over the counter retail beverage consultants heeded such words.<br />
<br />
The bartender was James, and since the tourney was on we started talking hoops, brackets and general March Madness- related topics. Then he hits me with the biggie, something I never have a good answer for:<br />
<br />
"So what do you do?"<br />
<br />
I really need some sort of "employment rolodex" in my head, where I can make up a phantom job on the fly. I just can't come up with one that, if he starts asking followup questions, I'll be able to talk my way through. It has to be something dull, but not interestingly so. Any suggestions would be helpful. I decided to answer honestly and told him that I worked for a group of radio stations. He didn't ask the normal next set of questions, (What station? Have you ever met Jack White? Can you get me free tickets?) instead choosing to swing for the fences,<br />
<br />
"Why does radio suck so much?"<br />
<br />
Even those who aren't in the business know that radio sucks. It sucks today, it'll suck tomorrow, and the long range forecast is Mostly Sucky. Radio used to be cool. I got in when it was still cool to say you worked in radio, not before it became the entertainment world's equivalent of gum on a shoe. What I've witnessed over the last 20 years has been Exhibit A for how to run not just a business, but an entire industry into the ground. Ah, it's been a blast<br />
<br />
Why does it suck? Stay tuned. Trust me, it'll still suck by the next post.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-86934634474039455012013-03-18T17:35:00.001-07:002013-03-18T17:35:17.415-07:00What Follows Is Extremely CornyIts been 3 weeks since Maverick died. I no longer cry like a little girl, but I'm prone to welling up at a moment's notice. Fine if alone, but not if I'm in the testosterone-laden cesspool known as Gold's Gym. I'm able to spend more time in the house by myself, and the pictures and videos I watch bring more smiles than sadness.<br />
<br />
Almost lost in the grief of losing my dog was good news shared by mom the day after Mav's passing. Mom had battled cancer (courageously, of course) for 6 years. Breast, thyroid, and lymph node. On the day after Maverick died I was talking with mom and she shared the news that the doctors had pronounced her cancer-free. She knocked out all 3, something the doctors honestly didn't expect from someone mom's age. I was happy to hear it, of course, but my sadness about Maverick kept the happiness tempered. I'd been hoping for this day for 6 years, and when it came I think I said something stupid like "Sweet!". I was still in a fog.<br />
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Ok, here's the corny part: I have this picture in my head. Maverick arrives in heaven. Sure he's a little confused (his 4th leg is back!), but they do the best to make him comfortable. He has his entry interview and is asked if he has any concerns.<br />
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"I don't have any concerns about myself, but my daddy's really sad right now. Can you do something to cheer him up?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know, Maverick", replied the gatekeeper, "We get a lot of requests up here."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I know, but aren't those usually prayers from below? I know Mom said she prayed every night for me. Still does. I'd think once we get here we wouldn't need to ask for anything"<br />
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The gatekeeper gave thought to Maverick's argument. "You make a good point. What did you have in mind?<br />
<br />
"Well, daddy's mom- my gramma- has been really sick. Can you make her get better?"<br />
<br />
"I'll see what I can do", said the gatekeeper. "We get thousands of requests a day"<br />
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With that, Mav boarded the Jeep to take him to the Boneyard, to play and fetch and eat and sleep. He didn't have the people he loved by his side, but he at least tried to make sure that our sadness could be eased if for a little while by some uplifting news. And then I got the call the next day. The cancer was gone, and to celebrate, my parents are coming to Vegas.<br />
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The subject line warned you of corniness ahead, and if you've come this far, I don't think you hated it. Without a bit of corniness, the realities of life (and death) are overwhelming. I'd like to think that even though he'll no longer lay at my feet, he'll be looking out for his daddy as much as his daddy looked out for him.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-20222786402302384502013-02-26T13:43:00.001-08:002013-02-26T13:43:08.160-08:00MaverickHome is the last place I want to be today. Home should be the place that offers security and happiness. Today, it's just empty, cold, and sad. My dog has died.<br />
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Maverick was just over 10 years old, which is the average life span for a rottweiler. That's the only thing that was average about him. He was goofy, friendly, obnoxious, moody, sloppy, flaky, smart, and loving. Most of all, loving. Even those at the vet's office (where Mav was a frequent guest) mentioned how much of a favorite he was. When he would be boarded, he didn't stay in a cage during the day. He stayed with the doctors in their office. No one else was granted such a status. I particularly remember our vet saying, "All dogs are great. This one's special". This is the story of Maverick's last day<br />
<br />
Background: Mav was diagnosed with bone cancer on March 11th, 2012. The cancer had started to eat away bone in his right front leg. We had a choice of amputating the leg and easing his pain or taking him home and watch him struggle until the withered bone simply gave out. We chose amputation. The surgery was performed by Dr. Tyler Ley at South Valley Animal Hospital on March 15th, 2012 and was a success.<br />
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The surgery didn't mean that the cancer was gone. It was already in his bloodstream and the next stop would be his lungs. Because he was an older dog, he had the advantage of the cancer moving slower than it would've in a younger dog. Following the surgery, we were instructed to take him in for chest x-rays every two months. X-Rays in May showed that the cancer hadn't spread. X-rays in July showed that the cancer hadn't spread. Maverick learned how to move on just three legs, and life was as normal as we could've hoped.<br />
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The September x-rays brought bad news. The cancer had spread to a lung. A 2-centimeter tumor was found in his left lung. Dr. Ley really didn't want to give us a time frame for how long Maverick had, but after prodding from us he told us it could be anywhere from 1-6 months. Home we went. Maverick loved car rides even though it usually meant going to the vet. I guess he liked going. He liked anything that had other people involved. In turn, the vet staff loved him back. We heard a story of one tech who ate her lunch with Maverick every day when he was recuperating from his amputation. "This one's special."<br />
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When Maverick was first diagnosed, we had a goal for how long we wanted him to live. We wanted him to make it to our birthdays, and to have one last Christmas together. Like a good boy, he came through. In the period from September to mid-February, there were walks to the mailbox and back, chasing after the garbage trucks, and general goofiness. Only the leg was messing. The spirit was the same. Always the same.<br />
