"Is this Heaven?"

When I was in Sunday School before fifth grade - I'm not sure when exactly, but know it was before confirmation classes started - our class was asked to draw what we thought heaven would be like. Some of us drew a picture of our family in a big house. Others drew streets with gold bricks. And one boy drew a picture of a really large pizza. I don't remember what I drew, but I know now my picture would be vastly different today than whatever it was then.

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Every Saturday, except one, I will make a point to be in front of a television for about four hours no matter what I'm doing. When I lived in DC, that meant driving to Mackey's in Crystal City, Virginia (a part of Arlington,) and joining fellow alumni from the University of Oklahoma in watching the Sooners play. In Chicago, it's a plethora of options because I live so far from the alumni association's locale. Once last year, because of the campaign, I watched the game on ESPN360 in the campaign office before a tele-town hall conference with voters. But I rarely, if ever, miss a Sooners game.

There are a rare exceptions where I have not been able to watch Oklahoma play online or on television. The first was in 2004 when I was in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, running a phone bank for a campaign, where no television in miles carried the game. The second was the week after watching the Kansas game on ESPN360 last year when the Kansas State game wasn't online while I sat in the office running another town hall conference. The fourth was while I was in Liberia, but this is a technicality because my dad recorded the game and I watched the game after my return (and after I watched the Bedlam Series against Oklahoma State.) But the last time was the most magical one.

Last weekend, instead of going to the bar in Chicago to watch the Pay-Per-View game, instead of going online in hopes of catching it, I drove to Norman and went to the game. For the first time since I was a college student I handed my ticket to a gate official and walked into Oklahoma Memorial Stadium (technically, it is the Gaylord Family-Oklahoma Memorial Stadium, but most of my time in school it was just OMU. From now on I'm just calling it Owen Field, which is the playing field's name.)

This was the most amazing experience I could remember. The lights, the sounds, the upgrades! Never have I seen so many students spoiled over the toys they get to enjoy now versus what I had just six short years ago. The upper deck is complete. The north scoreboard is not a color screen (it was a yellow-light LED display before and just a clock with the score when I was a freshman.) The south scoreboard, which is the main one, now is one large HD television - and how amazing of a television!

But what doesn't change is the tradition. The band still performs the same opening rituals; the intro to Oklahoma! (the state song) their rendition of You're a Grand Old Flag, the band outlining OU on the field, the national anthem. The fans still energize with the drum major bending backwards to where his British Guard-like hat barely grazes the grass as he marches from one end zone to the next. The team's intro video still electrify the entire city before the team takes the field, which is never complete without James Garner proclaiming "This is Oklahoma Football!" at the end of the video as he has done for years now (my favorite part, really.) And for me, this is what I wanted more than anything.

Watching the game on television gives me the perfect view almost every time. I can see the replay without worry and can have a beer during the game, which is not possible when you are at most college football games. But I don't get the pregame traditions. I don't get to set with 85,000 of my closest friends as we scream bloody murder at the opponent's offense.

Yes, it is always perfect weather when you're watching the game inside, and yes it saves a lot of money. But you can never experience the thrill of a game like you do when you are sitting in the stands staring at Owen Field, hoping your quarterback will make the next big play or screaming your face beet red to help the defense stop the drive on Fourth and Inches. And for me, that was what had been missing since my last game at Owen Field in 2003. If this was my heaven, I'd take it and never look back.

I just hope it isn't another six years before I go back.

"(I) want to build a university our football team can be proud of."

Nearly 64 years ago, shortly after World War II had ended and America was breathing a sigh of relief for the boys who returned back home, one state was stuck in turmoil. From the late 20's on into the 40s, and even 50s but we'll get to that in a bit, Oklahomans had suffered through much. The Depression destroyed families and ruined economies. Drought led to the Dust Bowl, eliminating farms in the blink of an eye, if you were lucky enough to blink during the dust storms rolling through the plains. More than a million fled west to California, where they were treated with derision, called "Okies" with the same venom as African-Americans were called--well, you know what they were called--and segregated just the same. Once the Dust Bowl subsided war struck. Just like Americans from the other 47 states, Oklahomans left in droves to protect the world from the evils of Hitler's Third Reich and Hirohito's Empire. And just like everywhere else, many of the young men never returned home. But this isn't about why you should feel sorry for Oklahoma. Instead, it is about how Oklahoma turned their fortunes around all by themselves.

