thursday april 28. one last time, for the greatest writer we'll ever be blessed enough to read ...

“Hello darkness, my old friend.

I’ve come to talk with you again.

Because a vision softly creeping?

Left its scenes while I was sleeping.

And the vision that was planted

In my brain?

Still remains,

Within the sound of silence …

In restless dreams?  I walked along

Narrow streets of cobblestone.

‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp?

I turned my collar to the cold and damp,

When my eyes were stabbed

By the flash of a neon light,

That split the night,

And touched the sound?  Of silence.

And in the naked light I saw?

Ten thousand people – maybe more!

People talking without speaking!

People hearing without listening!

People writing songs

That voices never shared!

‘Cause no one dared

Disturb the sound?  Of silence …

Fools, said I?  You do not know!

Silence?  Like a cancer grows!

Hear my words?  That I might teach you!

Take my arms?  That I might reach you!

But my words?

Like silent raindrops fell,

And echoed in the wells?

Of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed,

To the neon god they made!

And the sign flashed out its warning –

And the words that it was forming?

And the sign said,

The words of the prophets?

Are written on the subway walls!

And tenement halls!

And whispered in?

The sound … of silence …”

-- “The Sound of Silence”, so epically covered by Disturbed last fall …

--------------------

The Sound of Silence.

Jesus, what a phrase.  The Sound of Silence.  At once, it strikes you as patently absurd – how can silence make a sound?  And then, on second glance, you realize the utter brilliance of Paul Simon’s poetry – what greater sound could be made, than no sound at all?

The sound of silence, at its core, means the end.  When communication ceases?  Relationships die.  And when you, as a person, cease to communicate – through any form of communication?

Then the end is here.

And sadly, that is the case today.

Today, my favorite sports writer of all time – and in my opinion (and I’m not the only one who feels this way), THE greatest sports writer of all time – has gone silent.

Forever.

The great Blackie Sherrod passed away this afternoon, at the young, productive age of 96.  I almost noted in last week’s post that the end was near – SportsDay, the sports section of America’s greatest newspaper, The Dallas Morning News, had noted Mr. Sherrod entered hospice care last week.

(That, and let's face it, that post was heavy on nostalgia of something you never, ever, ever want to forget, for even a moment of time.)

I came late in life to Mr. Sherrod – I never read a column of his until I was a sophomore in high school, and my parents – in a rare, rare moment of being lead consumers! – signed us up for this magical new subscriber site known as America On Line, for this fancy new thing former Vice President Gore invented called “the internet”.

The Dallas Morning News – just further proof that it is truly the greatest publication to ever exist – posted all their columns online.  It’s how I discovered Rick Gosselin, Kevin Blackistone, Tim Cowlishaw, Norman Chad, Evan Grant, Randy Galloway, and the newly rediscovered (for me, at least, since until Sunday the Stars hadn't mattered to me since Game Seven against Vancouver in 2007) Mike Heika.

But one of the shining stars of America’s best newspaper – and unquestionable greatest sports section – grabbed my attention above all the others: Blackie Sherrod.

After three years of loving the paper – and Mr. Sherrod’s columns – online, I moved to the Metroplex in 1995 to attend college.  I paid an extra $.25 every morning to subscribe to the Morning News, instead of the inferior Fort Worth Star-Telegram … which every TCU student could grab for free out of the paper machines anywhere on campus.  Me?  I subscribed to the Morning News.  I still have the key to that paper machine somewhere in the Cigar Box of Memories.

Even to this day, I pay almost $10 / month to access the paywall of the Morning News.  Why? 

Come on, isn’t it obvious? 

Blackie Sherrod!

Every Sunday until his health tanked last summer, I so damned anticipated his Scattershooting column to start my Sunday.  And I wasn’t the only one – it was tradition on The Bus ride in for tailgating, that I’d read Mr. Sherrod’s column to Russ the Bus Man on the drive in.  Pull it up on the phone, scroll through 700 some odd words of brilliance that never failed to make you laugh, smile, giggle, cry, or applaud – often all five emotions within a 100 word stretch. 

A simple five minutes of time … that will never happen again.

Because as of today, and every day forward, all that remains … is the sound of silence, from Mr. Sherrod.

I need a drink.  A stiff, stiff drink, to deal with this ... and what The Sound of Silence truly means.

So for one final time – in honor of the greatest that ever was, and ever will be, in the world of written sports journalism – let’s go scattershooting on this site, while wondering what the hell I am possibly thinking, trying to honor Greatness by typing, when I am not even 1/1,938,384,295,698,847th decent enough of a writer, to pull this off, compared to Blackie Sherrod …

* The Draft. 

I hope the Chiefs trade out of round one … unless Paxton Lynch is sitting there at 28.

For the record, I don’t think he will be.  But damn, what a temptation that should be, to Mr. Dorsey.  Who eleven years ago, did what I argued “One Bad Ass Negotiator” King Carl should have done: take the sliding for nobody knows why reasons quarterback of the 2005 draft, Aaron Rodgers.

(Come on, it’s the only time in my life I’ve clearly and totally won an argument with The Voice of Reason.  I refuse to let it go.  Aaron Rodgers trumps Derrick Johnson, period.)

(Oh, and in Mr. Reason's defense?  Let's forget this ever happened.  Jesus, how f*cked up was I, to think Ryan Mallett was the answer, to a question that didn't need asked?)

Unless Paxton Lynch, QB, Memphis is the pick?  I hope we trade down, pick up a third for our consideration, and repeat 2011 – when we traded down with Cleveland (who moved up to get Brandon Weeden – hang on, I need five minutes to laugh over this trade, and you will momentarily …), the Browns moved up to get Brandon Weeden, gave us Numero Seventy overall, and Scott Pioli promptly turned in the card with the name “Justin Houston” on it, the following night.

Let that sink in – the Browns essentially traded Justin Houston for Brandon Weeden.

I’m guessing someone in the Browns front office was smoking at least some of Mr. Weeden’s last name, when that deal was made.

* Forty Games in Forty Nights.

Well, this is sucking so far.

The Clippers are in utter hell right now.  Blake Griffin, done for the postseason.  Chris Paul?  Probably finished.  They trail the Blazers 3-2 after last night’s defeat at Staples.  And this really p*sses me off, because the Clippers at even semi-reasonable health, would have put the fear of God Himself into the Warriors, with or without Stephen Curry.

On the bright side out West, we’re guaranteed one more epic Spurs / Thunder showdown.  Durant and Westbrook against Duncan and Parker (and now Aldridge) one more time.  I’m guessing NONE of these classics will wind up on NBA TV.

In the East?  Utter chaos.  The Celtics face a do-or-die tonight at the Fake Garden against a “how the hell do they keep winning enough games to get home court?!?!?!” Hawks squad.  The Heat face a do-or-die tomorrow against, of all teams, the freaking Charlotte Hornets.  I mean, Charlotte Bobcats.  I mean … sh*t folks – the squad that employed Nathan F*cking Scott, is one win away from ending Miami’s run of excellence in this decade!  A team run by Michael Jordan is about to become one of the last eight teams standing!

And my pick to win the O’Brien?  Thankfully has a game to play with, thanks to one of the greatest comebacks I’ve ever been privileged enough to watch on my television: the Toronto Raptors.

For the record, my Finals pick is Raptors over Warriors in 5.  They’re gonna steal Game One at the Oracle, and then #RTZNation is going to turn the Air Canada Centre into the most frightening home court advantage in NBA history.

* Also, how awesome is it that a team that Spells Centre CORRECTLY is a legitimate viable threat to win the O’Brien?  I might need a towel to clean up, just thinking about that.

* The Royals.