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The night of February 16th, my wife and I were watching TV, with Maverick at his customary place by the couch. Suddenly, Maverick sat up. The look on his face was odd. It wasn't what he'd usually look like if he had heard a strange noise. It was a look that something was wrong. I rushed to his side and had him lay back down. He haltingly did so (with kisses to me for the assist), and that was it for the night. Following that episode we noticed that it was getting increasingly hard for him to use his back legs. We surmised that it might be joint related. Only having one front leg made it tough to do normal stretches. There would be long periods of rest and we figured that the back wheels were getting rusty. He would even hesitate to come to bed for his normal afternoon nap with me. Oh, he'd make it, but only after maximum effort was given.<br />
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Sunday, February 24th. Shannon and I were getting ready to run some errands. Not knowing how long we'd be away, we decided that we better let Mav out to do his business. After a few minutes of rubbing his back legs it was time to get up and go out. Only his legs wouldn't work. He tried to get up and run, only to fall on his side. This wasn't sore joints. This was the beginning of what we'd been preparing for since March 11th, 2012.<br />
<br />
Errands were scrapped. vet was called. Being Sunday, the office hadn't yet opened so we had an hour to wait. Maverick knows that shoes being out meant we were soon to leave. and he began to whine. And shake. Thinking back now, the whines sounded like "Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me!". We stayed by his side, and put the shoes away until it was time to go.<br />
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After my wife got her Jeep out of the garage, I went to get my shoes. Back came the whines and the shaking. He attempted to get up, but fell awkwardly on the kitchen floor. The floor is tile, and even a healthy dog will slip on tile trying to get up. There was no way he was going to get back up on all threes. I would have to scoop him up and take him to the Jeep. It was only with the help of Shannon that we were able to pick him up and take him out. It would be the last time Maverick would be in the house.<br />
<br />
The vet informed us that Maverick's cancer had quintupled in size in one lung, and a new, smaller tumor had formed in the other. The mass was the biggest the vet had ever seen. The larger tumor had caused nerve damage that was affecting his ability to walk. His legs were almost numb. His quality of care was wonderful. His quality of life was awful. We made the decision to end his suffering. This was not going to get any better for him.<br />
<br />
Upon entering the exam room, we found Maverick lying on a blanket, with a pink towel under his head (Pink! Oh, the indignity). He was thrilled to see us. From the neck up, everything was working. From the neck down, everything was shot. Our vet that day, Dr. Morgan Daigle, told us how the procedure was going to go. They were going to administer a massive shot of propofol, which would knock him out. Then a second shot of something else (you'll have to forgive me for not remembering. I'm surprised I remember as much as I do) that would stop his heart. We sat on the floor with him and fed him turkey, his favorite food. He gobbled it up and licked his chops. One last time, I whispered "kiss daddy". Then the shots were administered. Within a minute he was gone. The moment of Maverick's passing was the calmest moment in all of the time spent since his original diagnosis. I gave him one last kiss and we left the room. We'll pick up his ashes this weekend.<br />
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The hardest thing to do wasn't letting go. The hardest thing is coming home to an empty house. No happy face to greet me when I get home. No anything. Just silence. And memories, memories everywhere. This post is in no way cathartic to me. I don't feel better after writing this. If I did a decent job, neither do youMitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-4211743940037891102013-01-13T18:11:00.002-08:002013-01-13T18:11:51.511-08:00Being a Realist Sucks, SometimesGun owners are proving to be a disappointingly thin-skinned bunch.<br />
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I say that as a gun owner who doesn't believe for a minute that someone is going to come knocking one day and take my .38 away. As expected, the aftermath of the Newtown massacre has been as predictable as a Lifetime movie. Memorials strewn with candles and teddy bears. Cries for solutions and change. Legislators pledging action. Pro gun folks challenging anti-gun folks to come and take their weapons at their own risk. At the center of everything, there's this: Solutions are impossible. We're not one day closer to solving anything. We're just one day closer to another senseless act of violence. That's the only certainty.<br />
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Laws and regulations will continue to be enacted and ignored. Those who wrote the legislation will pose for photos and sound bites. Some will feel better. Most will just shrug their shoulders. Those are the realists who, like me, know that all the regulations in the world can't prevent tragedies. To me, the one person that could have most prevented Newtown from happening was Adam Lanza's mom. Her boy wasn't all there, yet he had access to a cache of weapons and knew how to use them. Say this for the mentally ill- they sure are adept with semi-automatic weaponry.<br />
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I guess I feel a little safer having a gun, though if a circumstance arises where I'd need it I can't say for sure if it'll help. I hope not to find out. As Newtown fades from front page to back, the end result will probably be more feel-good, meaningless regulation, selfish posturing and zero accomplishment. Simply being sad can never be enough these days<br />
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<br />Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-8170774283477879742012-12-15T20:36:00.003-08:002012-12-15T20:36:47.621-08:00Circling The DrainThe unthinkable doesn't exist. Planes fly into buildings. A first grade class gets mowed down. Two kids hurl rocks at a cat giving birth, killing her and her kittens. Going to see "The Dark Night Rises" at a midnight screening gets you dead. Christmas shopping at the mall is interrupted by a hail of bullets. Nothing is out of the realm of possibility anymore. The bar keeps getting raised (or lowered). It won't stop. Sure, there may be a pause in the madness, but something new is coming.<br />
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When that happens we'll wring our hands. Bow our heads. Offer up our thoughts and prayers. Our gestures are meant to make us feel better, but in the end they mean nothing. Madness can't be stopped. Good may dominate the ground game, but Evil hits the big plays.<br />
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With the Connecticut school shooting still fresh in our minds next week, news shows will be filled with experts telling you what to tell your kids ("Please don't kill me when you grow up" would be a good start). Churches will be filled with flock looking for someone or something to believe in. We'll see funerals of the victims, cameras thoughtlessly showing us close-ups of grieving families. We'll hear from the shooter's family and friends, and no doubt they'll tell us that they had no red flags to indicate any such act was coming. It's all so damn predictable.<br />
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Two weeks from now you'll have forgotten all about it. That's ok. You offered up your thoughts and prayersMitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-36083708951426531182012-12-05T17:49:00.001-08:002012-12-05T17:49:20.350-08:00Weird And Loving ItMy, that last post was a cheery one, wasn't it? He's still fine by the way.<br />