Sometime after the war, the Regents at the University of Oklahoma recognized the state was in a perpetual state of depression, and not just financially. They, along with the university's president, George Lynn Cross, decided the best way to lift up the school's spirits was through football. The teams of old, before the war, before the dust's plague, were tough teams that brought great entertainment to those living in Norman, Oklahoma City, Stillwater and Tulsa. It seemed football would be just the thing to make them happy again.

Searching far and wide, the team landed upon Jim Tatum, an assistant coach at the Iowa Pre-Flight School. Tatum would do exactly what the school needed, bring in the highly-talented war veterans. When the Regents met with Tatum, and his colleague whom Tatum insisted on bringing along, the board knew they had their coach, but it was their assistant and not Tatum himself. Listening to Cross, they extended the offer to Tatum but demanded that he is only allowed to take it if he brought his assistant along. A year later, Tatum left and the assistant, Bud Wilkinson, took over.

Fast forward six years, to 1953, and Wilkinson has taken the Oklahoma Sooners from a good squad of soldiers who could win the Big Seven Conference with regularity and beat upon Texas with emotion and transformed it into a national program, with its first Heisman Trophy winner in the form of Billy Vessels in 1952 and had already won 31 games straight and a national championship in 1950 (before falling to Kentucky in the Sugar Bowl.) But it's what happened that year and the next several years that transformed more than a football team.

In 1953, Oklahoma was a team on the brink of something special and the men and women in the state could feel it, too. As the team, first led by Gene Calame, fell early to Notre Dame to open the season followed by a tie against Pittsburgh, few outside of the state thought Oklahoma was poised to do much that season. But then Oklahoma rolled through Texas and cleared away the competition in the Big Seven Conference. The next year saw little change in the way of the excellence, despite a new class of players with Jimmy Harris as their leader, as OU cruised through their schedule without a blemish.

1955 saw the most powerful team Oklahoma and Wilkinson had put together yet. After blowing by a non-conference slate of North Carolina, Pitt and Texas and then throttling the Big Seven, Oklahoma faced their old coach, Jim Tatum who was now leading Maryland, in the Orange Bowl. Prior to the game, many thought OU had no chance against an East Coast team and that their No. 1 ranking would be given to the deserving Terps after the bowl game. Unfortunately for the prognosticators, Oklahoma upended Maryland, surprised America and put the Sooners on the brink of something thought unachievable: this football team had just won 30 games straight.

The next year can be labeled by many as a repeat season, but you can hardly label anything as repetitive when you are talking about doing something no one else did. The sporting world no longer remained the only section that knew Oklahoma was more than dust and turmoil. With the musical Oklahoma! becoming a movie, Mickey Mantle a fledgling outfielder with the Yankees and the Carl Albert the Majority Whip of the House, Oklahomans were making a name for themselves as a hard-working lot that refused to take anything standing down. When the season ended on the Sooners, not only had they captured another conference title and beat up Texas yet again, but they refused to let more than half of their opponents score upon them and snapped Washington's old winning streak of 39 games. As impressive as the winning streak had become, it was even more impressive when you realize that the graduating class of football players that year never lost a football game during their collegiate careers. One player, Jerry Tubbs, lost his first game of his life in 1957 as a linebacker for the NFL's Chicago Cardinals.