How awesome was Opening Night?  They had the little alphabet blocks, with the balloons in them, like the Chiefs!  A lil’ r, o, y, a, l, s!  You’re damned right I cried seeing those balloons launch!

Also, how awesome is it that the Boyz N Blue haven’t been below .500 since July 23, 2014?  Not even an 0-1, 1-2, 3-4 blip; not even a 51-51 blip since they rose to 50-50 on that magical Wednesday night two years ago.  How is that even possible?

I went to the game last Saturday night; made a ridiculous purchase I’m hauling out for work tomorrow.  (Note: I am fairly sure I’ve never paid more for a freaking t-shirt, than I did at the Royals Team Store last Saturday.  The first digit, including tax, would be a 5.  And there’s another number between said 5, and the decimal point.  Having said that, I’ve rarely if ever been more geeked to put this thing on for the first time, tomorrow morning.)

This week is a drag so far – three losses to a decent Angels team.  But how great is it, that a three game losing streak is causing people to freak out?  It was only three, four years ago, a three game losing streak wouldn’t even grab anyone’s attention in this town!

* The Election.

I have a whole other post (almost done) about this … but I’ll sum it up in three short points:

1. This site strongly endorses Madam Secretary Clinton in the election.

2. I cannot WAIT to FINALLY cast my vote, for the Madam Secretary.  And

3. I’m actually OK with it, if Mr. Trump wins. The reason why, might stun you.

(OK, fine, I’m not “OK” with it – I’ll be more fuming mad than I was after the Supreme Court’s indefensible ruling in Bush v Gore sixteen years ago.  I’ve waited twelve f*cking years to elect Mrs. Clinton to the office she was born to hold.  I’ve waited twelve years to restore this country to the greatness it was under her husband.  She should have run in 2004 – she’d have cleaned Mr. Bush’s clock.  She should have been the nominee in 2008 – Mr. Obama wasn’t qualified for the job.  If some reality show star denies her the destiny us PUMA Democrats have been praying for, for eight years now?  I’m gonna be p*ssed. 

But not as p*ssed, as if she lost to Lying Ted.  And in those two words – Lying Ted?  Is the reason I’m shockingly becoming accepting of a potential Donald J Trump “House of Wings” Presidency.)

* My Health.

Is OK.  I guess that’s good – it’s OK.

My blood pressure spiked again last month; I had a return visit to Dr. Frank, who doubled the milligram dosage for the Lisinopril I’ve been on for six months.  (From 12.5mg to 25mg.  As Dr. Frank noted: “you’re in bad shape for someone not even 40!”  As I noted to Dr. Frank: “you’ve kept my dad alive for twenty years longer than he should have lived.  Don’t retire yet!”)

If you don’t have blood pressure issues, then you won’t get how it feels.  It literally feels like my head and neck are on fire.  That, I can live with.  I’ve always sweated more than the average bear; being constantly hot has never bothered me.  (Nor hurt me – (rimshot!)  Well, save for that STD test (rimshot!)  I kid, I kid … I think.  J )

But what’s weird is how the slightest thing can set me off.  Tuesdays are my late day, with our standing meeting with Seattle that usually devolves within ten minutes into a two hour b*tch fest / shouting match.  That meeting?  Never phases me.  Almost like my body is used to it.

But I can get an email that seems innocent enough in my inbox, and within five minutes I have to plug in a fan, and need a wet wash cloth, just to cool off enough to see.  (Not sure if this is normal, but when my blood pressure goes through the roof, I literally can’t see.  I don’t feel faint, I don’t collapse, I just get blinded.  “Adam Scott”, what say you – is this normal?)

Anyways, you didn’t come here to read about me, you came here to read about what I think.  So let’s get back to the task at hand.

* Indy 500.

I so want to go.  It’s the 100^th.  Mr. Penske himself is driving the pace car.  I guarantee you major, major lobbying efforts are being made to bring Mr. Back Home Again in Indiana himself, our good friend, Mr. Jim Nabors, back for one last hurrah. 

Hit me up, Stevo Nation.  Anybody up for this?

* Chiefs Schedule.

I have no complaints.  Save for one.

I love that Houston is early (Week Two), and that it’s at a time of the month, where I can take an entire week, head down to my adopted home state, and spend at least one day in the searing heat on a beach somewhere on the Gulf. 

I love that Indy is in the middle of the season (Week Eight) – still decent enough to not be a weather / travel threat to make it, but late enough that the sanity of putting a f*cking roof over a football stadium, is beyond obvious.

I love that the oakland roadie is early enough – for the first time – that all my South Dakota peeps will still be there.  (And I also, like my South Dakota friends, am optimistic the raiders are moving to Vegas.  Jesus, Mr. Reason and bts would make every road game from now to eternity at the raiders, when this happens.  (cue Brent and Gregg nodding in agreement …)

I love the finish at San Diego – the weakest team in the division, and it’s not even close.

I love the Jets slot – the national slot, late afternoon to close September.  I pray it’s as gorgeous a day, as the Eagles in that slot 11 years ago was.  (And I pray it’s a better outcome – Philly rallied from down 23-6 to win 37-30, on one of the most perfect weather days in Arrowhead history: 90 and sunny, to close September 2005.)

And I love – I mean LOVE – hosting satan’s squad, on Christmas Night, in the hallowed grounds of Terrorhead Stadium.

The Sound of Silence?  Will NOT be an issue Christmas Night.

(Hey, lookie there Mabel -- he worked that whole theme song thingy into the post yet again!  Jumpin' jerwillekers, Mabel, how is this guy not employed by a national site?)

(And side note: could NOT be prouder of my buddy Heath.  Job well done dude!  From complaining about "the herd" not getting their extra fifteen minutes for lunch on Short Fridays, to National Sports Writer for Reputable National Site in barely ten years!  And to think, this was us eight short years ago ...)

I even have to applaud the NFL, for scheduling the Chiefs out of town all but one weekend in October -- because even the NFL computers that create the schedule, know how great the Boyz N Blue are going to be again, in 2016.

My only complaint … is the raiders.  At home. 

On Thursday, December 8.

One prime time game at home in the hellish cold that is December in Kansas City, is bad enough.  (Doubt me?  Anyone remember denver in 2014?  Seven degrees at kickoff, on December 1.  Minnesota in 1999?  14 degrees at kickoff, on a Sunday night in December 1999.  Philly in 2001?  Was so cold, the leftover Jack Stack froze during the game.  Prime time games in December at Arrowhead = damned cold.)

But two of them?

Ridiculous.

(Also, the Chiefs are going 12-4, winning the AFC West, and will throttle the Jacksonville Jaguars in the Divisional Round, before hosting … your oakland raiders, in the AFC Championship Game.  I’m telling you right now, hosting oakland with a f*cking Super Bowl on the line?  Is going to have this city going more ape sh*t crazy, than November 3, 2015 was.  And that only saw 800,000 plus descend on Union Station.  If a Royals championship draws literally 1 out of every 3 people who lives within 50 miles of the Town Pavilion?  What is a Chiefs Super Bowl going to draw – the entire godd*mned five county metro area, plus Douglas and Cass Counties to boot?)

* (Doo Doo Doo Doo Do Doo Doo!) Go Stars Go!

Tomorrow night, meaningful hockey returns to North Texas, as the Stars host the Blues in Game One of the de facto Central Division Championship.

So allow me to say, how f*cking cool I think it is, the NHL has gone back (for the most part) to the Divisional Playoffs they held for most of my childhood.

You not only have to make the playoffs from your division … but you have to defeat your division in the postseason, to even have a chance, at Lord Stanley’s Cup.

Gary Bettman is a f*cking idiot.  But even a broken clock is right twice a day.  And damn, did he nail this postseason re-format or what?

(Also, Stars in 5 if Tyler Seguin plays in all 5; Stars in 7 if he appears in less than 5.  Get better dude!  Jamie Benn can’t do this alone!)

If you loved hockey in the late 1990s / early 2000s before Gary Bettman f*cked it all to hell (with an assist from the Devils trap zone)?  You will LOVE this Stars team.  That third period on Sunday was hockey at its finest – the Wild threw literally everything at Dallas.  Four goals in a period when they trailed by four … and Dallas held on because of one of the sweetest breakaways you’ll ever see.

I cannot wait for this series to start.

If only to one again make our “good friends” to the East of the state, bend over and assume the position, they bend over and assume so well.

* Finally …

The Sound of Silence.

I’m not a huge fan of sites that lecture you, if only because (a) the writer doesn’t know you personally, so who is (s)he to judge you, and (b) the writer is usually full of sh*t (s)himself, that (s)he's dark brown 24/7/365.  (Or in 2016, 24/7/366!)

(Note: both (a) and (b) apply here!)

But trust me on this:

Don’t EVER let The Sound of Silence? 

 Become a way of life for you.

Today marks two years to the day, to the last time I “spoke” to someone that was once my best friend in life.  I sent him a quick email two years ago today, to inquire about a dude we were seeking to hire at “current employer”, who I sorta, kinda remembered from our days at Transamerica.  

Said former best friend’s response didn’t stun me; if anything, it just reinforced what I thought of Kyle -- who I am damned proud to not only call a fellow employee, but a friend, as of this posting.

That was our last “communication”, that generated a response worth mentioning.

Because in person, face to face?  “The Champ” and I haven’t spoken in longer than that, by a couple months.

The Sound of Silence between us?  Has destroyed a friendship that was once so epic, we simply called it "The Family", and NOBODY who knew of us, thought that was anything but fact.

So yeah, The Sound of Silence between us?  Haunts me.

Sh*t, it’s probably responsible for at least 10mg of the Lisinopril I cannot get to tomorrow?  

Without choking down tonight.

(Side rant: I cannot swallow pills to save my life.  The Lisinopril?  At least melts in your mouth like a a M&M.  Kinda like Benadryl, another pill I cannot get to tomorrow, without choking down tonight.)

What we have become, haunts me.  As in, nightmares at times, haunts me.  

Because the sh*t, the utter bullsh*t that caused "The Sound of Silence", is such bullsh*t, it’s pathetic, embarrassing, and should repulse everyone involved.  (And it does repulse me – violently.  Sadly, it only repulses me at this point.)

Which is probably why I love the Disturbed version of this incredible song, far more than I love the legendary original by Simon and Garfunkle.

Because somehow?  Disturbed’s version?

Is optimistic! 

Seriously, give it a listen, if you didn't click the opening link:

It’s upbeat!  It gives you a reason to hope, to believe, that The Sound of Silence doesn’t have to be, uuh, a sound of silence!

It’s a declaration that – contrary to what the words indicate – The Sound of Silence does not have to be!

Peoples and peepettes?  Listen to the words of the song.  And do yourself one favor.

Don’t EVER become, what Dusty and I, have become ... and are probably destined to be.

"The Sound of Silence."

Speak.  Listen.  Apologize.  

Acknowledge f*ck up and failure.

Because The Sound of Silence?

Is the single most f*cked up thing, life has to offer anyone.

Because if today’s tragic loss has taught me anything?  It is this:

How the f*ck can ANYONE overcome, a permanent "sound of silence" ...

monday may 12: in tribute to a friend ...

“She’s got a smile,

That it seems to me?

Reminds me

Of childhood memories.

Where everything was as fresh?

As the bright blue sky …

Now and then?

When I see her face?
It takes me away,

To that special place.

And if I stare too long?

I’ll probably break down and cry!

Oh!  Oh, oh!

Sweet Child Of Mine!

Oh!  Oh, oh, oh!

Sweet Child Of Mine! …”

-- “Sweet Child Of Mine” by Guns and Roses.

--------------------

Charles Dickens opened one of his classic works by noting that “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times”.

And I suppose that is how I feel tonight.

There’s three things I want to comment on – one good, one bad, and one really ugly.  I’m not really sure how this is going to flow, but let’s give it a crack, shall we?

Let’s go scattershooting while wondering why, in the bluest of blue hells, the Chiefs ever did away with “Sweet Child O’ Mine”, as the theme song during player introductions.  It is NOT a coincidence, that they haven’t won a playoff game, since going to Van Halen’s “Right Here, Right Now”, to the hideous “We’re Chiefs!  And we’re proud!”, to the tolerable “Cochise” by Audioslave that was employed in 2013 …

* The Chiefs draft.  Oh baby!

If anything?  I can’t believe they did it.  Our conservative, straight and narrow, no matter the administration Chiefs, took a chance at greatness, a little after 2pm on Saturday afternoon.

Do the Chiefs have bigger needs than quarterback?  Of course they do.  We’re replacing three fifths of our offensive line, are apparently willing to wager the 2014 season on Donnie Avery not playing like Donnie Avery, and still have gigantic issues in the secondary. 

(Although I loved our first round pick – it’s the Rex Ryan / “Bulldog” Bob Sutton mentality at its finest.  If you can’t cover anyone?  (And Lord knows after that playoff game, we can’t?)  Then load up the front seven for 3^rd and seven, and send the house, to drop the quarterback before the pass can get it off.  And anyone who says it can’t work?  That a loaded front seven can’t cover for a horrific back four?  I give you the Patriots of the early to mid 2000s.  They started a wide receiver at cornerback, for Christ’s sake … and won a Super Bowl, and reached another, along with a third AFC Championship game, with that strategory.)

But for the first time in my recollected lifetime – for the first time in my knowledgeable history as a fan of this team*?

The Chiefs are gambling on greatness.

And that greatness … is Aaron Murray.

I have a decent friend I sit by at work named Dustin (no, not that Dustin), who met me at the door this morning, he was so pumped at Aaron Murray’s selection.

(I also love the guy, because like me, he also has a second rooting interest … and like me?  It’s your New York Jets.  He’s genuinely excited to have a fellow Jets fan in the office.)

Another guy I work with, Jarow, a fellow season ticket holder, when I ran into him in the, uuh, facilities today, he noted “my son was thrilled with the (Murray) pick.  (Pause).  He’s too young to realize our franchise’s history with quarterbacks, I guess.”  (His son is 11.)

Other friends of mine that approached today (for Chiefs related reasons), every one of them, the first thing, the first pick mentioned, wasn’t Dee Ford, wasn’t this corner from Rice who may wind up being the steal of Day Two.  It was that the Chiefs drafted a player that, had he come out after his junior season?

Would have quite possibly been our pick, at number one overall.

We got him 200 slots lower, a year later.

So yes, fellow Arrowhead Nation fans, if it took a blown (al michaels voice) knee to get the Chiefs to pull the trigger on the quarterback from this draft class that I love the most?  Then so be it.

Don’t question why.  Just be grateful.

As for the rest of the Chiefs draft?  I’m good with it.  I hope to post more in a separate post later this week.

--------------------

(*: that linked post, might be my favorite I've ever posted.  I've never nailed how I feel about something, like I nailed that one.)

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* My job.  Oh baby.

I have my monthly one-on-one with my boss tomorrow, assuming she’s healthy enough to arrive in the office.  (She did not look good leaving early today.)  But if she’s there tomorrow, then the last week will “hit the proverbial fan”, so to speak … and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Because my immediate boss, isn’t my problem.

My department head, is.

I know there are people in my department who read this, so allow me to say to those of you last week who recognized just how broken I am at this point in performing my job, thank you for your words of support, your actions of support, for simply being you.

And to one person in particular, who I have a sneaking suspicion reads this?  Thank you for every back rub, every "hang in there", every "I figured you were drinking, so I brought you this bag of pretzels ..." encouragement given.  I am truly blessed in this life, to have the friends that I do.

I’ll just leave it at that, other than to note, I miss my “group therapy” on Wednesday night, with a few of you, to deal with this job.  I hope I’m still around in October, to continue to wonder why we do this, on a daily basis.

* News that stuns you, and hurts … in ways you never expect.

If the Chiefs draft was the good, and my job is the bad …

Then yesterday was the ugly.

For me, the day was nearly perfect, for nearly all of it.  A picnic at Gum Springs Park with the extended family.  My mom, my sister-in-law’s mom, my sister-in law, and her sister.  Four moms, nine kids between them, plus my brother, Chad, my sister-in-law’s sister, and my dad, with Fred and a couple dogs thrown in to boot.  (And me, the perpetual “refuses to grow up Toyz-R-Us kid!”)

Couldn’t have had better weather – mid 80s, sunny for the most part.  Got to play some soccer with “My Special Little Guy”, got to slide down an, uuh, slide, with one of my “Special Little Girls”, and got to spend almost five minutes convincing the “Special Little Girl Who Owns Unca Teve’s Heart**” that an orange cupcake, was actually purple (since that’s her color of choice). 

I got home a little bit after 3pm.  I decided to blow off work, and blow off the Clippers / Thunder game, and just go outside and enjoy the day.  I took a nice nearly two hour walk, got some sun, may or may not have stopped in at Eddie’s for a Coors Light or three, before heading home.  Took the “thank you” call from my mom, watched “The Amazing Race”, did a few things for work today, and decided I could watch “The Good Wife” tonight or tomorrow, and hit the sack at about 8:30. 

I was spent – sunburnt, tired, and a few beers flowing through me.

But at least I was alive.

Something, that as I woke up this morning, I discovered … that someone I once considered a friend, and considered to this day an all-around good dude, was not.

Chiefs Red Coater Bill Williams – someone I spent many a tailgate at Arrowhead with, enjoyed many a volleyball game in the pool with, and almost never missed a summer luau for – passed away yesterday.

I read a lot of the tributes to him on his Facebook page this morning, and coming home tonight, and I couldn’t disagree with anything.  His laugh was that infectious.  He was that decent of a dude, 99.99% of the time.

I can’t even count on every finger and toe I have, the number of times, he’d head over next door, and we’d close a night of watching the NBA Finals, or enjoying some pool volleyball action, down with a bottle or four of whatever red he was digging at that time. 

That didn’t happen much the last few years.  And by "not much", I mean "never".  So be it.  Friendships come and go, like it or not.  It's reality.

Which I guess is why, when I read the messages I got personally to let me know Bill had passed on, and read the tributes to him on his page, it actually hurt even more than I would have expected.

Because there won’t ever be, any closure.

--------------------

(**: as always, I don't play favorites ... unless you read between the lines.  My niece whose name begins with the letter R?  Owns my heart, irrationally.)

--------------------

The last time I talked to Bill, I walked over at halftime of the Super Bowl.

Wasn’t a long walk; maybe 50 feet, from Russ and Mona’s, to Bill and Vessie’s.

I did it every year for five years, and I’m glad that I did.

Only … I didn’t do it this year.

I spent this year’s Super Bowl halftime show, playing Beer Pong in the garage.

I blew off the trip next door.

Because I didn’t think it mattered.

--------------------

Which is why I guess, today is ugly.

I heard from friends that check in from time to time, when life truly matters, today.  Heard from Debbie, from Davey and Tracey, from Russ and Mona, from Donnie, from Joe “Knows Football”.

So allow me to close with this.

I hate – I fucking hate (note: no editing that, or the following) – I fucking hate, that it takes tragedy, sometimes, to get people to see what matters in life.

What matters?

Is us.

I fear one relationship in my life, will ultimately wind up the same way, as mine with Bill wound up.

And I hate that I’m the only one who cares about that fact, apparently.

--------------------

I’m sorry this was depressing.  I’m sorry it failed every laugh-check known to man.

I’m disgusted with myself, that I’ll be attending a funeral in a few days, in which I never said a proper good-bye, to a friend.

It’s the first time in my life, I can make that statement.

I pray to God above, it’s the last …

monday may 5: scattershooting while ...

“When this old world,

Starts getting me down,

And people are just too much,

For me to face?

I’ll climb way up,

To the top of the stairs.

And all my cares?

Just drift right into space!

On the roof!

It’s peaceful as can be!

And there?

The world below don’t bother me!

So when I come home,

Feeling tired and beat?

I’ll go up where

The air is fresh and sweet.

I’ll get far away,

From the hustling crowd,

And all that rat race noise,

Down in the street!

On the roof?

That’s the only place I know,

Where just have to wish?

To make it so!

Let’s go!

Up on the roof! …”

-- “Up On The Roof” by James Taylor.  The classics never, ever, ever, get old, peoples and peepettes …

--------------------

Let’s go scattershooting, while I wonder why in the reddest of red hells, I didn’t put on any sunscreen yesterday, when dragging the TV out to watch the last two of not one, not two, not three, not four, but five – FIVE! – game sevens, from the first round of the playoffs.  Please, if you read this – do NOT smack my back, or pat me on the front of the chest, for at least the next 48 hours.  In the words of Bruce Springsteen, “Oh, oh, oh!  I’m on fire!” …

* I truly hope you appreciated what the last two weeks of the NBA have been.  (Setting aside the ugliness of Mr. Sterling, which I may or may not vent about below.  And no, that’s not a teaser – I haven’t decided, as I start typing this, if I’m going to throw it in this scattershooting post, or give it its own write-up.)

For starters, this humble blogger?  Eight for eight, at picking the first round series.  I’d like to say it is because all those frigid cold nights that I spent watching the League Pass, instead of hitting up a bar or going somewhere for dinner, made me smarter.  But we all know, that ain’t it.  This was pure, blind luck.  This was proof that a broken clock really is right twice a day, that a blind squirrel can stumble upon the proverbial acorn, that … well, you get my point.

But the true beauty is, what was the best series?  The worst is obvious – Miami / Charlotte, but let’s be honest here – not even Nathan Scott, Lucas Scott, and throw in that black kid they coached who died in season what five, six? – not even the three of them could have won a game against the Heat for Charlotte.

You had five series that went seven.  Only one of them (Indiana / Atlanta) was borderline non-appointment television, if only because every team kept swapping, who would dominate that night.  (The only two back to back wins, were the Pacers in games six and seven; game four (won by the Pacers) was the only game closer than two possessions as the final score.) 

The Clippers / Warriors had four games that came down to the final thirty seconds (each team winning two of them).  The Thunder / Grizzlies went to overtime not one, not two, not three, but four – FOUR! – straight games!  In the words of Fran Tarkenton: “ that’s incredible!”  The Rockets / Blazers saw three of their six go to overtime, and saw one of THE most epic (bill raftery voice) grapefruits! shots of all time, Damian Lillard, as time expired, from 25 feet out, to win the series.  The Spurs / Mavericks saw four games (two to each team) come down to the final thirty seconds, including game three, when Vince Carter, in the corner, as time expired, just drained a three that sent this (not even remotely) humble blogger screaming in ecstasy for a solid ten minutes.

And then, there’s the series this (not even remotely) well-known site pegged as “the series” to determine the fate of the postseason.  Raptors / Nets, and good God, did it live up to every second of the hype.  (Coolest stat of the day, via (I believe) Chris Sheridan, formerly the long-time NBA go-to guy at ESPN, now branching out on his own at Sheridan Hoops (a must read site for any NBA fan … hang on, let me add a link to him in the side links … done and done!): The Nets and Raptors played eleven games this year (regular and post season).  Final score?  Nets 1,079 points; Raptors 1,079 points.

And, even if you’re not rooting for the Nets (in the interest of full disclosure, I am, if only because I stuck my neck out six months ago by picking them to win the O’Brien … and doubled down on that apparent stupidity two weeks ago, by sticking with them in my playoff picks)?

How sweet was it to see P-squared, The Truth, Paul Pierce, rise up one final time, and deliver a series to his team, via an amazing “get that sh*t outta here!” blocked final shot, to give the Nets the 104-103 game seven victory (the only of the five road teams, to win their game seven)?  I say it was very sweet.  Very, very sweet.

Every year in May, I get mocked walking … fine, stumbling … into work in the morning, because I’m exhausted, having been up until 12:30, 1am that morning, watching the late game on TNT or ESPN. Maybe, just maybe, this is the year, people in this fine five-county metropolitan area we call home, “get” why I love the NBA so much.

Because if you couldn’t dig these last two weeks, there’s no hope for you as a basketball fan.

* The Royals.  Yikes.  At least one ridiculous stat is now deep sixed – entering Sunday, the Royals were 14-0 when scoring four or more runs, 0-15 when scoring three or fewer.  (They scored four and got pounded, Jersey Shore style, on Sunday.)

This is a huge road trip upcoming.  The Padres and Mariners are two (at best) mediocre squads.  If the Royals can’t go 5-2 on this trip, 4-3 at worst?  Then I might jump on the “it’s time to consider someone other than Ned” bandwagon.

I’m not there yet.  And for those of you who think I tend to overreact when my team struggles (and to be fair, I do)?  I remind you – I’m probably the only Chiefs season ticket holder alive, who did NOT argue for Scott Pioli to be fired, either during, or after (see question four in the fake mailbag), the 2012 season.

Speaking of the Chiefs …

* (dierks bentley voice) Am I the only one who couldn’t give a sh*t that the draft begins in less than 72 hours?

I’ll admit up front, for me at least, part of it is getting drug into the NBA, like I always do in the month of May.  Part of it is because I believe in this place called reality, and reality says the Chiefs right now are the third best team in the division, second if everything breaks right, and our ceiling for 2014 is what our finish for 2013 was: 10-12 wins, and yet another defeat on my birthday weekend to the Colts.  (The thought of losing to those guys for the fifth time in eighteen years on said birthday weekend, just has me giddy with thoughts of depression and/or disgust, let me tell you.)

Part of it though, at least for me, is that the obvious strategory has to be to trade back as much as (bleeping!) possible, which makes for boring television, but solid roster building.  The Chiefs only have six picks, only two in the first two days.  (Our second rounder went to San Francisco for Alex Smith, and with all due respect to the doubters, I’ll trade a second rounder for what we got out of Alex Smith last season?  Every day of the week, and twice on Game Day.)

* The one pick I hope the Chiefs do take a flyer on, is Aaron Murray out of Georgia.  I cannot believe the disrespect being shown this guy.  I know the Chiefs really don’t have the draft pick depth to “waste” a fifth or sixth rounder on picking Mr. Murray, but really, if your front office and scouting department is so incompetent, that you can’t identify five or six decent OL or DL prospects destined to go undrafted, that you can sign, instead of using the pick on them?  Then it’s time to clean house.

I am fully aware that three years ago, myself and “The Voice of Reason” were openly mocked for who we wanted the Chiefs first rounder to be.  I stand behind my belief.  If Bill Belichick not only drafts you, but refuses to even consider trade proposals for you?  You’ve got a future in this league.

If the Pats grab Aaron Murray, I might grab a few strands of hair, and yank them right out of my head.

* Not gonna touch on politics in this post, other than to note, to those of you who oppose the House opening credible oversight hearings on Benghazi?

What would your reaction be, if George W. Bush had vanished for eight hours, while an embassy of ours was under attack, four Americans ultimately died, and he, Dick Cheney, and Condi Rice, blamed some crackpot’s anti-Islamic video that had approximately 400 hits on Youtube! before a government representative with the last name of Rice, went on every political talk show, to blame the video for an attack, on our embassy, in a nation we tactically supported the overthrow of the established government in, on 9/11?

Be honest – if George W. Bush had vanished for eight hours, and Condi Rice and Robert Gates were thus left powerless to stop things, and four Americans died as a result?  And they blamed a video that nobody in either the free or religiously enslaved world had ever seen?  You’d be ok with that?  Really?

If you can honestly say you’d be fine with that?  I’ve got some ocean front property in Arizona.  No really – from my front porch?  You can see the sea.  Yup, ocean front property in Arizona.  And if you’ll buy that? 

I’ll throw the Golden Gate in free.

OK, some quick hits before signing off …

* The Legos episode of “The Simpsons” last night, was awesome.

* “The Amazing Race” episode last night?  Not so much.  I want either Dave and Connor, or the Afghanimals, to win.  Anyone but the Brenchels.  Let’s all hope and pray Jamal’s knee injury isn’t serious.  Because I don’t think Dave and Connor can hold off the Brenchels, if it’s those two teams and the country singers, in the Final Three.

* It’s been five weeks ago as of tonight, and my opinion on the“How I Met Your Mother” finale hasn’t changed.  If anything, it’s only been reinforced.  I spent part of the weekend rewatching some classic episodes on Netflix (it also helped that FX is into season six in the current playing rotation).  One that aired Friday (and I rewatched online Saturday) – I totally forgot how great “Glitter” was.  Every moment “Space Girls” airs in that episode, is literally a “spit the drink out, it’s so funny” moment.  “If Robin’s beaver consumes six inches of wood every half hour, and Jessica’s beaver consumes eight inches of wood every half hour, how much wood do I need to bring, to survive the weekend?”  There’s comedy, there’s high comedy, and then there’s the legendary Alan Thicke asking how much wood he needs to bring, to a beaver convention.  The beaver!  It truly IS, a beautiful creature!  (Pause).  Oh, yeah – and the national animal of Canada.

* Funniest line of the day: on the ride home from work tonight, this gigantic – and I mean lard-ass-tastic! – lady gets on the Metro in Waldo, at 75^th and Wornall.  I’d thought about stopping and grabbing some dinner at Quinton’s, but decided not to.  Glad I didn’t, because I’d have missed this:

(I should note: we were eight minutes behind schedule at this point, which is not good; this route is never late unless the weather is beyond crappy.)

(fat lady passenger) (pays her fare)

(fat lady passenger) (breathing heavily)

(fat lady passenger) (looking around)

(bus driver – who was female) Lady, I gotta get going!

(fat lady passenger) Well, I’m trying to decide where to sit!

(bus driver) We’re not a damned airline!  We don’t charge you by the seat!  Just pick two or three that are empty, and sit down!

I lost it.  Damned near everyone else who heard it, lost it too.

* For the record, my second round picks were (and remain): Spurs over Blazers in five, Clippers over Thunder in six; Wizards over Pacers in six, Nets over Heat in six.

* Finally tonight, a Stevo’s Site Numero Dos hearty congratulations to two pretty awesome people, and two pretty awesome friends, Ashley and Cam, as they welcomed their daughter Charlee into the world three days ago. 

I wish you two – excuse me, you three – nothing but the best.

I’m not sure how the rest of the week lines up for posting; my boss is on PTO all week, and I’m covering a bunch of stuff for her.  But I’ll try to get one or two things up before it’s all said and done.

Until next time, let this stat scare you: as infrequently as I’ve posted this year?

I’m ahead of last year’s pace, at this point.

(scooby doo voice) Zoinks!  Or should that be a Shaggy voice …

tuesday april 29: scattershooting while ...

"When the night has come?
And the land is dark?
And the moon,
Is the only light we see?

No I won't be afraid!
No I won't be afraid!
Just as long,
As you stand by me!"

-- "Stand By Me", my favorite version by Otis Redding.

--------------------

I promised a few weeks ago, I'd just write about how I was feeling, like the good ol' days back in 2008.  Today, is one of those days, I truly don't know how to describe.

So let's go scattershooting, while contemplating what a random Facebook update on my iPhone, as I headed out to brave the elements and hit the ATM machine, mean ...

* I have a post I'm working on, to hopefully go up mid-morning tomorrow (or early afternoon), regarding Adam Silver and the NBA suspending Clippers owner Donald Sterling for life, for his racist comments his girlfriend recorded (and TMZ broadcast to the world).  I'll just simply say this: when you, as an Association, tolerate virulent racism -- as the NBA did in Mr. Sterling's case -- for 33 years, and do nothing about it?

You forfeit the right to be praised, for finally dealing with the proverbial elephant in the room.

If anything, you should be pounded for why you didn't deal with it sooner.

See State, Penn.  Paterno, Joe.  As your evidence for this.

* So maybe if Mr. Sterling had insulted African-Americans under the age of consent, the mainstream media would get the outrage right?

* Had one of my best days at work in ages, and not just because I don't have to walk through the doors there again until Monday.

We've been finalizing the annual PwC audit this last week, and myself (and a few other co-workers) were available (and pretty much working) 24/7 all weekend, to get us in position to at least get a first sign-off before the deadline tomorrow.

I left work last night, convinced the "fire Stevo!" train was taking off from the station.  Yesterday was all about finding someone to blame for how out-of-control (and out-of-compliance) our unapplied cash reconciliation is.  Since it's assigned to me, Monday was designated the 2014 Memorial "Throw Stevo Under The Bus" Day.  Which, as I noted to my boss, is truly ironic, considering I'm the only person in our department, who takes an actual bus to work most days.

(Ooh, first side rant of the post!  The Metro route out to south JoCo?  Now has WiFi.  I sh*t you not, a freaking bus has WiFi.  I literally knock out an hour of work on the 30 minute ride in.  Which frees up an hour to post on this site.  (Pause).  What?  (Pause).  Yeah, I know, I too wonder if that's a blessing, or a curse (rimshot)!)

So, the blame fell on me.  Our 9am, our 11am, our noon (yup, no legit lunch yesterday, wohoo!), and our 2pm, it was one "well, why didn't this get cleared / why is this still in the rec / can you explain this" question after another.  By 3pm, my standard answer was set.  "The rec is in the shape it's in, because it takes me two weeks to do the month-to-date, another week to do the inception-to-date merge, and this is one of 33 reconciliations I am responsible for.  When do you propose I find time, to research a (insert small dollar amount here) variance that no credible auditing firm would even spend 2/1000ths of a second focused on?"

I left work (an hour late!) last night, and I was pissed.  So, I stopped off in Waldo, and went to my little slice of heaven in Midtown, that awesome bar known as Quinton's.

It's amazing, how one simple bacon potato soup bowl, half a toasted ham-and-swiss, and four vodka tonics of the 16oz variety, can turn a frown, upside down!  (Especially since I got out of there, at under $20 in damage, for that.  Seriously, Quinton's rules folks.  I get why so many people love Lew's (although after December 14, 2012, I want nothing more to do with that place), I get why so many people love the Well (I'll never pass on a Sunday brunch there.  Three words: Bloody.  Mary.  Bar.  That is all.), I even get why (insert bar here) earns your dollars.  But Quinton's is the best.

So, I finally get home a little before 8, and I call the 'rents, because if there is one person in this world I can just straight up vent to, it's my dad.  My dad, to put it mildly, has seen it all.  You don't supervise the loading dock at the main branch of the Post Office for twenty something years, without seeing it all.  (Up to and including, "The Voice of Reason", deciding to forego taking a mass mailing inside, and deciding to back a Geo Metro straight up to the loading dock ... you know what?  That's a story I'll save, for another day.  It's an all time classic though.)

Only I forget, my folks aren't home on Monday; they have some group of friends thingy they do on Monday nights through their church.  So, since I didn't want to leave the dreaded "whoa, Steve called but didn't leave a message, is everything ok?  Should we call him back?" dilemma in their hands, I just said I had a bad day, and if they got this before 10, give me a call back.

So they called back.  I have to be honest, from a totally jealous perspective.  I'd be lost without my dad.  If we'd lost him October 6 (or more realistically, October 9), I wouldn't have the slightest idea, how to function at times.  As much as Gregg is my "voice of reason", my dad really is my "voice of reason".

He started to respond, and ... well, it's something only a kid growing up in the mid 1980s would get.  But my dad chose to quote the late, great, Colonel Hannibal Smith, for his pep talk to me.

"Just remember kid -- it's always blackest, just before it goes pitch dark."

That's the stuff I don't ever want to lose -- my dad quoting The A-Team, to talk me off the ledge.  "It's always blackest, just before it goes pitch dark".  It always looks worse, than it actually is.

How sad, that so many kids growing up today in our country, will never have that kind of relationship, with their dad, that I do with mine.

* Today at work, was far better than I thought it'd be.  For starters, we got the non-admit number trimmed from over $17 million (hence my fear of "don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!" from the day before), to not even $400,000 (out of an $11,000,000 balance).  Whew!  Also, I convinced the head of the audit team that using "absolute values" to calculate the "true balance" of the account, is what it is: utter bullshit.  Case in point: we have two items, one a debit for $110,700, one a credit for $110,660, the variance of $40 being a bank charge.  It needs to be taken to write-off.  It's a $40 issue to anyone with a functioning brain.

To the head of our audit?  It's a $223,000 issue, because of "absolute value".  In the words of John Candy in "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles": "what a moron!"

* Also, our standing 4pm status update meeting, that every person involved in, dreads like the Second Coming?  Actually went well today.  I SameTime'd Mary, jokingly, nine minutes in, that "you haven't sent me the "guy lighting himself on fire" emoticon yet!"  (Sadly, said dude pouring gasoline on himself, then striking the match, came about six minutes later.)  Still, we got out on time!  That never happens in this meeting!  I always am scrambling to catch the last Metro ride home on Tuesday (5:30ish), or flip a coin -- walk a couple miles to catch the bus line again, or just pay the $15 to take the cab home.

* But today at lunch, had its drawbacks.  For starters, I chose to drop in the mail, a letter that pretty much ensures, the fight between myself and two people I view(ed) as family, ends ... one way or another.  It's up to them now.

Also, it was pouring down rain, and I had to hit an ATM.  I only had $2 in cash this morning, so I couldn't get the all-day pass.  (Those are $3, and I'm telling you, $3 to get from 500 feet from my front door, to within 1500 feet of my office front door, and back, while using the WiFi to work to and from, is a f*cking steal, it's a ridiculous bargain, given that even out my way, gas is almost $3.50 / gallon.)  I had hoped I had at least a buck in change in my desk drawer.  No dice.  So I had to get some cash, since the Metro doesn't take credit.

I had to brave the elements, to drop the letter (and the final parting gift it is included in) into the mail, and hit the ATM, in the half hour I had between conference calls, to finalize the audit.

I walked the couple blocks to Wal-Mart, hit the ATM, grabbed a few items I needed, checked out, and headed to the mail drop at the edge of the parking lot.  Odds are, when I mail this letter, "The Family" will sleep with the fishes for the rest of eternity, because ... well, let's just say, I am known at times for being brutally honest, about how I feel about people.  And this is one brutally honest letter, headed to the 66104 zip code.

About fifteen seconds away from the mailbox, my phone started vibrating.

The vibration, was a message from Facebook.

"Today is Kasey Haase's birthday.  Celebrate on her timeline ..."

(Pause).

Kasey passed away September 7, 2013.

(Pause).

Those of you who know me best?  Know I do not believe in coincidence.

* I held off on dropping the letter.  I'm giving it another day, to sleep on what I wrote.

But mostly, all afternoon, I kept coming back to the Facebook message on my iPhone.  And the one thing that today just weighed so heavily on me.  Which is this:

* Is life really this trivial?  Are friends really this meaningless, that we reduce them to Facebook reminders, eight months after they pass away, because nobody took their page down?

I logged in tonight and intentionally read Kasey's page.  Half the people posting, don't seem to have a clue, she died eight months ago come a week from tomorrow.  It's all current.  It's all "happy birthday, hope you enjoy it!"  "Happy birthday, live it up!"

I don't claim to be a great friend of Kasey's.  We were co-workers for a couple years at Transamerica.  She loved the NFL picks post (back when it was an email every Friday).  I'd always arrive on Friday to an email in my inbox along the lines of "so, picks come out when today?"

That's what I think friendship is about.  Is that you give something to someone that you don't think matters worth a f*ck, but that person, treasures it, loves it, craves it.

I'll freely admit, at times?  I don't know why I still update this site.  Sometimes, I get it completely.  But times like today, when I'm just posting random thoughts that probably flunk not just every spell check, but every interest check -- to say nothing of making me come across as an arrogant, conceited a-hole who thinks the world revolves around him, which is the exact opposite of who I strive to be?  I wonder if its worth it.

But if a single person gets the motivation to keep going, by reading a single letter of the alphabet I type and post?  Then it's worth it.

I'll close with this:

* In the final season of "NYPD Blue", Bobby Simone (played by Jimmy Smits), returns to help his old partner, Andy Sipowitz (played by Dennis Franz).  Sipowitz has reached rock bottom for the fourth time in the series (after the pilot episode, Junior's death, and Bobby's passing).

It's Bobby's declaration in this scene, that has always hit me.

"Andy?  If life was short?  I wouldn't be here.  Life is long."

Life is long.

Unless you choose, to not make it long.

Please, readers, choose ... to make it as long, as humanly possible.

tuesday april 22: scattershooting while ...

"Courage."

-- Dan Rather.

--------------------

Happy Tuesday, peoples and peepettes!  At least, as happy as one can be.

It’s been a roller coaster ride, last couple of days in the world of Stevo.  So let’s go Scattershooting while wondering why in the hell modern medicine has yet to invent a drug to lessen the effects of a migraine …

* Because God bless it, did I just endure the most of one.  It hit me about 5:30 Sunday afternoon.  I was out on The Patio at my Second Parents house, was thinking about where to take them to dinner … and bammo, the pounding started.

It was go time … as in, go home.

* For those of you who have never had a migraine?  Thank God, thank every God, that ever was, ever is, ever – hang on, I need to stop hauling out sappy one-liners from the “HIMYM” finale*.  Just thank God, whoever God is to you, that you’ve never had one.  

Because here’s what one feels like for me. 

--------------------

(*: sorry, critics; I still love it.  You're starting to crack me ... but barely.)

--------------------

* First, it comes out of nowhere.  With me, it’s usually when I’m coming down off of a stressful period of life.  (My last one even in the Richter Scale ballpark of this one, was heading home after the raiders game in October … and that one, which knocked me out for two days after dealing with Dad’s issues, felt like a 0.3 on said Richter Scale, compared to this one.)  This one?  I’m not stressed about anything.  In fact, if anything, life hasn’t been this good in over a year, pushing two at this point.

Second, the left side of my head, always for some reason above my eye, begins twitching uncontrollably.  It ain’t a twitch.  It’s a pounding drum, like Mick Fleetwood opening up “Go Your Own Way”, or like the drum roll to open “Cochise” by Audioslave (which your Chiefs are introduced to at home game, Kansas City).  Just a rolling surge of pounding.

And then, after about ten, fifteen minutes, either (a) the pounding breaks, and it’s a false alarm, or (b) in the words of that great detective Scooby Doo: “whroot whroo!”

This?  Was “whroot whroo”.

I went down for the count a little after six on Sunday night.  I’m thankfully in the minority of migraine sufferers – I can sleep during mine.  Because that’s all I do.  The pain on the front of my head is so intense, it knocks me out.  And for those of you saying “yeah right, it’s the alcohol”, uuh, no.  Simply seeing the light of the alarm clock light, when going through one of these, leads me to immediately vomit for three minutes.  (Great visual while reading this in the second office, I know.)

I called my boss at 7:46am Monday and somehow managed something coherent enough to confirm I was alive, and I wasn’t coming in.  That … was not a good idea, at least on paper.  But the pain is so intense, that any simple sliver of light, leads you to want to bash your skull into a concrete wall, until the pain goes away via your demise.  Again, if you’ve never had a migraine – you are one of the very, very, very lucky ones in life.

(Thanks again Mom, for passing this “family trait” down to me!  Once again, Drew gets the good, I get the bad … you take ‘em both?  And then you have, the Facts of Life, the Facts of Life!)

* But thankfully, I've known my boss going fifteen years now.  She gets it.  Monday after a Chiefs game sick day = drunk dial.  Random Monday in April after a religious holiday = yup, he's sick.

* Here’s how you know it’s a migraine with me: I HAVE to have noise, to sleep.  Don’t care if it’s a fan (preferable), or television or radio or iPod, I HAVE to have noise, to fall asleep.  Once I’m out?  I don’t wake up.  (Thank you Benadryl for helping deal with this crippling allergy issue, that isn’t helping at this point!)  My dad can confirm – he got fined $500 by the good folks at TCU my first semester, because I slept through both fire drills, even though those things were so loud when I was awake, I’m pretty sure I peed my spot on the floor both times.  Once I’m out?  I’m out.  It’s getting knocked out, that’s the tricky part.

When one gets going?  It hurts to hear, let alone see.

So, if you tried to reach me yesterday (and I’ve been issuing the mea culpas right and left this evening), I apologize. 

* Before “Migraine (Insert Catch Phrase Here) Watch 2014” began?  It was a perfect Sunday.

I got up from a nearly perfect Saturday (more below), and realized “whoa, I gotta be at my folks in barely two hours!  (Hooray going to bed drunk and not setting the alarm!)  And I haven’t bought the kids anything!”

So, I almost literally sprinted to the Dollar General a few blocks away, huffed and puffed my way in the door, and saw the most precious sign of the day.

“All Easter Products 50% Off!”

Each grandkid (and five were there yesterday), got a solid $25 worth of candy and other teeth-rotting and parent-infuriating items in their bags … for less than $40.  And I had a sixth bag left over in case Neeck and his daughter Taylor were coming.  Because I’m the cool uncle like that.  And because they're family like that.

* And leaving Dollar General, now really behind schedule (because again – I loaded up that much candy for the kids), I realized “oh crap, I’m on wine duty today!”

So, I hit up the liquor store across the street, grab four bottles of Barefoot and Little Penguin something or other (the “family size”, or as it’s known in my casa, the “typical Tuesday” size), sprint to a shower, and head my folks way.

* Got there a little after noon.  My closest friends can tell you – if I show up within 15 minutes of actual plan, and 50 some odd minutes of requested arrival time?  I’ve nailed it.  I am habitually late for anything other than a tailgate.  I’m always four hours early for those.  (Gee, wonder why?)

* And go figure, my nieces now both have glasses.  (One has to always copy the other, after all, even if she doesn’t need them.)  So now we’re back to “random wild guesses as to which is which”, because the glasses were the give-away it was Fallyn.  Did Unca Teve botch who was who fifteen times?  You betcha!  Did anyone care?  Heck no!

* Lunch was rock solid.  My mom and I may not be the closest two people on this earth, but give her credit, she knows her limitations … and her biggest one is cooking.

The menu?  Turkey, brisket, and ham from Zarda, cheezy hashbrowns, some green bean casserole I’d kill for, a fruit salad, and a healthy selection of adult libations from your good friends at Little Penguin, Barefoot, and whatever Dad picked up, because as he put it, “I was sure you’d (still be drunk / hung over), and forget to grab your part.”  Glad to know my expectation level is that minimal, pops!

* After lunch was the Easter egg hunt.  I wish I’d remembered my iPhone charger before loading this post, because my “contribution” to hiding 70 plus eggs for five kids to find, was this:

(me) (enjoying glass of wine)

(my mom) Yo!  (Yes, she actually says yo!)  Yo!  You gonna help me or what?

(me) Yeah, give me a couple.

(my mom) (hands me two eggs).

(me) (puts both eggs on top of the fake deer’s head (don’t ask) in the front yard).

(my mom) That’s about the most lazy thing I’ve ever seen.

(me) You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.

(my mom) I call the bench (next to said deer)!

* For the record, my two eggs … were amongst the last two found.  Apparently if you stick something where nobody can possibly miss it?  Five kids under the age of eight, can miss it.

* After the Easter egg hunt, it was off to the Second Parents, who celebrated their eighteen anniversary Sunday. 

* And yes, I too think it’s fitting I have a set of parental units, whose anniversary is the most “high” holy holiday, known to man.

* Flashing back a bit farther to Saturday night, my good friends Anthony and Jaimmie (finally!) tied the knot at a lovely little winery in Sugar Creek.  I’m not sure which Anthony in my life held his prior job longer: Anthony R as the groom to be … or Anthony V as the perpetual intern. 

* Had a blast seeing great friends I hadn’t seen in a long time that night.  Paul and Brandon and Chelsea and Andrew – miss the beer pong games at tailgating.  I get real life interferes … but sometimes, real life doesn’t have to be real.  Plus, I’m starting to feel like the old fart on the front porch here screaming “GET OFF MY LAWN!”  I was thrilled the party shut down at midnight.  Me!  The guy who had to be dragged kicking and screaming (ok, not literally; I was too stoned) from the side of Crawfordsville at 3am before the Indy 500 not even eight years ago!  The guy who used to pride himself on the “60 Hours of Indy” – no sleep from Saturday morning to Monday night, to avoid the PTO Day on Monday.  (Yeah, that went out the window a while ago.)  Still, I love seeing good people, do good.

And now, let’s really start scattershooting, in the sense of the word the great Blackie Sherrod intended …

* Today’s funniest political column: by far, the “congratulations”piece from the New York Post to Chelsea Clinton.  For the record, I think it’s classless, it’s out of bounds, and it sinks my side of the fight to the other side’s level.  (For the record, I LOVED it.)

* Today’s worst political column: by far, the “what does this pregnancy mean” piece by Peggy Noonan.  In the interest of fairness, I love Ms. Noonan irrational as a speechwriter, and as a journalist, and I have met her twice in my life, and both times, she could not have been more gracious or accommodating of a wannabe high school journalist, at the National Journalism Conference in 1994 and 1995.

I've also met Mrs. Clinton twice.  If I am to believe "my" side of this fight, I am in the minority ... but anyone who believe she wasn't the most conservative of the Big Three in 2008?  Is clueless.

And anyone who doesn't want to move the Democrats back to the center, if only to hold it?

Doesn't give a sh*t about this country.

* NFL Schedules come out during bowling league’s final night tomorrow (Wednesday April 23, 7pm).  Considering my wedding gift to Anthony and Jaimmie was to decide “what the f*ck, it’s just a few hundred bucks!”, and buy the third seat next to me, to ensure they make every game?  Circle me giddy with excitement!  (And light on cash!)

* If I had to pick the AFC West right now, I’d take denver at 11-5, San Diego at 10-6, KC at 7-9, and oakland at “it would take over 65,000 bowls of new Super Colon Blow, to sniff the postseason!”. 

* And if you don’t get the Super Colon Blow reference … rest in peace, Phil Hartman.

* NBA Playoffs so far.  Not a whole lot of surprises.  Which is shocking.

* Craig Sager: get well soon dude.  You’ve got a loyal army of fans rooting for you, among them Gregg Popovich.

* Gusser.  Maybe this is what triggered the migraine, was seeing a friend so swollen by cancer of the (pick one) throat / jaw / mouth, that his lip has turned inside out.  The dude may be a bit challenging at times to like, but who amongst us isn’t?  (old school “sporting news fly” voice) SHADDUP!

You’re in my thoughts, and prayers, sir.

* Finally, my bowling league closes down tomorrow night … and circle me curious, Bert, as to how it will.  (No, I have nothing planned.  Although God knows, there is one person, and exactly one person, I’d love to express my heartfelt “appreciation” for, to their face … only we all know, he won’t have the balls to show up … and if he does, he’ll hide in the bathroom for four hours “changing the diaper”.)

(Pause).

No, that’s not the way to end.  Not on what today should mean, to every citizen of this country.  So allow me to say to the friends in this league who have had my back this year, in ways I never imagined, and please, allow me to name you by name:

To Penny and DeHart, my teammates.  To Suzanne and Steve and Mark.  To Kyle and Carolyn and Jeff.    To Kim and Shelly, to Daryl and on those rare sightings, Scott and Rebecca and Travis, to John and Leigha and Graham.  To Sue and Sally and Dale, to the Pink Ladies – Angela, Cathy, and Mrs. Commissioner, Judy.  To Beth and Deb and Marcus (and Gabby when there).  And to the Pandas, and Cam.  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.  A genuine, heartfelt, sincere thank you. 

You kept me sane this year, whether through “Group Therapy”, with Suzanne and Penny and I dealing with our folks health issues.  Whether through Daryl (once again) mocking an early KU exit, or Daryl and Travis changing the teamname midstream to “Six Balls And No Chick!”.  To Cam and Ashley and Ammie, for their decent goodness, their appreciation for what I tried to do, to fix the wrong that has been done.

My conscience is clear, when it comes to this league, and the people in it.  I’d love for one former member of this league, to look me in the face, and tell me that his?

Is.

But that’s not how I choose to end this Scattershot.  (Although you intentionally typed it, knowing it’d get a response, right?)  Hell yes I did.

Because to end on that, on an anniversary like today, repulses me.

* Because a true American hero died ten years ago today.  Pat Tillman, a safety for the Arizona State Sun Devils, the Arizona “Super” Cardinals, gave up his NFL career, to serve his country after 9/11, and was (apparently) tragically killed by friendly fire, ten years ago today.

At the risk of sounding like the arrogant asshole I am (usually) not … I couldn’t wait to go BTK after 9/11.  (Scroll to the Chiefs pick of the post; you’ll get it.) 

You would have found no bigger supporter of the Iraq invasion, than me.  (Other than maybe Mrs. Clinton, or Mr. Bush.)  And to this day, I don’t regret the incursion; freeing 25 million people from a man who killed almost ten percent of them, is not a regrettable incursion, it’s a cause for celebration.

I suspect, Mrs. Clinton feels the same as I do: utter regret, at such a waste of life.

Because we accomplished nothing, via his sacrifice.

And you all have no idea how much it disgusts me, that Pat Tillman is the symbol, of that accomplishment of nothing, from ten years ago.

He deserves better.

The last two commanders in chief, who have destroyed this nation’s standing in the world, destroyed our goodwill, destroyed our good name, destroyed the idea that America was the beacon of freedom for all, all in the name of either (righting Daddy’s wrong / proving Junior wrong)?

Deserve far, far worse, than what Mr. Tillman tragically suffered …