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I consider myself normal, but real life disagrees. In today's world, to think I represent someone considered normal is the very height of delusion. Examples<br />
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1) A Good Marriage<br />
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Back when I was in grade school, it was a shocker to know a kid whose parents had divorced. Now you're much more likely to find a kid who doesn't have the same last name as his dad. KEY: I waited. Sure, I had a couple of long relationships, but deep down I knew they weren't meant for the alter. Within the first couple of dates, I knew I had the right one. She's gone (at work, not dead) now and I miss her. That's odd these days for a pair that's been together 12 years<br />
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2) Childless and happy about it<br />
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I can understand why people don't want kids (most popular reason: "Who's going to take care of us when we get old?"Nice), yet those that have kids can't understand why I don't. My wife has it worse. Her female co-workers are aghast that she doesn't want to grow a life form in her uterus, one once going as far as writing "bitch" by her name in her old company's directory. Tonight when she gets home, we're going to watch a little TV, maybe read, maybe sex it up. Good luck with that, non-childless couple. KEY: The whole child thing came up on the first date with my wife. There was no doubt she didn't want kids and took every precaution to keep it from happening. It was spelled out early and often<br />
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3) Liquid<br />
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I think I'm using that right. Simply put, we're not in debt. We bought a little house with a good down payment, getting everything we needed and nothing we didn't. We bought it as a place to live, not as an investment. The money we saved not overbuying on the house goes into investments that allow my money to work so I eventually won't have to. We don't have jet-skis in the garage or a closet full of clothes with tags on them. I haven't had a car payment in 10 years. My credit card bill is paid in full every month. All this doesn't seem hard to me. For why it's been so easy, perhaps it leads back to Point #2. KEY: My parents never met a coupon they didn't like. You can read all the self help books you want, but the base that's laid under your parents roof between years 1 and 18 is what matters most. Again, this just seems simple.<br />
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4) Dog<br />
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Like pizza. even the worst type of dog is still pretty good. I can't imagine having a better friend than I've had these past 10 years. The only good thing about when Maverick passes is that soon afterward, it's going to be one stray's lucky day.<br />
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That is, if he's cool with coming into what these days appears to be anything but a normal existence.<br />
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<br />Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-70896908941189976162012-11-14T18:09:00.001-08:002012-11-14T18:09:40.623-08:00A Good Day. An Uncertain TomorrowA Galapagos land turtle can live over 200 years. With a dog you're lucky to get 10. If my wife and I are extraordinarily lucky, our dog will see his 10th birthday on December 30. Since his diagnosis of bone cancer more than 8 months ago, we've gone through several "final" things with him. We've wished for him to be here for Halloween and my wife's birthday and he was. Now it's about making it to Christmas, my birthday, and his birthday. One last victory lap. All seems well right now. He still gets around ok, taking his nightly walk to the mailbox or to the affectionately titled "Pee Corner", where all the bushes are. Because he's down to three legs now (a "tripawd") he can't make it very far before stopping to get some rest. Imagine if you had to go everywhere by hopping on one leg. Maverick's at 75 percent leg capacity and still gets more exercise than most of the supposedly healthy humans I know.<br />
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Soon, we'll start seeing the endgame approach. The cancer has spread to his lungs. Coughing will increase, appetite will decrease. He'll yelp at the slightest touch. The nose will no longer be cold and wet, and the sparkle will be gone from his eyes. This will come sooner rather than later. It could start tomorrow. Everyday for the last nine months, that's been my thought. It could start tomorrow.<br />
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Maverick's big comfy bed is put next to ours each night. He chooses to sleep next to me as I'm closer to the doorway and the window, places where threats could occur. Ever on guard, he's what I see last at night and first in the morning. Of the numerous advantages to having a dog versus a kid, the best is that a dog never talks. I wish that could change, if only for a day. When that day comes I just want to know that we've done the right thing, that the pain has become too much, and he has another Gate to go guard for us.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-35269251179009615752012-11-07T17:06:00.000-08:002012-11-07T17:06:03.549-08:00Over ItI've been on the wrong side of the last two presidential elections. 2008 didn't bother me that much. I understood why people voted for Barack Obama. He had the silver-tongued skills of the slickest car salesman at a time when the country was floundering. People lap that stuff up even in the best of times, so back then as home prices were plummeting and layoffs (the polite word for "firings") were rising, it was a tonic that the majority glugged with glee. Obama being black certainly helped. It allowed guilt-ridden whites to show (to themselves ) that they weren't racist by voting the man in. I get all that. In a way, I was somewhat curious to see what would happened.<br />
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Nothing happened. Nothing's been accomplished. No. Nothing.<br />
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Yes, a sports metaphor is appropriate here. A football coach gets dumped and the replacement promises changes. Progress. Improvements. After four years the team is, at best, the same. What happens to a boss in the real world who flounders for four years? He's soon the ex-boss (NOTE: Notice I didn't say "she". Female CEOs have teflon. They'd have to be caught with a basement full of 14 year old boys, and even then, she'd probably get a Lifetime movie out of it). But this isn't the real world. This is politics. And, sorry to say, the general public is so monumentally stupid they fall for the same lines of b.s. every time.<br />
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Up against Obama was a proven business leader. His skills on the international stage were sketchy, but the Number 1 issue on the minds of the voters this election was the economy. Jobs. So naturally, the voters choose the candidate who'd never created a job before over the man who created tens of thousands. Hell, Obama even told people not to "blow a bunch of cash in Vegas" (TWICE!) and got 56 percent of the Clark County vote. How the hell did this happen?<br />
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People usually get what they deserve. Make bad decisions and you end up suffering for it. Dependent on drugs, pills, booze, gambling. Spending instead of saving. Babies out of wedlock. All of those things lead to a crappy life down the road, and there's usually no turning back from that death spiral. Unfortunately, it now seems like those that make the poor decisions have grown to such numbers that they're the ones in charge. The politicians pander to them, and it's people like me who end up having to bail them out. Based on what the last four years have wrought, I have no optimism for what the next four will bring. I hope I'm wrong. Usually I'm not.<br />
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I've never seen people so happy for a future of skyrocketing deficits, unemployment and general malaise as I did last night. Sad thing is, they don't know any better. The tired, poor, huddled masses have hit critical mass.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-23343503733639431752012-07-28T08:56:00.003-07:002012-07-28T09:39:48.476-07:00Let's Go Shopping (Revisited)!!<br />
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Although the following was written in 2010, it's just as pithy and appropriate for Back to School 2012 as it was way back then***</div>
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Back To School is a wonderful, magical time, which is obvious because each word in the phrase is capitalized. My memory of BTS wasn't going shopping for new supplies for the school year. No, it was my (former elementary school teacher) mom crying at the kitchen table the night before she inherited a classroom full of pre-pubescents with a snootful of who-knows-what. Magical indeed.</div>
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We didn't have school supply drives when I was a kid. You got the stuff you needed and went to class. Pretty simple, really. Ah, but in this age where anything simple has to be made unnecessarily complicated, we now have endless so-called "Stuff The Bus" drives (again, every word is capitalized to stress the importance of this monumental event). Usually pushed by media outlets, the Stuff The Bus drives are done to gather supplies for students for the upcoming school year. I saw an anchor last week saying that most families are having trouble (in these tough economic times, naturally) coming up with the money to buy even the most basic of school supplies. I audibly scoffed when I heard that, but then got to thinking that perhaps he was right. From last Sunday's paper, I picked up a flyer for Walgreens that focused on BTS supplies and started adding things up. Certainly, if "most" families can't even afford the basics, the prices for these items must be much more expensive than I remembered back in 1975.</div>
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So let's shop. I'm only listing the most basic supplies for elementary school kids, so that rules out calculators and certain geometric tools which- in this atmosphere of zero tolerance- are probably considered deadly weapons punishable by a lifetime expulsion should poor Caleb or Kellan get pinched (so to speak) with one.</div>
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Pencils:<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>10 for $1</div>
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Pens<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>10 for .79</div>
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Folders<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>.09 each. Let's buy five. .45 total</div>
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Glue<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>.49</div>
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Crayons<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>.39 (for a box of 12. Do you really need Burnt Sienna?)</div>
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Notebooks<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>.50-$1.50, depending on number of pages. Let's buy two at .50 apiece</div>
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Ruler<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>.29</div>
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Backpack<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>$4.00 (that's the big one, but if you have a desk that can store your supplies, it <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>might be unnecessary. Since you probably don't know if you do before the school <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>year starts, pick one up</div>
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Did I miss any of the basics? I don't think so. Scissors? Yeah, right. Start your academic year in Mr. Weatherbee's office by bringing a dangerous weapon. Still, the girls might think you're a badass, so at $1, it'd be worth the risk.</div>
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<b>Total for basic supplies? $8.31. ($9.31 with those bad-ass scissors)</b></div>
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Or, in other words, lunch. One lunch. Brown bag lunch for a week, and the kid is covered through most of his elementary school years. Yes, I realize that most parents have more than one kid. Tops, you're spending $30 on supplies. If you're buying Kaela and Tristin their own pen and pencil sets, just think of it as one McDouble you could've spoiled yourself with and split the items.</div>
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So, my exhaustive research reaffirms to me that Stuff The Bus is a crock. Put down the frappe and get your own damn stuff for once. Handouts now lead to dropouts later.</div>
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(Oh, I don't want teachers to feel left out. That same Walgreens flyer has a bottle of generic aspirin (500 ct) on sale for $7.99. That ought to last you until Thanksgiving)</div>
</div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-90486648512647474752012-07-03T16:43:00.002-07:002012-07-03T16:43:48.333-07:00Different WavelengthsI don't regret choosing radio for a career. Because of the path I took, I've been able to buy a nice house, marry a shockingly normal, baggage-free wife and have several close friends. It's all someone at my age can realistically hope for. I just wished that radio liked being radio. If there's one positive to be taken from today's terrestrial radio, it's that it gives other businesses a blueprint for what not to do when competition encroaches. What radio has done is de-emphasize it's strengths to focus on tertiary aspects that it can't pull off nearly as well.<br />
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Exhibit A: As iPods rose in prominence, radio's response was to pump up the music. More commercial-free music sweeps. Don't be fooled by that. Sure the number of "stops for spots" per hours at many stations was cut from three to two. It's just that the number of spots run during each break increased. Few things are more frustrating than sitting through a lengthy commercial break only to hear a song you hate. I've always given radio first crack at my ear, but if my three primary stations don't give me something like, I'm quickly on to my own music and radio will not get me back for the rest of my trip. More music doesn't work. I know what I like. I don't have to depend on radio to play my favorite songs anymore.<br />
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Exhibit B: Radio now seems to emphasize going to the station website more than actually keeping you listening. Imagine going to a store and the clerk tells you that to get the information or product you need, you can go to their website. Radio does this all the time. Instead of giving the listener all the information they need about an artist, concert, or contest, that listener is constantly told to go to the website for more information. Because really, what business hasn't succeeded with the motto, "Always Give Your Customer More To Do"? By the time the listener gets to their destination, the thought of going to the station website to look up "Thousand Dollar Thursdays" has long been replaced by work and/or home demands<br />
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What radio has de-emphasized is personality. Less is more, we've been told. DJ talk is a tune out. Well, so is playing a long burned-out song and a commercial featuring the local nutty car dealer. Yet radio management would never dream of changing that approach. People once listened to radio for music, but since music is more omnipresent than ever, something else has to hook them in. The radio stations that make the most money aren't the ones that play the most music, they're the ones that have the biggest personalities. It's really that simple.<br />
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Of course, if you have successful personalities they're going to want (gasp!) more money. And there's the rub. Radio is successfully killing off personality to save money and the result has been a near death knell for the entire industry. Listeners tune out the approach. Corporate tunes out the solution.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-28717115716048718482012-07-02T16:38:00.000-07:002012-07-02T16:38:17.057-07:00Man's Best Friend (and other Brilliant Manipulators)If you read the previous post (not the one I deleted for fear of career implications), you know that I have a three-legged dog. He gets around OK, but obviously doesn't have the "scamper-ability" a four-legged model has. There are exceptions, of course. Garbage Day, for one. The unmistakeable squeal of the brakes of the Republic Services trash truck seems to transport Maverick back to 2003, bolting to our gate at peak speed to tell Javier and Julio that this 'hood is his. After the truck leaves (because of his presence, of course), he'll come back in with the smug satisfaction that it was his work that drove them from the block.<br />
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Of course, he used to come bounding at the sound of the freezer door opening (ice cubes!) or the rustling of a box of Milk Bones. No more. While still getting somewhat excited over the prospect of a treat, he no longer does the work needed to come get it. Blame the parents. He now knows we'll bring it over to him. Maverick, in a certain way, has become not unlike many who now collect unemployment for 99 weeks. Why go and get it when it's going to be brought to you anyway? I can't rightly ask the garbage men (sorry, "sanitation engineers") to drive into my backyard so Mav can woof at them from the comfort of our living room. He has to work to get the satisfaction and, as I said before, seems to have a (three-legged) strut about him when the truck leaves his view.<br />
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I take a lot of pride in not having any debt, other than a mortgage (which isn't underwater). My spending is disciplined. I don't need to budget. I'm old enough to know what I can and can't afford. I save voraciously without denying myself the comfort of simple things that are deserved from a life well-lived. Still, all the work taken to get to this point is seeming to be increasingly worthless. Those that should be suffering for their bad or reckless behaviors are absolved. Debts are wiped away. Sentences are plea-bargained. Freeloading has become an art form.<br />
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My Gold's Gym is having a contest where the grand prize is a flat-screen TV for whomever best transforms from flabby to "fabby"(sorry). Forgetting the irony of a gym giving away a TV to the winner of a fitness contest, I'm punished in this case for being a normal body weight with decent muscle tone. I've discussed with my wife a master plan to 1) become an alcoholic, 2) hit rock bottom, 3) rehab in Malibu and 4) hit the lecture circuit for 10K a pop, all without becoming physically abusive toward her. She's surprisingly against it. Maybe I'll shoot for becomingly morbidly obese. It worked for Jared from Subway.<br />
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I'm having grilled chicken with rice for dinner tonight. Some fruit, too. Maybe I'll start that tomorrow.Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-14029653710026944602012-06-10T15:06:00.000-07:002012-06-10T15:07:04.127-07:00Back and BlueThe Summer of 1983 was a lost one. I broke my arm on the last day of school. I had finished my exam early and was arm wrestling with another over-achiever until we were told we could leave. My humorous snapped in two. I this had happened in present day, I'm sure we could've drained the Milwaukee Public School system of any and all funds at their disposal, claiming negligence on behalf of the teacher who let boys be boys. Of course, we didn't do that. My parents said I should have known better and I was sentenced to the worst punishment a 16 year old boy could get (well, maybe not worse than the girl he has a crush on laughing in his face in front of her friends)- a summer of nothing. By the time my right arm was useful again, there was one week left until the start of my senior year. So much for big fun.<br />
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The Summer of 2012 is shaping up that way, as well. Not because of any physical maladies on <i>my</i> part, but because my dog is dying. He was diagnosed with bone cancer on March 11th, had his left leg amputated on March 15th, and now we just wait for the cancer to spread. X-Rays are done every two months to see if the cancer has matasisized. So far, so good. Still, it's only a matter of time before it does, and then we say goodbye. My dog is 9 years old, which is above the average life expectancy for a rottweiler. Counting the amputation, he's had three major surgeries. Really, I don't remember a good long stretch where he wasn't in a cast, in a wrap, or didn't have the "cone of shame" around his head. We've spent an estimated $15,000 on his care. I'd do it agin, without hesitation.<br />
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Any good times I've had since his diagnosis are quickly doused by me thinking about Maverick's condition. Whether it's a night out with the Fellas, a afternoon out with my gal, or even a week-long cruise up the California coast, it's impossible for me to shake what is inevitably coming.<br />
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When we first got Maverick, he separated himself from a pack of pups and walked up to my wife, wisely choosing us over a couple of families with young children. He may obey me more than her, but it's her dog. I can't communicate how sad I feel about what's happening because then she gets sad, and then I have to make her feel better. That leaves me no time for my own grief, and with no one to really talk to about it. I'm not sure talking about it would help, anyway. Writing about it here sure hasn't. But I have to purge somewhere, and I can't think of anywhere else that's appropriate<br />
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All planned trips have been tabled. It's all about staying close to home, and getting the most we can from our best friend. As I write, he's laying by my feet, playing with his bone. He has the most to be afraid of, yet is the strongest of us allMitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-57266824822069435612011-01-20T16:50:00.000-08:002011-01-20T17:09:10.812-08:00Brain FreezeI don't want to do this anymore.<div><br /></div><div>Obviously, with postings as scarce as a competent cashier, it's clear that posting blog entries is of no interest to me anymore. The thrill is gone. The original purpose of this blog has long since passed and the cathartic blast I once felt from posting has gone from exciting to obligation to hassle. </div><div><br /></div><div>Several of my friends write blogs on various subjects, all better written than mine. When word got around of what I was up to, their eyes turned to my words and I instantly felt inferior. Reading their stuff made me feel like a 3rd-grade creative writing student, someone just learning how to conjugate. The blog was no longer just a purging of my thoughts but it had to be done in such a way that the people whom I knew were reading it would be floored by my prose. Then I would read something of theirs and realize it was a pointless endeavor to try and match them. I was in over my head and stepped back. That said, I'm enjoying this right now. I know, I'm a weird guy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've wanted to write about politics, I wanted to muse about death, I wanted to explore why I can never shut off my mind. I've sat in my "writing chair" and determined before signing in that it just wasn't worth it. This wasn't a case of writer's block, or a matter of indifference. I felt that I couldn't continue to live up to the high expectations I had set for myself. So I walked away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone has a blog now. Everyone gives their thoughts for the world to read, or posts idiotic videos to Youtube for all to digest. No one keeps thoughts to themselves anymore. Tonight, my gal is out with a friend and it's just me, the dog, and a homemade quesadilla (with chicken). There will be lots of silence. I'll be happy and at the same time wonder what's wrong.</div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-23418446093472054902010-11-15T15:24:00.001-08:002010-11-15T15:53:39.758-08:00A Day OffI'm off from work today, the product of too many vacation days and not enough time to use them. Combine that with the wife being on her new job for too short of time to accrue any time off and I'm squarely in "use it or lose it"mode. I consider my ability to enjoy the Day Off one of my biggest selling points. Maybe someday, I'll make money off of some poor stressed- out saps who will pay to learn how to "make more" of their free time. The very case that they'd pay to hear such advice essentially destroys their chance to succeed, but as long as the check clears, that's not my problem.<div><br /></div><div>My day has consisted of: walking the dog, hitting the gym, going out for a light bite, doing two loads of laundry and taking a nap. That's it. The last thing it feels like is a day wasted. To me, this is how it's supposed to be. The Day Off is the day where you get to think for yourself, instead of being told how to think. Anyone can be subjected to that. It's the Day Off that always confirms that right here, right now, I'm just fine with where I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had lunch at Baja Fresh today (had a coupon). I got to see a nice cross-section of people. The young parents of two little kids (who were screaming, of course), to the three female co-workers, talking about Obama's recent failures in Europe (Kidding! It was about other female co-workers they hate. Gotcha!). I didn't envy anyone's situation. I didn't wish I did what they do. It didn't make me wish I had a son to eat tacos with. Besides me, the person enjoying themselves the most was an older lady dining alone with a burrito basket and a newspaper. No one was bending her ear over workplace rumors. There was no grandchild she had to enjoy spending time with. Just her and her paper. I was only envious of the fact that she had a newspaper while I was unfortunate enough to choose the latest City Life, but other than that, I'm guessing we had the most satisfying lunch experience of anyone there.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's on the Day Off where I can really get a good glimpse into what the so-called average person goes through during their day, and you know what? The average person must hate their life. In my stops at the gym, lunch, and grocery store, no employees seemed particularly happy. It's funny that in a state with such high unemployment, it seemed to me that those with the jobs were the unhappiest of all. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was supposed to veer off into something completely different, and I've forgotten what that was supposed to be. I've been away from this for awhile, so please pardon the rust. Perhaps the strangest thing about my enjoyment of a good Day Off is this: I'm looking forward to going back to work tomorrow...unless I can figure out how to run that seminar.</div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-64120075491451174962010-08-09T17:38:00.000-07:002010-08-09T18:09:46.746-07:00Let's Go Shopping!Back To School is a wonderful, magical time, which is obvious because each word in the phrase is capitalized. My memory of BTS wasn't going shopping for new supplies for the school year. No, it was my (former elementary school teacher) mom crying at the kitchen table the night before she inherited a classroom full of pre-pubescents with a snootful of who-knows-what. Magical indeed.<div><br /></div><div>We didn't have school supply drives when I was a kid. You got the stuff you needed and went to class. Pretty simple, really. Ah, but in this age where anything simple has to be made unnecessarily complicated, we now have endless so-called "Stuff The Bus" drives (again, every word is capitalized to stress the importance of this monumental event). Usually pushed by media outlets, the Stuff The Bus drives are done to gather supplies for students for the upcoming school year. I saw an anchor last week saying that most families are having trouble (in these tough economic times, naturally) coming up with the money to buy even the most basic of school supplies. I audibly scoffed when I heard that, but then got to thinking that perhaps he was right. From last Sunday's paper, I picked up a flyer for Walgreens that focused on BTS supplies and started adding things up. Certainly, if "most" families can't even afford the basics, the prices for these items must be much more expensive than I remembered back in 1975.</div><div><br /></div><div>So let's shop. I'm only listing the most basic supplies for elementary school kids, so that rules out calculators and certain geometric tools which- in this atmosphere of zero tolerance- are probably considered deadly weapons punishable by a lifetime expulsion should poor Caleb or Kellan get pinched (so to speak) with one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pencils:<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>10 for $1</div><div>Pens<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>10 for .79</div><div>Folders<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.09 each. Let's buy five. .35 total</div><div>Glue<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.49</div><div>Crayons<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.39 (for a box of 12. Do you really need Burnt Sienna?)</div><div>Notebooks<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.50-$1.50, depending on number of pages. Let's buy two at .50 apiece</div><div>Ruler<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.29</div><div>Backpack<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$4.00 (that's the big one, but if you have a desk that can store your supplies, it <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>might be unnecessary. Since you probably don't know if you do before the school <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>year starts, pick one up</div><div><br /></div><div>Did I miss any of the basics? I don't think so. Scissors? Yeah, right. Start your academic year in Mr. Weatherbee's office by bringing a dangerous weapon. Still, the girls might think you're a badass, so at $1, it'd be worth the risk.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Total for basic supplies? $8.31. ($9.31 with those bad-ass scissors) </b></div><div><br /></div><div>Or, in other words, lunch. One lunch. Brown bag lunch for a week, and the kid is covered through most of his elementary school years. Yes, I realize that most parents have more than one kid. Tops, you're spending $30 on supplies. If you're buying Emily and Colin their own pen and pencil sets, just think of it as one McDouble you could've spoiled yourself with and split the items.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, my exhaustive research reaffirms to me that Stuff The Bus is a crock. Put down the frappe and get your own damn stuff for once. Handouts now lead to dropouts later.</div><div><br /></div><div>(Oh, I don't want teachers to feel left out. That same Walgreens flyer has a bottle of generic aspirin (500 ct) on sale for $7.99. That ought to last you until Thanksgiving) </div><div><br /></div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-3960462113762326382010-08-02T15:50:00.001-07:002010-08-02T16:17:01.499-07:00By RequestI've been on the fringes of radio for a couple of years now. I'm not involved in the day to day affairs, meetings are rare, and when my day is done, my day is done. I like it this way, only because I've been on the inside and know what it looks like. Picture a rotten egg stuffed inside of an old shoe that's hanging inside of a dirty jock strap (one word?) that's been festering inside of a locker room after an overtime tilt in the South Florida heat. Then go sit and have a meeting inside of it for two hours. That's what I'm missing. Better said, that's what I'm <i>not</i> missing.<div><br /></div><div>It's almost bizarrely admirable that radio continues to make decisions on a yearly-monthly-weekly-daily basis that prevent it from being successful. Not having time to go into them all (because according to what the average lifespan for an American non-smoking male is, I'll be dead in 34 years), I'll just mention the obvious. Commercial radio has killed the personality which made it profitable, unique and worth listening. For every good personality who's shown the door in a cost-cutting move, five come in that have a) no experience, b) are related to the owner, or- worst of all- c) sales people who "think it would be really cool" to be a jock. All too often management thinks that the dolts who have only mastered the task of dialing a radio station's request line typify the average listener. This has cost ratings points and revenue. Listeners are smarter than management gives them credit for, and they're proving it by leaving commercial radio in droves.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's hard to think of one thing radio does better than it used to? Entertain? No. Personalities are dying off, both figuratively and literally (that's for you, Mr. Harvey). Services? C'mon. Traffic reports are something that can keep people listening as they head for work, so what does one cluster do? Cuts the number of reports in half. Yep. Take a valuable service <i>THAT MAKES MONEY</i> and cut it in half. Remember, these are radio management people making these decisions. These days, when I say "radio management" I mean, "salespeople". These are the ones that are running radio right into the ground.</div><div><br /></div><div>Upon further review, I guess there's one thing that radio excels in. Interrupting their product. Playing spots. Commercials. Inventory (that's the industry term). Stations I work with have up to 20 units in morning drive. Some are :60, some :30, some :15. It doesn't matter to the listener. They don't say, "oh that one was quick". They hear one spot bleed into another, and hit another station that might be playing a song. Or (me), they play their iPod or CD, guaranteeing a song they like. What's worse than waiting through a seven minute break only to have the radio station come back with "Baby, I Love Your Way" by Peter Frampton? Imagine if someone's idea for a station was to say, "it'll be like an iPod, only with lengthy commercial breaks". He'd be laughed out of the room. Wait. No he wouldn't. He'd probably be promoted. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was pitching radio management, after all.</div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-34606651158012476822010-07-19T16:33:00.001-07:002010-07-19T16:55:23.421-07:00Losers RuleI didn't watch "Sports' Biggest Night", as ESPN so modestly called it ESPY Awards. No, I'd been burned before by that show. I saw that Olympic skier Lindsey Vonn won for "Female Athlete of the Year". Seeing as she wiped out in three of her five events, and that teammate Julia Mancuso actually had a better overall Winter Games, you could say I was surprised to see that. Nope, it was pretty much what I expected, continuing with the theme that failure is now more accepted than success. The "best", in the case of Vonn, failed miserably 60 percent of the time. Now come get your trophy.<div><br /></div><div>Want another? Catch. Lance Armstrong is once again taking part in the Tour de France. No one can argue that Armstrong has had a fantastic career (though arguing about how he achieved such a career can make for some interesting give and take around the barstool). Not so much for this go-round. Three spills. Seems to me the easiest thing to do is not to run into another cyclist, but our boy Lance had it happened three times, effectively killing his chances to win. The articles I saw in the paper didn't describe an athlete past his prime, whose best days are long behind him. No, Armstrong was instead lauded for his "bravery" and "courage". It takes more courage to realize when you can't accomplish something anymore, and live with it, as opposed to millions of us seeing it for ourselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>Winners used to get trophies. Now everyone does. Successes used to be toasted and held up as examples for others to follow. Now, inspirational stories are more likely to feature the homeless guy beating the heat, the single mom with two kids (at 25. Don't ask how she got where she was, just empathize) who works two jobs just to put food on the table (and pay the kids' cell phone bills), or the couple bravely facing foreclosure as the evil banks threaten to take away their house, car, boat, home theater system, spa memberships, etc. How brave they are in actually facing responsibility for once. Never mind that it's paid for by those of us that have kept our noses clean.</div><div><br /></div><div>Starting to stray from topic. I'm good at that.</div><div><br /></div><div>The word hero is tossed about so much these days its meaning has become watered down. Save a kid from a burning building? Hero. Feed a homeless guy a sandwich? Not a hero. Sully? Hero. Mrs. DeGronmont, 3rd grade teacher from Whippoorwill Elementary who taught Jamel cursive writing? Not a hero. That's what she's supposed to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>If today's heroes are, in actuality, losers, we're doomed. Now go out there and be hopelessly average!</div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-37923497449856913612010-07-05T13:09:00.000-07:002010-07-05T13:27:07.549-07:00Creating And DebatingOne thing I've noticed about these posts is that I rarely do it when I'm in a good mood. It's only when I'm down or nostalgic that I feel like sitting here and typing innocuous thoughts. If you follow this blog (God help you) you'll notice that there's been a dearth of material over the past couple of months, mostly due to the fact that my spirits have been high. Events over the past couple of days have sent me into a tailspin, so here I sit. Yet I don't know what to say. Funny, because creativity flourishes with misery, and flounders with happiness. <div><br /></div><div>Well, that's something, isn't it? We strive for happiness, yet are most productive when we're not. If we're happy, we let things slide. This is particularly true in the artistic community, where the best work is born out of suffering. Show me a music artist that is happily married and I'll show you someone who's best days have long past. Show me a writer who's at peace, and I'll bet dollars to doughnuts his/her later work is filling up the bargain bins at Borders. The books are so bad they actually stock them in the area that's before you walk into the actual store, so you don't suffer the shame of having someone see you leafing through it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I guess the point I'm getting at, the question- is happiness overrated? Are we better off when we're miserable than when we're happy? We all have dreams we hope to reach, and we (usually) don't reach those dreams without working damn hard on the way up: lousy hours, low wages, demeaning superiors. Back then, it was all about having a couple of drinks on a Friday night and airing your frustrations to a friend or the bartender (if they paid attention to you, which was much more likely if the bartender was a dude). Then Monday morning it was back at it, with dreams of a better future keeping you from chucking your alarm clock across the room.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a nice house, an adorable gal, no kids to speak of, and an amazing little dog. Life's good, right? This is living the dream. So why do I fall into a rut so easily, and why is that rut so hard to crawl out of when it happens? I'm happy, right? Right? </div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-83220478520080869762010-05-05T16:07:00.000-07:002010-05-05T16:34:23.472-07:00Remembering The '"Rath"My air conditioning is out.<div><br /></div><div>Considering the time of year it is, things could be worse. The forecast calls for dropping temps, so I probably won't be using it this week, anyway. I ran it yesterday just to test it and things didn't go well, so The Guy is coming tomorrow to take a look. If Sully can land a plane in the Hudson, I can go without a.c. for a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, it's a little muggy in the house, especially in the back bedroom where I take my afternoon nap. The conditions today took me back to Madison, Wisconsin circa 1988. It was the summer of my senior year, and I was taking a couple of classes. It was the final six credits that I needed for graduation. I even remember the classes: World War II and some class that dealt with nutrition. It had nothing to do with my major, but all my requirements for a degree had been fulfilled, so I took two classes that were both of ease and interest to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't work in the summer of '88. My parents were cool that way. That said my job was college. Do well at college, then move on to the "real world" (They loved to say that. Believe me, it's true). With two three-credit classes I was never bogged down with too much work (home or otherwise). I was smart enough to realize that the Real World was fast-approaching: September of 1988. I better make the most of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The University of Wisconsin is a beautiful campus, surround by four lakes. On the shores of Lake Mendota sits the Memorial Union, one of UW's most historic buildings. The biggest room was the Rathskeller, gathering place place for professors, aspiring intellectuals, drunks, and me. Days like today remind me of afternoons spent at the Rathskeller. I didn't have air conditioning at my Madison loft, so on days that were too warm to swelter inside, I would walk down to the Rathskeller for a pint or two. This was a healthy walk, probably 2-3 miles from where I lived, but the walk always built up a nice thirst. There were plenty of tables on the outdoor terrace with outstanding views of the lake. </div><div><br /></div><div>Midday afternoons were never that busy, so I'd order a 24 ounce cup of beer (Miller, I think), buy some pretzel rods (a nickel apiece back then), and take a table. From there, I would do nothing. I'd watch the water. I'd overhear nearby conversations. I'd take some crushed pretzels and feed the ducks that would come to shore (the Union folk frowned on that). Hours would drift by. Every time I thought about going home, I would remind myself that September of 1988 was coming fast and go get another beer. Every so often the Union would have live music outside, mostly jazz. Sometimes I'd come across a friend, which would lead to another round. Then another. More pretzels, please. It's as good as it sounds.</div><div><br /></div><div>Surprisingly, I handled my beer better then than I do now, so waking up the next day never provided any real complications, and the memories of the night before were always crystal clear. I've been employed by the Real World for over 20 years now, complete with all the rewards and heartaches associated with such a promotion. I'm not a dumb guy, and I realized that my time spent on the Memorial Union terrace sipping tepid Miller High Life was time well spent, some of the best times ever. I'm nostalgic for that time, while fully embracing what I have today. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hear the pretzels are .25 now.</div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1340870691312757309.post-39211178220717538422010-05-03T16:36:00.000-07:002010-05-03T16:57:02.214-07:00Failure IS an OptionSo I'm sitting here watching bits of Conan O' Brian's interview from "60 Minutes" last night. What a guy. He says he wouldn't have done what Jay Leno did. All Leno "did" was rescue the 11:30 time slot for NBC, make the network a whole buncha money, and please a lot of nervous stockholders. That's a pretty good trifecta. What did Conan do? Get bought out to the tune of 20 million dollars, use the publicity garnered from the very public fight with Leno to launch a summer stand-up comedy tour and get paid big bucks for a show later this year on TBS (which will do well in its first week, then fall back to more "Conan-like" numbers).<div><br /></div><div>Simply put, Conan was the loser and made 20 million dollars because of it. He delivered an inferior product to the consumer, who went and bought something else. Price for losing? 20 million dollars. We should all be so lucky. That's the way it is these day. Lose and go home? No no no. Losing has never been more lucrative. Losing is in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, for the longest time, the worst teams have gotten the best picks and then landed (if they did their homework) the best players to help them improve. Now, losing is in vogue just about everywhere. Signed a mortgage you can't handle anymore? No problem. Banks are now forced to make you a better deal. Close to 50 percent of people don't pay taxes. 50 percent! This means 50 percent of people pay taxes for services that 100 percent of the people use. Nice deal if you can get it. Funny how the more you've screwed up, the more bad decisions you've made, the bigger, more luxurious boat seems to pull up to take you to a safe harbor. A ship that I paid for.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm doing things the way they're supposed to be done, right? When the bill comes, I pay it. When something breaks, I fix it. When I marry someone, I don't cheat. The number of people at work who help me do my job better is...0. If I can't do my job to the best of my ability without anyone having to help out, get someone else in there and turn me loose.</div><div><br /></div><div>Come to think of it, maybe that's the way to go. Losing has rarely been closer to winning than it is today.</div>Mitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16577602408408086427noreply@blogger.com0