The streak continued for seven more games when Oklahoma faced Notre Dame, the very team they last lost to in 1953. After the first half, with a scoreless tie glaring at the team on the new electronic scoreboard, Wilkinson prayed the team would escape with a 7-7 tie. In the fourth quarter with just under four minutes left, David Lynch ran the ball around the right of the line and punched into the end zone for the game's only score. With the streak stopped at 47 games the stadium, and nation, fell into shock. The fans didn't know what to do. Shortly after the teams were shaking hands on the field, the stadium opened into applause congratulating both the Sooners and the Irish. A half-hour later, fans still sat in their seats hoping for a few extra minutes of play.

And while the streak ended on that day, November 16, 1957 (which was also, incidentally, the 50th anniversary of Statehood,) the passion and pride Oklahomans felt afterwards for their team, their school and their state never died. Today, after highs and lows in Oklahoma Football, after tornadoes have ripped through the state countless times and one deranged man tried to cripple a city that fateful April morning in 1995, pride in being an Oklahoman continues unabated.

"There's no crying in baseball!"

There is a dark curse that looms over me. No matter how hard I try to shake it, the demons of my past haunt me constantly. This curse has survived my ventures in Oklahoma, Washington, and Chicago. The horror it brings me and those around me are frightening. What curse? The Curse of the Cubs.

I'm not talking about how the Cubs have never won a World Series while I've been alive, or anyone else in my family, for that matter. It goes without saying that something is wrong there and entirely external to my frustration for the moment. My beef with the Cubs is that they have never won a game I've attended. Ever. As in I'm starting to think I'm destined to never see them win.

I initially thought this was a general curse, where no matter what sporting event I attended, the team I root for would fall. Part of that problem was living in DC when where the Nationals don't know what winning means. But that wasn't the truth when I've seen the Orioles win over the Royals (like that game mattered to me, though) and then the Bulls victorious over the Pacer earlier this year. In fact, I've seen every team I root for win at least one game in my life. This includes the newly established Oklahoma City Thunder, and I've only been to one of their games!

When I lived in Washington, Baltimore was the nearby team early on. There was no real chance for me to see the Cubs unless I travelled to Chicago to watch them play. Then the Nationals arrived and my excitement grew. As bad as the Expos, the team moving to become the Nationals, were in Montreal it almost seemed assured that I'd not only get to see the Cubs play, but I'd see them win a game or two. That first February after the Nationals arrived in the Capital City I in front of a friend's laptop, waiting for single game tickets to open up. When they did, my fingers rapidly navigated through the windows to buy tickets to the first game of the only series the Cubs would play in town.

When that day came, I excitedly drove to Hill, meeting another friend for a quick bite at Tortilla Coast (which many Hill staffers and former interns will remember fondly and, yet at the same time with disgust.) While indulging in the "fine" food, the clouds began to gather and the thunder rolled through the city streets. By the time we were supposed to head to the stadium, the heavens let loose and there was no chance of making it to the game. We waited for a half hour before deciding to head back to Virginia and find something else to do, anticipating a rain out for the game. Two hours later, with the rain still falling, a group of us decided to watch a movie and call the night a wash. Afterwards, however, we find out that they decided to play after all (who plays after a 2 1/2 hour delay anyway!?) and the Cubs were winning. Angry at the officials for having the audacity to play the game despite the torrential downpour that deterred hundreds (because no one really went to a Nats game) of fans from showing up, I proceeded to buy two more tickets. I couldn't get seats for the Saturday game, but I scored a couple for Sunday's series finale.

Sure enough, the Cubs fell to Washington that afternoon, setting the streak at four. The next year, I organized a group of co-worker to go to the Independence Day game against Washington at RFK stadium. It was an exciting day, with patriotic energy flowing through the stands and people actually showing up for the game. It was energetic as fans cheered and yelled and celebrated a National's victory. Of the four games played that weekend, I went to the one where the Cubs lost. Later that summer, I took a trip to Chicago to watch them take on the Giants. Barry Bonds was playing, not that it mattered, and was vociferously booed during his only at-bat. Not that it mattered. The Cubs still fell to San Francisco and I still left without a victory.

Last year was my first year living in Chicago. I managed to grab tickets to two games for their amazing season. This was a season of great hope. The Cubs ended with the best record in the National League, far and away beating opponents with breath-taking talent. There was the first no-hitter since Milt Pappas by Carlos Zambrano in a road game against Houston played in Milwaukee. And there was a great chance for me to finally see a Cubs win.

The first game I attended was the second game of the season. The Brewers were the main team to watch out for all season and they proved it that day, as the Cubs didn't show up at all, falling to Milwaukee, taking my streak to nine. In the next month I tried my luck again, and the Brew Crew was again the opponent. After the game, where Chicago came from behind in the seventh and creating a glimmer of hope, I became a life-long enemy of Milwaukee. My streak was at eight and I didn't have an opportunity to see them play again that season.

Which brings us to last night. The Nationals were in town and I landed two tickets to the game from an alumni association of mine (not the OU alumni association but from an internship I was a part of in 2002 called The Fund for American Studies.) I know the Cubs have been playing poorly as of late, but the Nationals were the worst team in baseball. Plus their manager is Jim Riggleman, the guy who lead the Cubs to their 1998 postseason appearance and then fell to mediocrity the next year. It was destiny. I sat as Carlos Zambrano gave up the first run of the game, feeling a little let down. I grew excited as Zambrano tied it up with a home run over the left-field ivy, just a few rows above the basket. Then the fifth inning arrived and I witnessed my first even grand slam. Unfortunately, it was off of a Zambrano pitch and put the Nationals up for good.

Nine games, no wins. Nine times. I can hear Principle Rooney right now, saying one more and I'll have to repeat my senior year. They are the Lovable Losers, I realize this. But there is no way that any person could possibly make it to this many games and see one team lose. It wasn't even in the same season, at the same ballpark, against the same opponents. There was variety to ensure that someone, anyone, would fall to the Cubs with me watching. But, sadly, I am a dark mark. Another plague that curses the Cubs.

I still have hope, and will still continue going to games. Because one of these days, they'll win. I can only hope.

"We choose to go to the moon...not because (it) is easy but because (it) is hard."

I'm jealous of my parent's generation. They were fortunate to experience something that we can only dream about. Forty years ago, they were able to sit in their living rooms with the television on and watch Walter Cronkite comment while the world watched and listened to the first men touch the surface of the moon. They witnessed history that cannot be described. And 30 years after the last Apollo mission, we haven't returned.

This may go against any political philosophy I supposedly subscribe to, but there is something devastating about humanity's failure to continue our curiosity of the universe. We haven't left orbit since the Apollo missions and have only now discussed the possibility of moving beyond the International Space Station. Where is the passion? Where is the dream? We've been waiting for it to come, only to be placated by Hollywood special effects and the literary imagination from the likes of Arthur C. Clarke and others.

When President John F. Kennedy declared that we would reach the moon by the end of the 1960's, he gave NASA, and America, a mission; reach the celestial body and prove to ourselves that we are still the explorers that define our heritage. It seems to have been the last time anyone pursued the unknown in this country. After we landed on the moon NASA lost a purpose and, consequentially, public funding. No longer did we have a dream to explore a new world. Now we had a dream to do something else. But that something else was never defined. And with Congress balking at space exploration in the name of bailouts for banks who took too much of a risk and buying companies that didn't know how to run a business there is little hope that the something else will ever be realized.

It's sad to think that Kennedy's speech at Rice University could be the last time anyone laid out an exploratory goal so moving that it captured all humanity. That moment, those words saying we will go to the moon, could not only be the birth of the mission to accomplish the impossible but also be the death of human's greatest distinction from animal life: the desire to explore.

Every place on this planets was discovered by someone who wanted to see what was out there first hand. Early history has people moving from Africa to Europe and Asia to find out if there was a better place. The Americas were inhabited by people for the same reason and then discovered by those who wanted to see if there was another route, another way. Lewis and Clark gave us a glimpse of what was beyond the Mississippi while Magellan made the world smaller in his circumnavigation nearly 300 years earlier. But each exploration, each discovery, was continued by someone else. Columbus' incidental landing in the Carribean gave new impetus to find out more about the New World. Lewis and Clark gave way for Zebulon Pike to find out what was in the southern part of the Louisiana Territory. Men and women continued to push the limits and discover new realities. But not any longer.

When the frontier was declared vanished by the U.S. Census bureau for the 1890 census, the idea of exploration seemed to start its death. There were advances in flight in the first half of the 20th Century, with Wiley Post, Amelia Earhart, and Charles Lindbergh, but even these explorers couldn't carry the excitement long after the fatal crashes of both Post in 1935 and Earhart in 1937.

But one thing held true out of all these explorers; their achievements led to future adventures for many people across the world. People now live virtually anywhere on Earth and flying is now a common occurance for millions daily. Our world changed dramatically because of the actions of these heroes. So why has space exploration died?

When men landed on the moon, it seemed only natural that we would soon expand our world to encompass our natural sattelite. But nothing came of it. Government deemed it too expensive and no private venture has taken its place. We are left without the imagination and are stuck grounded on Earth, doomed to stare at the brightest object of the night sky and wonder what could've been. If only we would make it back to the moon, travel to Mars, or try to see what else we can do in this great big universe.

"Good fences make good neighbors"

Everyone has a talent. There are those who are world-class doctors while others are legal masterminds waiting for their chance as a Supreme Court Justice. Some people become successful race-car drivers while what seem like too few become favorite elementary school teachers. Even those who think they have no talent, those who dreamed of being actors but cannot memorize lines or hoped to become an author but cannot put together two sentences, have a skill they can perform above all others.

We all take delight in having talents. It is our ability to excel in this one thing that gives us our individuality. Without our individuality, we become nothing more than average. Average has replaced failure in our world. Gone are the days when we strive to be like every other American; a house with a white picket fence, married with two kids and a dog. Now we must be the best at something. We dream of the days when we are superstars or political leaders. To be something other than a lead actor or a U.S. Senator is an utter failure.

And all this because we don't like the word average unless "above" is inserted in front of it.

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I recently returned from a month-long trip to various places in the country. Between D.C., Tennessee, Oklahoma City and Dallas I had some good experiences. But this isn't about those experiences. That'll be for another day.

When I arrived back in the Chicagoland area, I was given a task; I need to build a fence for my dad. Here's the catch: the only time I knew what I was building was when I built an argument, and even then it's even money on whether it is a good one.

So I'm presented with a task. A monumental task. A why-would-anyone-think-I-could-possibly-do-this task. And like most seemingly frustrating challenges, I took it head on without thinking.

We're not talking about a small fence here. We're not even talking about the easy-to-do six-footers that barricade ourselves from the outside world. Instead, we have a four-foot, open-slat fence. The good news is that the fence will be a copy of the old one, just with new wood. The bad news is that I need to raise the bottom up two inches without raising the whole fence up. To make it worse, I need to do it solo.

The reason solo is bad is because a.) I don't know what I'm doing and b.) I don't know what I'm doing.

I have a little knowledge of carpentry gathered over the years. I learned how to use a saw from my maternal grandparents, where woodworking was a major hobby of theirs. My grandfather would plane and size wood out for my grandmother, who would then cut various figures out of them. Then she'd paint them and sell them for a decent sum. It was her craft and something she took pride in. I learned how to use various saws from them growing up, but not enough to build things.

Actually, the only time I ever "built" something was a beer pong table I crafted together when living in Fairfax, Virginia. It was/is a nice table, but really it was just two sheets of plywood painted to look like a football field with braces and saw horses keeping it up. I really liked it, but I can't say it is something I truly built.

That brings us to these past few days. With my dad, I went to the lumber yard and gathered the necessary wood (which I calculated based on some rough measurements.) Then we hauled the wood to the back and I set up my work station. