Resolutions

Every year as we approach the New Year you hear people everywhere talk about New Year’s Resolutions. What they want to change, what they want to keep doing, what they want to do better, what they want to quit, loose, or gain.

I’ve never been one to make any New Year’s Resolutions, but I feel this year I should. Maybe it’s my change of mind came at this particular time and if I had thought of this in Mid May, it would just be a resolution. But, here goes.

1. Be a better father. I don’t feel like I’ve spent much time, let alone quality time with either of my children, and that, I intend to change.

2. Promote within my career. I often feel that if I was working for any “normal” type of company that by now I would probably be making some serious bucks. Given my particular set of skills that I have acquired over my 11 years at my job, I am sort of a Jack of all Trades, a Go to Guy. With firearms, forensics, software, and a long list of other skills, I should be the man. However, civil service jobs don’t quite work in that manner. It’s high time I made the money that I should be. So this year, I will hit the books and study to earn some stripes.

3. Climb a 14,000 foot peak. Don’t ask, don’t question, it won’t change my mind.

4. Get better at being the awesome husband that I already am. It’s true, it’s all true.

5. Spirituality.

I ask you to share some of your New Year’s Resolutions here, and maybe give some pointers on how to obtain mine.

Funny Looks

Adventure. You like it or you don’t.

Being inspired by pictures and videos of amazing places and feats, you either are, or you are not.

If you are lucky enough to see something that makes your pulse quicken, your eyes glisten with an emotional tear, and has you uttering phrases such as, “If I could only…..” or has you digging in your planner to set a date, congratulations.

My tick list has grown so long, I forgot what the first thing I put on it was. If I only had the time or ability to do it all.

If you are not one of the lucky ones, the adventuresome or wistful romantic for out of doors craziness, I’m sorry.

But the next time you see me babbling about climbing, riding and insane route or distance, or going to some remote corner of BFE and No-where, leave me be. Because your machismo comments of “You’re stupid!” “That’s crazy!” and “WHY.” Only tell me one thing.

You don’t get it. You never have, and you never will. And for that, I pity you.

So close

As I have said a couple of times in the past, this year has not been kind to my riding needs.

Yesterday, while my lovely wife went to the local craft show with her mother, I diligently went around the house dusting, vacuuming, doing laundry and the likes. That afternoon I mowed the front lawn and we had a nice visit from my parents.

So that afternoon, I thought to myself, "I think I'll go for a morning mountain bike ride in the Palo Duro Canyon tomorrow morning."

At first I thought I would go alone, then decided to call my brother-in-law Tim to go with me. He is always up for some MTB action, and is a good riding partner with minimal whining and good stamina, as to insure a good, long, hard ride. After talking to him, we decided to leave the house around 8:30am.

This morning he showed up right on time and we began to load our stuff in the brisk fall morning air. Trying to force myself to take a little more leisurely pace this morning, I clothed myself in some hippie-esque cut off cargo shorts, and older MTB jersey and my arm warmers. We lit out from the house only stopping for some Gatorade and then made our way down to the canyon. The morning was perfectly still and crisp, perfect for a ride. As we wound down the canyon road, the morning sun hit the west wall of the canyon sparking brilliant reds, yellows and purples, with the fall vegetation high lighting it in greens and browns.

I thought how neat it was that such a treasure lay a mere 30 minutes drive from me.

We arrived at the trail head and began to suit up for the ride, donning helmets, gloves, checking air pressure, and slinging our Camelbaks across our shoulders. After double checking everything, we set off on a trail the we seldom ride, Capitol Peak.

It took hardly any pedal strokes at all for me to find my cadence and get comfortable, the first couple of rocky sections felt strong and I said to myself, "This is gonna be a good ride."

Then, as soon as it started, I hear Tim hollar, "WE'RE DONE!"

What, how, WHAT!??!?

I turned around and rode back to him to find his rear derailleur shredded from his frame. He had bounced if off of a rock and broken the hanger. Frustrated, he picked up his bike and headed back to the trail head. I slowly and sadly rode behind him until we made it to the road and I went back to get the car, pulled it around and we loaded up and drove home.

30 minuted there, 30 minutes home and a total of 8 minutes and 31 seconds of riding.

Some things never change.

The Recharge

"Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.” John Muir

With the trip planned and all essentials acquired, it was time to pack for the trip to the Pecos Wilderness with the Boy Scouts. Much attention was paid in getting the balance of the pack just right, and making sure everything was tucked neatly inside of the pack save for items needed rapidly or in an emergency. Once finished except for the weight of two 32 ounce Nalgene bottles, the pack weighed around 30 pounds.

We loaded up on the bus Friday around 6:00pm and pointed it Westerly for the Texas New Mexico state line. A familiar stench hit my nostrils as the smell of sweaty adolescence that had collected in the very soul of the bus from hundreds of camping trips crept out as we traveled. The sun beaming through windshield of the bus warmed me as the terrain gradually changed from plains to the mesa covered land of eastern New Mexico. As we rolled on through the dusk I could hear the boys in the back of the bus in a constant chatter as various jokes and games were played out. Some of the men were working with the younger boys on merit badges and advancement, hoping to move them from scouts to tenderfoots. Having secured a spot at the very front of the bus, I stretched my legs out and pondered the next day’s hike, making mental notes of the boys that would be hiking with us and how each would need to be coached or prodded up the mountain. Running through the gear I had packed in my head, making sure I had everything I needed, not that I could do anything about it now, but non-the-less still running system checks.

As the sun sank behind the horizon and made way for the night, I began to look forward to camping in the cool mountain air and waking up the following morning to find what wonder of a place we had journeyed to. There is something mystical about getting to a new place in the cover of night, only to wake up and behold the beauty you have happened upon, and this would be no different.

Close to midnight, after snaking our way up a winding mountain road for about 45 minutes to Cowles, NM, we parked at our campsite, unloaded and began to set up camp. The temp had dropped significantly, and I was digging for fleece and my beanie. Chase and I set up my two man backpacking tent and buried ourselves in our sleeping bags. Various snoring, voices, hacking and coughing began as everyone settled in for the night. Some of the boys to excited to sleep, some of the men too tired to care, some, just purging toxic city air from their lungs as the cool crisp mountain air took its place.

Around 6am I woke to one of the men gather and splitting wood the best that he could for a fire. Through the tent fly, I could tell that some light was beginning to illuminate the alien place I had found myself in. Quietly digging as not to disturb my tent mate, I found some layers of clothing to don as I headed out of the tent. Having entered this place witnessing only shadows of mountains and pine, the day revealed that we were nestled in a beautiful valley with the Pecos River flowing about 60 feet from our camp. To the north was the shoulder of the mountain we would be hiking up today. The smell of juniper and pine mixed nicely with the campfire now in its infancy, bringing me to a primitive place of comfort. Breathing deeply, I could feel any tension in my muscles melt away.

With everyone else rousing and breaking down their gear for the hike to come, the cooks dove into cooking breakfast and preparing meals for the hikers. Having packed my own dinner and breakfast for the coming night and morning, I opted only to snag a lunch from them. Soon the breakfast bell rang and I found myself scooping into the biggest bowl of oatmeal I had ever seen, but with the cranberries and raisins mixed in, it was also one of the best. After finishing of the colossal culinary camping cuisine, I wished my tent a bed were still set up for a nap. But alas, we were moments from setting out for Lake Stewart.

We set off for Lake Stewart in waves. Some of the faster hikers set out first, with the rest straggling behind. Occasionally we would take breaks for some of the boys, (but mostly for most of the men) to catch their breath and take a pull from their water bottles. Some of the times the break was a photo op as the glory of the valley was unhindered by tree limbs. As the trail wove in and out of forest, we could catch glimpses of mountain tops in the distance, the lush green valley below, and vast stretches of blue sky. Except for my camera, I felt a million miles from anything. Simply me, my pack, and friends.

We came to the lower lake at around 2:30pm, quickly unclipped the weight of our packs from our shoulders and trotted to the edge of the lake. It is a strange feeling after walking for hours with 30 extra pounds strapped to your shoulders to suddenly have it removed. One walks with a short of moon manish gimpy gait that feels as awkward as it has to look.

Group by group the others strolled into camp, displaying the same urgency to ditch their packs and rest their feet. Stewart Lake was actually about a 1/8 of a mile down the trail, some of us went up to have a look, an amazingly beautiful look.


One by one we set up and organized our camp. Chase’s son and I went up to Lake Stewart and began to filter water for everyone. Camp stoves were set up and everyone found a cozy place just had a rest. Funny moments from the hike were relayed to those that were in a different group. As the evening progressed, backpacking stoves were fired up, water was boiled and meals began to be prepared. Chase and I split the Ramen Noodle that I had brought and the Annie’s Lentil soup that he had brought. With the two mixed together, it was a near heavenly dinner.

The boys built a campfire and stories, songs and skits ensued. Laughs were shared and fun was had by all. The toll of the hike began to show as one by one we slipped off into our tents and fell into slumber. During the night I could hear the breeze move through the pine. An owl made its presence known during the night as his voice echoed through the forest. The moon, nearly full emitted an ethereal glow as it ran through the branches of the pines scattering on the forest floor. Breathing in the cool night air in that atmosphere only relaxed me more, and I was saddened that my time there would be short lived as we had to head back down to base camp first thing in the morning.

The sun rose and once again we ran through the paces of breaking camp, cooking our breakfast, brewing some coffee and getting ready to head down the mountain. The valley was even more beautiful in the early morning light. I was glad to be headed back to my home and family, but sad to leave such a wonderful place after spending such little time there.

So after a long last half of the summer breaking myself for the J.O.B., all of my riding was scrapped, preparations for racing were scrapped, and my first fourteener summit project was trashed. (Rob and Court, you have no idea how much I envy you! ;-) )
All is not lost however, for next weekend I will embark on a backcountry hiking excursion with our Boy Scout troop.
We’ll be heading for the Pecos Wilderness near Santa Fe, NM, and an overnight camp around 10,500 feet next to Lake Stewart, nestled quietly under Santa Fe Baldy, standing 12,632 feet above sea level. To get to the lake, a brisk 6 mile hike gaining 2500 feet of elevation. What fun, what fun.

So here’s the magic act.

All of this:

Needs to fit in this:

And then be strapped to this:

And when I reach Stewart Lake, I'll get to chill in these!!!

I am extremely looking forward to a weekend of breathing in the warm scent of pine and juniper blown around by the fresh mountain air. Along with just sitting by an alpine lake and slowing down.

More to come.

The Teenage 30 Something

It’s midnight.

More accurately, it’s Thursday at midnight and I have to be at work tomorrow. So where is this 32 year old father of two? He’s playing in the street, lit by only a solitary drop light pulling juice from three extension cords strung out like an wiry orange snake searching the concrete driveway, illuminating a set of 2x4’s. The 2x4’s are being used as benchmarks for the bunny hop competition my brother-in-law Tim and I are holding. For those not in the know, a bunny hop is when you take a bicycle and without the aid of a ramp, get both tires off of the ground in an attempt to clear an obstacle using only your own self generated force.

I am still not sure what led us to this competition, and why it went on so long. What I do know is that it’s midnight, I’m 32, and I’m having a bunny hop competition. Fun, fun.

We went for both distance and height while riding a 1,000,000 lb. Beast of a Mongoose full suspension mountain bike. Nothing like the lithe Felt RXC I’m used to riding. Oh and I was in flip flops! Danger of losing a toe was imminent. Oh and just so you know; I won.

Enjoy.

The Wind and the Sun

I rode my bike yesterday. Not just a cruise, not just a spin, but a ride.

Our family had a busy weekend so I was unable to steal some time for a ride and Monday I had babysitting duty with my wife gone to a meeting.

After riding a total of nearly 80 miles last week, my legs were twitching with anticipation along with my mind for more time in the saddle.

I craved not only the physical aspect of the ride, but also the mental. After hearing of two cyclists in the last two weeks getting hit by cars, one slightly injured, and the other losing their life, it had become a mission. A sort of reclaiming the road with a mighty yell stating, “This is our rode as well, and you shall not take this right from us by force or fear!”

This ride would be long, and would not be pleasant…by choice. I set out with the intent of breaking myself. I can’t quit pin why I wanted the ride to be so hard, maybe to punish me for something done in the past. Maybe because there was one less rider in my area that would never experience the joy of riding. Maybe so I could be alone. Maybe my mind is broken and sick. But I needed to hurt.

My ride would start with 12 miles straight into a 20-25 mph wind, then turning to the east for a long steady climb out of the town of Canyon, now with a crosswind that was still slightly blowing into my face. As I went along on the first part of my ride, my mind became water clear, almost to a trance like state. I was only aware of sight, smell, and sound. The silvery tops of the ocean of corn as the evening sun gleamed off of them as they crested in waves from the wind. The steady whir from my tires as they rolled along the hot asphalt, broken at times by the hot West Texas wind blasting by my ears. The sporadic sound of cars as they rolled by. As I clipped along I began to see a line of white underlining the sun that would soon grow into a distant thunderstorm somewhere to the northwest.

As I turned for the climb out, I began to feel the burn in my muscles. “Good” I said to myself. I past a handful of houses during the climb, I crossed the Tierra Blanca Creek, flowing well from all of the recent rain we have received with its banks shrouded in tall green grass. Cresting out on the climb, I rolled between to desolate empty pastures, the only sounds now were the wind, my tires, and a windmill creaking as I past by. Perfect. I’m alone, tired, breaking, and happy.

Stopping at the next intersection to consume some fuel for the final leg of my ride, reveled in the fact that I would now have my back to the wind, and would be seeing just how fast I could go and for how long. Stuffing the empty energy gel packet back into my pocket and taking a few quick pulls from my water bottle, I turned onto the road way and began to fly. Recent heat and traffic on the road had smoothed out all of the rock making for a perfect runway for my flight. Quickly I was in the largest gear possibly, tucked into the drops and burning. After several miles, I came to the first set of rollers that indicated I was close to the canyon area. Meaning two things; I get to see how fast I can go downhill, and I get to punish myself one more time coming up the other side. Soon the road turned downward and I rose out of the saddle pumping the pedals until I couldn’t keep up with them. I tucked in and became as small as possible. At the bottom my computer read 52 mph.

But as quickly as I made that speed, it was gone. The road turned skyward and gravity began to take its grasp on my tires. Slowly, painfully I pumped out of the canyon. With sweat pouring off my arms and legs, I clawed my way up. Once reaching the crest, I took a couple more sips from my water bottle, only to go at it as hard as I could again. There would be no rest until I was back at my home.

I smiled at the long, flat, black road that lay before me. My feet began to turn the pedals as my speed increased. My solid trance like expression had now turned into a happy grimace of exhaustion and pain. My calves hurt, my quads hurt, my knees hurt, but my mind was happy. I was getting stronger and more fit.

The last part of my ride I reserved for some recovery time, which was briefly interrupted by a train plowing down the tracks. As I stood, waiting for it to pass, I could feel just how hard I had ridden. My back hurt, my legs hurt. They wobbled with instability from the effort they had put forth. I smiled down at them, wincing periodically as my back ached.

With the train gone, I continued on to the house. Throwing in a couple of hard sprinting efforts to make sure I was a broken as possible when I got home, with each effort a little more pathetic than the one before. As I turned down my street a small boy on a tricycle smiled and said “Hi.” I waved back and said hello as I began my last sprint, which went all the way home. I whizzed past some neighbors on their porches and kids also on their bikes, until I pulled into my garage.

I dismounted my steed and took of my helmet. I plucked the water bottles from their cages and drained the remainder of their contents into my mouth. I wobbled my way to the door and turned back to look at my bike, leaning their looking at me smiling like a giddy school girl after her first date.

I smiled back. “See you soon.”

The Speech

There are times when my job is cool, and there are times when it is not. Teaching, helping people, seeing a person’s face when they get something that was stolen from the back, cool.

Other stuff is not so cool, but has a way of letting you reflect on life as it screams past you at warp speed leaving you caught up in the “seemingly” important and being able to justify it by saying to oneself, everything else will be there tomorrow.

Moments ago I had a woman come to the window of our office. I’ve spoken to her before, and from first glance taken by my highly trained eye, I was able to tell that she was there on the account that someone she loved dearly had died, and she had come to retrieve their personal belongings. It’s a kind of grayish, hollow look, with a stone face but an expression like they are bracing themselves for some form of catastrophe, but trying to be brave in the face of such circumstances. A couple of years working homicide and unexplained deaths will give a person that much unwanted ability. The first time I had spoken to her, I was unable to grant her wish, but made every effort to help her in as kind a way as possible. During this effort, I learned that her daughter had died a sudden and violent death, the kind, in all honesty, which would leave parents with millions of unanswered question, and making closure a near impossibility.
I assured her that her daughter’s things would be kept here until I personally gave them to her, and that the detective would contact her as soon as we could release them.

She showed up today.

It took me a moment to remember her, but once I did, I knew that the detective had not come down to release the items, and I did not want to send this fragile being back into the world empty handed with no weapons with which to battle her demons. I spoke with her briefly, explained to her the situation, and began calling the detective. Finally getting in touch with her, I was given clearance to return the daughters items to the mother. I flew back to the window with the minimally uplifting news, and then went to work gathering the items up for her.

Clothes, disks, backpacks, a cell phone, all very non descript items that are taken for granted every day would soon be clutched as the last physical items that would represent her daughters life for this woman, hopefully bringing closure to her.

As I packaged her daughter’s thing for her so that she could carry them to her car easier, I realized that, from the mother’s perspective, she would be carrying her daughter out of the building in two brown paper sacks.

I had her sign for the belongings, and had to explain to her that the items would still be in the state that they were collected at the scene the night of the accident, and to prepare herself for what might be inside. Sadly, a speech that I have had to give several times, but does not get easier with repetition. A tear welled up as she thanked me, and then she left.

I hope it brought her closure. I hope it brought her peace.

Strangely enough, this comes one day after I had a chance to put in a transfer for a job that I have formerly performed, and dearly loved. I declined to do so, with a personal opinion that I was needed where I was. (But for what, I was not sure, until today.)

Thank You Colorado

I drove from the flat land of the Texas Panhandle, where one can see for mile and miles, heading to the northwest for a weekend escape, my copilot, my wife of 11 years, sitting shotgun in the ‘Baru. She had already dosed off, still sleepy from a late night of packing for the trip and an early morning wake up call to “head for high country”.

A couple of hours later we were cruising north, having broken the plane that divides New Mexico and Colorado, and catching a glimpse snow capped mountains and blue grey peaks rising above the land. Pushing further we could see the Spanish Peaks, Greenhorn Mountain and in the distance Pikes Peak. Having done some research on Colorado 14ers and Great Sand Dunes National Park, I knew as we passed through Walsenburg that an hour and a half to the west sat Blanca and Crestone Peak. I could imagine them towering above the arid desert with their peaks draped in fine white snow, tickling the underbelly’s of clouds as they floated passed.
A couple of hours more and we were racing toward the cabin, weaving through tree lined roads with the west side of Pikes Peak watching our every move. Granite formations dotting the landscape as we ooohed and aaahed our way to the mountain retreat.

Over the next couple of days, we would sit on the moist soil in the shade of tall pine trees breathing in the breath of wolves as they made certain we were worthy of staying in their protective mountain home. Scratching them under their chins as their powerful bodies moved passed. We would hike through thick forest; scramble up granite slopes and breathe deep the warm scent of spruce as the warm wind whipped through the valley. Topping out on the granite peak, I sprawled out on a rocky bed as the sun warmed me to the core as my wife took in a panoramic view of the Rockies that glistened white and grey in the distant west. We would wade through sand dunes as tiny grains of time were hurtled by the wind, stinging our legs and faces as the massive Great Sand Dunes loomed overhead. Finally, as we headed back our home, I would snap one last sad photograph of one of Colorado’s 14ers in hopes that in the near future, I could snap one from the top of it.

Thank You Colorado for an amazing adventure, and for the inspiration of many more to come.

The Boat

You are on a ship. The size of the ship is not important, just that you are on it, in the middle of the ocean. The only thing visible around you is the diamond like sparkle of water spreading over the horizon in every direction, with the blue of the ocean giving way to the blue of the sky.

One night while you are deep in slumber, you are awakened by the violent lurching and moaning of your vessel. It is sinking, fast, and you need to get into your life raft in order to survive the ordeal. You scramble urgently, trying to grasp everything your mind registers as a necessity to take with you, realizing that you are about to embark on a chilling adventure in a tiny boat that will either last until you are rescued, or the rest of your life.

You, the reader, may or may not have the skill set to get you through this epic into which you have been plunged. You may not even have the mindset to cope with it. But, for this moment, imagine that you are in this situation.

If you could have anyone accompanying you, who would it be? A friend, your spouse, a famous person, a famous dead person, it doesn’t matter; it is your choice for this exercise.

My choice is not my wife, because I would not want her to suffer through this ordeal. Not my children because of the same reason, this would not be a fun adventure. Not a famous person, athlete, or deceased icon.

It would be my father.
I believe he would show calm in the circumstances that we would encounter. He posses certain “emergency engineering” abilities that would be useful in the minimalistic environment we would be in. I believe his attitude would even be as positive as possible. Most of all, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him panic.

I realize that in stressful, uncontrollable situations that there are usually two types of people; those that shut down and those that do not.

Those that shut down become a cancer. They eat away at themselves first, disabling them from making good decisions, especially survival ones, and then begin to eat away at the team, if one is available.

Those that do not shut down enable themselves, as well as others. Their attitudes can be contagious and have the ability to spread like wildfire, bringing cohesion to the team in one survival machine. While one person may not have all of the skill sets needed to be a survival master, the team, as a collective, can help each other, like a community.

All of these positive traits I believe my father posses, and I hope that I posses them as well.
Because in this exercise, while you have been given the choice of whom you would like to be in the boat with you, you still have to be in the boat. And maybe, just maybe, it will be you alone sometime.

Do you want you in the boat with you?

What's Cookin'?

First let me quell any doubt’s this may bring, my wife is an awesome cook!

While most parents receive the notice that their child needs something for snack, and then hurriedly run to the grocery store to pick up pre-made cupcakes, cookies or donuts, my wife whirls into the kitchen to hand make something, usually the night and morning before, in order to assure maximum freshness and tastiness. She not only does this for our children, she will do so for me, and for her fellow employees.

Having a potluck at work? No stereotypical cheese tray or veggie tray here. How about some hand made meatballs in a “from scratch” sauce? Need a dessert? Not store bought reheat pie or brownies from the Lang house, we do it Iron Chef style!

I am routinely amazed by my wife’s skill in the kitchen. Just the way she wants to cook things, and the time she puts into it.

Just not at 6 in the morning……with onions……and garlic……and, what ever else was in there……please……..really…………please.

The handmade meatballs smelled sweet last night, at the appropriate time. But the heavy scent of the culinary delight’s being concocted this morning upset the delicate balance between hungry and nausea this morning. While I trudged about getting ready dreaming of the cup of coffee, bowl of cereal, or whatever else is kosher for a morning meal, a thick fog of onion and garlic rolled through the house like the Passover, searching for any nostril not painted with marinara sauce indicating that they were, or were not in the mood for whatever Mama had going in the kitchen. Which I’m sure if ingested at the appropriate mealtime were more the delectable.
I am absolutely a food fan. Loving all different types and tastes. But breakfast time is for breakfast! As well as dinnertime is for…breakfast, and lunch is good for breakfast, too, and midnight snack, and….well, you get it.

The Two Wolves

Several years ago, a co-worker of mine had large board over his desk. Usually these would be filled with various papers reminding him of work that needed to be done, schedules, funny pictures to ease ones mind from the daily drudge, etc. This board contained only one scrap of paper with a poem written on it. Very prophetic in content, I have seeked out this poem today. For it seems very fitting with various battles I am now in.

A grandson told of his anger at a schoolmate who had done him an injustice. His Grandfather said: "Let me tell you a story." "I, too, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But, hate wears you down and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times. It is as if there are two wolves inside me: one is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way. But the other wolf is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights with everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of then try to dominate my spirit." The boy looked intently into his grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?" The grandfather solemnly replied, "The one I feed."

A Lesson

How do I change that which displeases me?
You do not, unless that which displease you comes from your own actions, thoughts, or feelings. Everything else must be accepted for what it is, an outside influence that you can either give in to, or let glance off of you and stay your course.


How do I change me?
Accept that the road will be winding and unyielding. That it will have its rises and falls. Do not strive to anticipate it, but to analyze it when it arrives, and deal with it in the best manner possible. For anticipation brings anxiousness, and anxiousness will lead to aggravation, and so on to anger, or sadness. Thrive in the now. Be mindful of the emotions which are rising, understand what it is that is setting them in motion, and then work to quiet the mind.

The Sound Track of Life

I was shuffling through my iPod this morning on the way to work and came across Joe Satriani’s “Flying in Blue Dream.” I held back a tear as I realized the following, and wondered where I would be had I viciously followed my music dream.

I, am a music lover. I drive to work listening to music, I workout to music, I fall asleep to music; I can play several different musical instruments. I, love, music.

One of my favorite music memories is standing in the Dallas City Music complex for hours at the G3 concert watching Joe Satriani, Eric Johnson, and Steve Vai, with my father, sister, guitar teacher, uncle, and many other friends. Rarely did we scream and holler during the concert, just clapped and traded looks and smiles of amazement at the virtuosos that where setting their guitars ablaze before us.

I don’t just process it and understand that music is being played and exclaim that “I like this song”, music is an emotional experience for me. To this day I am still unable to listen to “An American Symphony” from “Mr. Holland’s Opus” without getting teary eyed and choked up. That is a powerful song. And there are literally dozen’s of other’s that affect me the same way. From evoking joyful emotions, to sad emotions, to getting me pumped up for something or mellowing me out, there is always a fitting song for the occasion.

And yet, being such a music lover, I am unable to just listen to music. I must analyze music. I can listen to a song several different times and hear something different each time. Every song that has words with it, I must know exactly what they are saying. I will go back and listen to the guitar parts, to hear every nuance and ghost note, every attack of the pick and slide of finger across string. I will go back and listen to the bass line to hear exactly what is going on. I will go back and listen to the drum part to hear every strike of stick to drum head I can, every swell of the cymbals and the intricate hi-hat work. I love music.

It consumes me. I will become obsessed with it. Kicking in my OCD behavior. I have literally spent hours after hearing a small snip it of a song that catches my ear, searching the Internet, trying to find who performs the melody that has captivated me until I succeed, download the whole song, and analyzed it. Sometimes it disappoints me, and sometimes I find a new favorite song.

Before hearing a song in its entirety, I can anticipate the crescendo and decrescendo. I can pick out when the musician will transition from verse to chorus and back again. Feel what notes are coming next in the arrangement. Sometimes I am surprised, but most of the time I’m dead on.

It is difficult to decipher whether this is a curse or gift. I have been guilty of wearing out a song, or listening to it so much that I grow weary of it, and do not listen to it for quite some time. And even in very bad music I can find some melody, beat, or sound that I like. All I know is that I love music, passionately, and on a level that not many others understand.

“Notes, rhythm, and voice, all combining in an emotional orchestration, moving me, to the soundtrack of my life.” Wes Lang

Blast from the Past

I am not sure if past generations have experienced what I, as a father, am now experiencing. Let me explain.

My 4 year old son is coming of the age where his passion for toys has passed from small colorful noise making trinket's to larger, more mainstream, more expensive colorful noise making trinket's. More precisely, he has lept from kiddie toys, to toys that a man of my age has no quams about hopping down in the floor and playing with them, even if the child is not present. (Oh the fun, guilty pleasures of having children!) But the strange thing about the toys that are popular to children at this very moment, are the same toys that were popular say around 20 to 25 years ago. Transformers, Spiderman, Batman, GI Joe, Legos, Star Wars, they are all back for round two, possibly even three, or four.

Ethan has been fixated on Spiderman for about the past year. He loves him. I find him leaping and bounding around the living room singing his goofy little made up Spiderman song, thrusting his arms out with his tiny hands contorted into the webslingers signature "Heavy Metal web shooting sign." Making sounds to let you know that you've just been webbed. His latest interest though has been Star Wars. I being quite the Star Wars geek myself, will duly take pride in teaching my young Padawan Learner in the ways of the force, and let him in on the secret that albeit he's the bad guy, Darth Vader is the freakin' MAN! And so here is the point that I have been building up to.

I bought Ethan a small Lego set for his birthday. It consisted of an Emperial Speederbike and small gun turret coinciding with the opening scene from the Planet Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back. (Oozing with Star Wars geekiness already, eh?) Anyway, curious about the other cool Star Wars stuff Lego has to offer, I took a stroll through their website and happened upon a small jewel that would have the eldest of Star Wars enthusiasts quick to whip out their wallets. A mini replica of the Death Star with small scene that go along with the movies. Yes, MOVIES! There is the Trash Compactor scene, complete with trash, Chewy trying to jam the walls with a long pipe, the compactor monster. (Last line must be said with slight eyebrow raise at the end to emphasize maximum coolness. The detention block scene, meeting table room, the Death Star Cannon, the throne room where the final battle with Luke, Vader, and the Emperor takes place, even a mini Darth Vader TIE Fighter! 24 figures from key characters to droids are included!

Yes, it will be mine!!!! ................Until I took a peek at the price tag on this Nostalgia Laden Pearl. $400. That's right! All you Naboo knowing fools who wish to live out their ultimate dream of running down the corridor to save Leia from the Detention Block need merely to shell out 400 big ones! I'd probably have better luck getting my wife to dress up as the Leia from the Jabba the Hut scene!

On second thought, I'm gonna go dig under the couch cushions!

Dress Blues

I have not worn my uniform in years. My boots have long been neglected a good polishing. My shiny name plate, my awards, my Field Training Officer badge have suffered a long cramped hibernation in my jewelry box along-side expired driver’s license and knives that have been equally dormant.

However tonight, they were woefully given proper attention. With uniform cleaned and pressed, I began to adorn my uniform shirt with badge and banner. Dress blues as some call them, Class A’s as we address them. I painstakingly placed the name plate straight as a razor’s edge above the pocket, followed by my Advanced Peace Officer’s bar and next my Meritorious Service Award. Then one of my painfully favorite adornments, my F.T.O. badge, all top off with a small pin of the Flag of the United States of America. With polish on the belt and boots, all of the pieces are placed in the closet for tomorrow’s event.

While I have not worn the uniform in quite some time, I am not pleased to be wearing it this day. For it is not worn for battle, or duty, or fanfare, or praise. It is worn for honor. To honor a life to short lived, but lived none the less. To show honor for a family member of a blood line that can only be joined by courage, grit, integrity, and trust. And so, classically polished, like our brethren himself, we will honor his life, for it is those like him who have come before us that have made our profession what it is today.

“Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.”

A Sudden Change

This last October, I was scheduled to attend a conference in Austin, TX with one of my co-workers. We were given a work vehicle, and were supposed to pick it up from one of the other supervisor’s in our building the Monday before we left. This particular supervisor has worked here for around 30 years, and has contributed in several ways to our department. He is a no-nonsense type of man, but does have a good sense of humor, and is compassionate. The day I went to pick up the keys for our vehicle, I had several days’ growth of beard (which is fine while not working, but if working, is a serious no-no.) He looked at me funny and said, “What’s this shit?” as he rubbed his face. I answered, “Don’t worry Lieutenant, it will be gone before the conference starts,” and shot him a smile. He asked me a couple of other questions about our trip, but still seemed stumped and confused, like he couldn’t get past the beard. After getting the keys, we left for Austin and began our conference, which was a welcome respite from the daily drudges of our office lives.

The next day, I checked my work e-mail from my laptop. There was an e-mail reference this particular supervisor. Apparently sometime that evening, he had been at home, became very dizzy, and fell, slightly injuring himself. He had been taken to the hospital and they were running some tests.

Prior to this, there had been about 3 cases of people that I work with or members of their families having brain aneurisms, and I made the joke to my partner, “My beard freaked out Lt so much he had a brain aneurism!” (‘cause cops are just such dark humored people, we chuckled.) Little did I know.

He was later diagnosed with stage 4 Glioblastoma multiforme, the most common and most aggressive type of primary brain tumor in humans. He and his wife have made trips to the Mayo Clinic in hopes of finding treatment options, however, patients with Glioblastoma usually have a very poor prognosis. Information that we have gotten through e-mails from his family is that the left side of his body is paralyzed. He has returned home, and has begun treatment for the cancer.

This morning an e-mail showed up in everyone’s inbox at our department. It was informing us that he is now under Hospice care. He is alert, drinks well and has somewhat of an appetite, and is comfortable. The hardest part of the e-mail is the comment made by his wife, “I don’t know what kind of time frame we are looking at.”

Which is interesting and one of those “ultimate truth” statements. Here is a man that is one of the hardest workers in our department; a husband, a parent, a community figure, a good man. The last time I saw him, he was in a meeting with other leaders of our department, joking with me, and wishing us a fun and safe trip. In the time it took us to drive to Austin, get settled in to our hotel room and find a bite to eat, his entire world had changed. His entire families world had changed.

I’ve heard of people being diagnosed with terminal illnesses. I’ve heard of horrible accidents happening to people’s loved ones and the affect it had on them. But seeing someone moments before that life altering event, and then feeling the void that is there can be life altering in itself.

It should instill a fear. It should light a fire. It should remind you that even though you accomplish monumental things and are important in the small world in which you have spun for yourself, in the gigantic scheme of the universe and world, you are not so important, and could be gone within a matter of seconds, altered with words spoken, or tests run, or steps taken. So one should be filled with an urgent need to experience things, people, emotions, and places, to say they’ve lived. One should seek to make the experience important, the story of your life important, the differences and impact you have on people, place and thing important. Not to prove to the world how important you are, but to realize how important the world is to you. For it will be here long after we have come and gone.'

What kind of time frame are we dealing with? What does it matter?

Two Days of Fire

This week has turned out to be quite an interesting week. It started off on Sunday watching the Gold Medal round of the Olympic Hockey Tournament. Poor U.S.A. For anyone who watched the game, I'm sure you will agree that it was AWESOME! (That must be said with a falsetto voice and angelic vibrato!) Monday was uneventful, consisting only of work, home, family, and dinner. Followed by bed, which consisted of Shannon and I lying in bed for approximately 8 hours wishing to we could get some sleep, and not wanting to toss and turn for fear the other was asleep. Fun fun.

Then Tuesday came and added some spice (quite literally) to the week. It started with me arriving at work and after about thirty minutes, my partner in the office announced that he and I would be eating at Mike's, which is a small cafeteria in our building. Our culinary expedition would include the famed "Code 3" burger, which, as I would later learn, is the result of a challenge made by people who apparently enjoy eating food that has the flavor of a box of thumb tacks, nails, of charcoal just at the right temperature for cooking your summer barbecue. We bellied up to the bar and placed our order. The cafeteria was not packed, but there were enough people present that soon I felt like I had stepped into the arena and all eyes were on me to see how I handled the beast! We sat next to another co-worker who is some what famous for handling extreme foods and when I asked him how the "Code 3" burger was his reply was "It's warm."

"Oh dear," I thought in my head. "This won't be pretty." Luckily, I had a view of the kitchen, more importantly, direct line of sight to the "Sorcerer's Cauldron" where these hellish culinary demons were being created. Something of this magnitude is not merely made or cooked, but born or created. It took longer for our meals to arrive, which I'm still not sure if it just took that long, or if that's part of the show to make you wriggle and squirm and contemplate your doom. Finally they arrived.

At first glance, this appeared like any other normal burger. Bun, check. Patty, check. Lettuce, tomato, cheese, check. What, no pickles, oh what there they are, wait......what are those. Upon closer inspection, during a partial lettuce-ectomy, I found about 10 fresh sliced of Jalapenos mixed between the cheese and the top of the patty. Oh this will not due. I knew the burger itself was going to be hot, as I had witness repeated shakes from about 3 or 4 bottles that closely resembled Tabasco, Louisiana Hot Sauce, Cholula, and some other reddish liquid I am quite sure was sporting a label with background images of fire, peppers, a skull, a devil with a cheesy grin evil eyes and a pick fork aimed at the mouth of an unsuspecting diner. And after witnessing the "pain marinating" of the patty itself, I felt that the jalepeno's might have been a bit overkill, so they were happily kicked to the curb.

As I began to take the first bite, I felt like a rock star. The crowd went silent, and I could feel the fixed gazes of onlookers. It was either that, of the rush of pain had preceded me even taking the first bite. You the kind pain that at times can make the world go quite save the screaming that is taking place in your mind? Yeah, that kind of pain. The first bite was flavorful. The taste was very good. However about thirty seconds after thinking, "This is good." I followed with, "This is hot, and it hurts." Only said with that raspy, where on God's cool green Earth is my tea sounding voice. Then I realized, this is going to be a long meal.

I settled in to finish of the hell spawned quarter pounder, and finish it I did. Not without first deeply concerning some friends as they watched my face and neck turn from normal color to red, to deep red, then apparently to a deep reddish purple. I actually received a phone call later in the day as to inquire about my well being. Of course, the person who had made me attended such a masochistic meal happily chewed on his "Code 3" burger like it was a hot ham and cheese. My burge was either much worse than his, or I am a pansy.

So why finish a meal that after the first bit becomes all flame and no taste, simple. You see, when you work in a building full of police men, the only logical thing you can do is suffer through the pain. Because what ever burn the rest of the meal has in store for you, "and the residual burn the day after," it would never be as bad as being labeled, "the guy who's to weak to finish the "Code 3" burger. I would have never heard the end of it. Cops are weird that way.

The Call of the Wild

A few years ago, my wife and I took our two children to a state park about 20 miles from our home, more specifically, Palo Duro Canyon State Park, home to the 2nd largest canyon in the United States of America. We packed a picnic lunch, took our bikes and kid trailer so I could haul the two of them around on the road so they could take in the view, and we set out to visit the Grand Canyon of Texas!

Strangely, I have a feeling that that particular day sparked a change in me that has taken hold and began to grow magnificent roots within me. I remember first thinking and then speaking aloud to Shannon, “I bet the mountain bike trails are really fun out here.” Thus began the writing of grand history.

I have lived within and hour and a half drive of this canyon for all of my life. From the age of 1 to 28, I can only remember visiting this canyon approximately 6 times. There’s the possibility of more, but I could not recall them. These trips consisted mostly of attending the play Texas (which is grand in itself and is a must see) or visiting my wife, which at the time was my fiancé, who was working as a hostess at the amphitheater, which is where the play Texas is performed.
Between the ages of 28 to 32, I have probably made the trek to the canyon at least 25 times. With purposes ranging from mountain biking with friends and family and for causes, taking the kids on more picnic hikes but off of the road and back into side canyons and caves, to hiking with a good friend on a brisk if not devilishly cold New Years Day hike, that turned out to be an absolutely spectacular morning.

In between these retreats into the natural -wonder of my own backyard, I have sought out more of nature’s beauty within these United States. I visited the Grand Canyon, and longed to hike down to the mighty Colorado River that has carved out this most spectacular master piece over the ages. I’ve seen Sedona in all of its red rock wonder, along with Oak Creek Canyon. Gazed upon the vast wonder of the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, and have taken my family to the subterranean wonder of the Carlsbad Caverns. I’ve also began to seek out and educate myself on backpacking and rock climbing. I’ve amassed such knowledge through Google Earth, Wikipedia, and various books on Moab, The Great Gallery, Horseshoe Canyon, Rainbow Bridge National Monument, Antelope Canyon, The Wave, Zion National Park, Havasu Falls, Bright Angel Trail, and The Robber’s Roost area, that one may mistake me for a transplant from the Arizona/Utah border.

All of this has led to a fiery yearning for the great outdoors. I dream of slinging a pack over my shoulder and diving off of the grid into the wild, to gain solitude and silence in an attempt to clear my mind. I want to share with my wife and children strange new landscapes and magnificent wilderness. To have my children stand with jaws agape when they see all of the stars in the night sky, with that being the only source of light around for miles like my sister and I did standing in a clearing in the mountains of Colorado. To see the expression of fear and excitement the first time they come running into camp shouting of the bear, deer, skunk or other wildlife they caught glimpse of while having some adventure. I want them to welcome the night and prepare for slumber under the light of the moon and a Coleman lantern, and nothing else. But perhaps most importantly, for them to know that there is a world of majestic wonder for them to take in far away from their own. A place free of hustle and bustle where they can go to recharge, focus, and meditate, and realize that there is so much more to behold past your own back door. For my children to be able to navigate it and trust it and view it as a refuge, not a large scary world that is barren and hazardous.

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings: Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine into flowers, the winds will blow their freshness into you, and the storms, their energy-and cares will drop off like autumn leaves.” -John Muir

Lessons to be Learned

For most of the past week my family and I have been enjoying the Games of the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. I hope most of you have been taking in the amazing feats of the Worlds athletes as well. The things, they have accomplished, the sacrifices that that have made, the injuries, disappointments, and set backs that they have endured carry the power to inspire all of us, and look them with pride and admiration.

The stories behind their lives gives us a glimpse at what they’ve been through to get to where they are, and where they are going, and can make us cheer for them, regardless of who they are, where they are from, and what language, cultural, or religious barriers separate us.

Amazingly, during a few motivating and inspiring weeks during the summer and winter, and spanned over a couple of years, we are able to ignore this, and cheer for the athletes we watch as just that, athletes, human beings that have trained and pushed themselves beyond all expectations but their own. Molded and shaped themselves like craftsmen, to keep the body from doing what it physically wants to do, to where it will do what their minds command it to do.

During these weeks, the world is capable of embracing everyone as a person, seeing only their focus, emotion, triumph, or failure. Watching on either with a rush of adrenaline, screaming and cheering, smiling and laughing at their victory, be it personal or competitive, or feel saddened, sympathetic, and hurt along with them during their disappointments, sometimes to the point of tears, because we wanted them so badly to succeed.

Yet sadly in many cases, once the flames of world unity have been extinguished from the Olympic games, so too have they been extinguished from the hearts and minds of the world. People tend to go back to their close-minded ways. Seeing people only for what is presented in front of them. Not caring to ponder the heart wrenching or awe inspiring prospective piece that is their lives, where they have come from, what they’ve endured, what they are currently going through.

I’m not claiming that I’m impervious to prejudices and preconceived opinions about people. Just a human being, trying to learn, trying to capture light bulbs, and keep them glowing, along with the flame of world unity. That flame will flicker, it will get blown from the winds of prejudice, racism, and intolerance of others, but may it never die out. Help me guard the flame, and keep it blazing for all to see, for all to feel its warmth, and bask in it’s unifying glow.

Jungles, Treasure, and D.P.D.

I have the honor of shuttling my son to day care every morning during the school year. Some mornings are fairly uneventful; we drive in silence listening to the radio while he looks out the window, sometimes covering his eyes because “The sun is hot on his eyes.” Other mornings he is a ball of fire playing with the toys he bring along or me. At times I amass quite of collection of toys ranging from Optimus Prime to Hot Wheels cars. Most of the time he is content flying them around or racing them along his leg or the door. Today was an interesting morning, as I was privy to a Hollywood-esque dialogue between an Imperial Storm Trooper and Fuzzy Turtle. Here is the transcript, and I kid you not, this was all from him.

Storm Trooper: Ok, we have to go into that jungle to get the treasure…and the cube.
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok
Storm Trooper: But, we have to be careful.
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok
Storm Trooper: But, once we get into the jungle we have to be careful.
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok, we’ll be careful.
Storm Trooper: Ok
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok
Storm Trooper: Ok, so while we’re in there, we’ll get the cube, and look for the Treasure Mint, they’re good.
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok
Storm Trooper: But, we have to be careful, because it’s dangerous.
Fuzzy Turtle: Dangerous? Ok.
Storm Trooper: Yes, dangerous, but, there is Danger Pant Dinosaur in that jungle, and he will eat you.
Fuzzy Turtle: I don’t like Danger Pant Dinosaur, he’s scares me.
Storm Trooper: I know, and he will eat you up, and your Treasure Mint too.
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok
Storm Trooper: Ok, so let’s go get the cube, and the Treasure Mints, and then we’ll be good.
Fuzzy Turtle: Ok

It trailed off into a quiet secretive series of “psssts” and “sssssrrrrsss” from there as Storm Trooper and Fuzzy Turtle apparently plotted the best tactical way to enter the jungle, secure the treasure, cube, and Treasure Mints, and avoid, trick, or dispatch Danger Pant Dinosaur.
Storm Trooper and Fuzzy Turtle are now tucked neatly into Ethan’s car seat waiting for round two of the act, and keeping a sharp eye out for D.P.D.

A Beast Awaits

A beast has infiltrated my house. He’s been here for about a week now, and has the ability to shape shift. He’s taken different forms over the last week, and has beaten me to a pulp.

His attacks vary in degree. Sometimes he creeps up on me subtly, sometimes a full frontal guerilla style attack that leaves me huddled in the kitchen floor short of breath and crying, desperately trying to find my happy place. As I lay there, weeping, I clutch tightly to the only weapon I can find to defeat the beast, a shiny tined fork.

I speak of The Birthday Cake Monster. A vicious combatant capable of slaying the most iron willed men and women amongst the human race. His forms this week have varied. From a quaint, unassuming white cake with pretty multi-colored butter cream icing, to a massive, hulking heavy multi-layered German Chocolate Cake. Its latest incarnation is in the form of a Lemon Cake dripping with lemon frosting, and has even appeared as delicious Valentine’s sugar cookies. A devilish master of disguise is he.

He’s called to me this week as I sit, studying on the couch. Perched like a gothic gargoyle on top of the refrigerator, he taunts me, calling me names, telling me how sissy I look sitting there sipping my water. Telling me a real man would be elbow deep in a slab of baker’s dreams with crumbs falling from the mouth. I turn, giving the Birthday Cake Monster a nervous eye, trying to keep focused on the task at hand, but he’s too strong. He pummels me with icing fist, and moist cake layered roundhouse kicks with Chuck Norris like lethal precision. The beatings are quick and precise, and end just as quickly as they began. The beast tosses me back to the couch in a pathetic heap of sobbing shattered will. I lick my wounds and picture myself looking similar to Professor Klump from “The Nutty Professor” attempting to drink a mason jar full of M&M’s. I try and gather myself and regain my will power.

But there will be another battle, another fight. The Demon will call to me, and I will engage with fiery passion. Raising my fork and give a mighty yawp, I will run to the kitchen eager to dispatch my enemy with the gnashing of teeth, the clattering of metal fork weaponry and ceramic plate shield.

For defeat is sweet. Oh wait….that should be the other way around. Oh well. It’s still pretty sweet.

The Circle of Life

Tis true, on this date thirty two years ago, I came into the world. A bouncing baby boy, that has had a life full of bounces both fun, and some not so fun. (Car induced bounces are so not fun!)



Strangely, one can reflect back on their lives in an attempt to analyze where they have been, where they are, and where they are going. One can find the things they love to do, things they used to love to do, and things they would like to do.



My analysis has found an interesting "Circle of Life" type of twist and where I am and where I am going, at least presently.



During my time on Planet Earth, I have enjoyed several different types of sports. Some I was excellent at, and some not so much. I've played soccer as a little kid (though Dad would argue that it was nothing more the Herd Ball), I've attempted Football, loved Baseball, had some success as a Golfer, and Paintball. One thing I did all of the time but never really considered it a sport was cycling. Now all children ride bikes and have fun. But when I rode a bike, it was special. I was fast, I could jump anything, and somethings I jumped, I probably shouldn't have. "If Mom knew about the Half Pipe down the street, I'd probably still be grounded." Strangely, withing the last 3 years, cycling has come full circle. Each year over the past 3 years, I've bought a new bike. First, one that helped me shed nearly 70 pounds, next a Mountain Bike that I have ripped up all kinds of trails on, and a road bike that is helping keep of the 70 pounds and is giving me a competitive itch. I raced my first bike race this last November during a Mountain Bike Marathon event placing 4th out of 32 in my category. It's sport now, baby.



Also, I've enjoyed different artistic experiences during life. I gained an appreciation for music during elementary school. Sang in choir from middle school into college. Began to play guitar during high school and became very good at it. Started playing drums in a Jazz band during college. Began to enjoy photography. Have been in multiple bands in the last 8 years playing both drums and guitar. Over the last couple of years though, the music took a dive, I became frustrated and vanquished all but my two guitars and hardly ever played those. Now within the last two weeks, I have been invited to play guitar at a dinner party with a long time friend, and have also been asked to play Bass guitar in his long time band.



I have found it strange that after 32 years, and the changes that I have been through, that I have come back to to two things in life that I dearly loved as a child and teen. Cycling has become an important part of my life now, and music, as much as I've tried to squash it, still re-surfaces, even stronger that before.



I suppose one can change, but they can never really change.



P.S. Thank you to all that have donated part of you to make me the whole that I am today. Mom, Dad, Momo, Popo, Shannon, Madison, Ethan, Courtney, Rob, Opa, Oma, Grandpa Kay, Chase, Shelly, Jeff, and whoever they got the cadaver tissue for my knee from! I love all of you and would be lost without such awesome friends and family.

Light Bulbs

Human beings, being creatures of habit, have the ability to meticulously set themselves into a routine that can allow them to virtually go through their day without thinking or realizing what they are doing. Once these motions have been set and rehearsed over and over, people have the ability to do certain things, giving them little or no attention, and focus on something else completely.

Take your morning routine for example. How hard do you think about your shower, brushing your teeth, combing your hair, pouring a drink, what you are going to eat.

How about your morning commute? How often have you driven to work and once there thought "I don't remember anything about my drive this morning."

Depending on your particular job, the same can happen there. You can also have a routine for when you get home from work until you go to bed.

The proverbial Human Robot, set into action by the chiming alarm clock and set to shut down once the Solar Energy source has left the sky.

I'm not saying that these routines are bad, or misplaced, just that without properly identifying signs, they can be dangerous.

These routines allow us to focus extra energy to things that need special attention. Once well rehearsed, they can be sped up or slowed depending on if an emergency arises, or if somehow in our busy lives we find extra time.

But live by these routines to long without shaking them down and checking them for efficiency, and they can become ruts. Mind muddying ruts that can project the feeling of the "Hamster Wheel". So one needs to look for light bulbs.

The type of light bulbs that shine brightly over ones head in the instant that they realize "Hey, I got it, that makes sense, I can use that." Those type of moments happen everyday, it's up to the person to realize the light bulb moment and be willing to say to themselves, "I've been doing this wrong, that makes sense, and I need to change it." Looking for light bulbs is not enough. Once you find it, you need to grab it, plug it in and nurture it. Keep it burning with the intensity that was there when you found it.

With out care, it will burn out, dimming the corridor of the change that was being walked, leaving you lost, only to fall back to the routine, that will momentarily feel safe and familiar, but will soon become the dark rut again.

Ode to the 'Baru

This was written for my Subaru Outback 2.5i., and Subaru owners of all walks. Enjoy.

To those that do not know you, you appear small, weak, and strange. Unassuming in your shiny, innocent white coat, and neo-sheek Griswold family station wagon post Gastric Bypass procedure design. They mock you for not being a "man's car".

They do not know you.

Sitting at the red light with the powder crunched beneath your tires and the foggy exhaust rolling from behind you they laugh. "He's gonna get that thing stuck." "He'll be asking me to pull him out in about a quarter mile or so."

They do not know you.

"That thing's gonna break like a kids armless Spiderman rolling through this snow!"

They do not know you.
But I know you. I know you very well.

While you enjoy chauffeuring my children, my wife, my pets, and my bikes around with the utmost sense of duty and responsibility, you long for an alternate life.
While you enjoy long drives to distant places for our relaxation and enjoyment, you long for an alternate life.

You have heard tale of your brothers, sisters, cousins, and ancestors, carrying no cargo, shuffling no children. These legends that you have heard tale of, scream over dirt, mud, or snow, in blinding feats of speed and cornering, focused only on "get there as quick as you can". Oh to have but a taste of that life would surely tide you over, satisfy that lusty itch for which you were not created.

I know you, and I will indulge you.

With children absent from your back seats, and wife away, we will play, we will live. We will find an open pasture of highway filled with snow and slush absent of assuming villains, and the clique's of "popular transportation sheeple", and we will live.

Like Superman from the phone booth, or Batman from the cave, we will hurl ourselves into this alternate life, we will fly, we will corner, we will find the mud and the grime. We will indulge our child like fantasy for the day. We will dine on slush and snow, mud and muck until our stomach's become distended from adrenaline and joy!

And once we have had our fill, we will quietly roll ourselves back to the norm. We will again become Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne. The mild mannered 'Baru. Toting kids, getting the groceries, taking the Fam on the cheesy vacation.

For we know, and because we know, we are happy.

The Windogo

Few things are more tale telling than the morning ritual. Everyone has a set way they get up, get ready, get fueled, and get out the door. Begin to throw wrenches into this near-robotic act, and the outlook of the day can go from cheery to bleak faster than money can leave your pocket in Vegas. But some things can bring it to a halt in an eyebrow raising moment of disgust and laughter.

Take this morning for instance. I was the only one who had to be ready and leave the house for anything due to the snowstorm, and so I started my morning ritual. During which my children rose from their beds, and my wife cooked us breakfast, and we sat at the table and ate happily. Our two labs, Jasper and Tank, who are used to running dawn patrol in the backyard were scampering around the kitchen, anxiously awaiting dropped morsels of “human food” from the table.

This is when Jasper began his olfactory assault like a SEAL Team in the dead of night. Walking by the table he would eek out flatulence without so much as a warning or smirky glance of “take that”. The only indication you had that something was wrong was a faint hiss, much like that of a skilled ninja assassin whispering to his victim “sayonara” before their demise. Then, just as the synapses in your brain decipher what fate is upon you, you find yourself enveloped in the “death cloud”, as if you’ve awoken from a deep sleep to find you town wrapped in some mysterious fog, all senses lost except for ancient survival instincts that have kicked in. You run, only to find that the ninja assassin has laid an intricate string of deadly traps for which there is no escape.

So, does this chain of events bring gloom to a day, or does one drive to work with sly grin and twinkle in the eye saying “My dog is a ninja, rock on.”

The Death of a Toy

Few things in childhood are as magical as a favorite toy. With the power to transform normal sprints through the house into small stints of crime fighting bliss or high speed races and crashes, toys add high octane to already super revved imaginations. Every person can remember one or a couple of toys that specifically became amazing play pals of early childhood.

However, the day when that magical friend passes on to the great toy box in the sky can be strange. Young children, not yet grasping the weight of life and death, can move on to the next toy, perhaps only to reminisce later in life about how special the play thing once was.
Toys usually live a full, adventurous, and chaotic life. A list of their endeavor can include but are not limited to flying, fighting, being a sleeping buddy, consuming mass quantities of tea, racing in Barbie Jeeps, lying around naked, the list is endless. Which can greatly affect the suddenness of the passing of the toy. Given these circumstances, it can either be quick, or a long drawn out process.

For instance, I give you Spiderman. Spiderman had been with us for approximately 8 months before his passing. However, he had only been with us about 3 day when this occurred.



Several failed attempts were made to reattach the limb.

Over the next several months, Spiderman was stricken with various other ailments. His head continued to come off and had to be reattached several times. (Some genius toy engineer though that non anchored ball and socket joint on toys were a wonderful idea. He didn’t realize the Grandma Esther Hip Syndrome the toys would acquire.)
Spiderman also lost fingers on his remaining web slinging hand, until one night he passed suddenly, via this unexplained phenomena.


He is survived by Buzz Lightyear, Sheriff Woody, and by Optimus Prime. (Suffering from early stages of G.E.H.S.)

Dawn at Das Langhaus Part I “The Rousing and the Meal”

I am fortunate in the fact that I don’t have to be at work until 9am. I am unfortunate in the fact that since I don’t have to be at work until 9am, I have to stay until 5pm. While this time spot fulfills the normal 8 hour work day requirement (which I have no problem in that obligation) it forces me to hit rush hour traffic and all the intricate idiotic parade of people who find it much more important to make as many calls or send as many texts from point A to point B as possible, instead of making it from point A to point B without swerving, wrecking, and destroying the world and all those who inhabit it.

However, this minor, though life-threatening inconvenience is thoroughly offset by my morning routine. You see I get to be the master of the morning. I like to think that without me, my family would go blindly into the day’s events without fuel or focus. Conceded? Yes. True. Well……….maybe. Ok, probably not.

Anyway, my morning task begins with rousing my daughter. This is usually a good indication of how the morning is going to flow. It’s like opening door A or B on “Let’s Make a Deal.” Will it be the shiny new 1978 Ford Pinto, or the 4-day-old bowl of porridge from the Broadway Musical “Goldie Locks and the Three Bears”??? If Madi sits up smiles and pops out of bed, we’re off to a good start and hopefully a pain free morning. If there is an assortment of groans, grumbles, and occasional tears, God be with us because things are not looking bright.
Next, I take a couple of minutes to get myself partially ready and then move to 3 year old Ethan’s room, which is an adventure for Indiana Jones and Lara Croft to tackle as a team. The plethora of waking reactions from this child is a mathematical nightmare for the finest of scientists, ranging anywhere from him leaping out of bed in fifth gear ready for anything, to the reaction I got yesterday. Pulling the covers back over his blond head of Hair Fairy visited hair he grumbles in his low voice, “Go way Daddy, I sleepin’.” I oblige by heading for the kitchen to make breakfast for everyone.

Coffee for the adults, juice, milk, or on the special occasion, “chocolate milk”, is poured for all to enjoy followed by cereal, oatmeal, waffles, eggs, bacon…whatever has been decided on as the morning meal. This is usually the time Shannon emerges from our bathroom looking beautiful for her day of work, Madison comes from her room dressed and ready for school, and Ethan comes one of two ways to the kitchen: either running in Usain Bolt like fashion, or still groggy dragging from a hard night of Professional Sleep Fighting.

The meal is usually consumed without incident, lunches are packed, kisses given and Shannon and Madison head out the door for school. Leaving me to finish getting ready for work with Ethan. Here’s where things get funny…but that’s for another day.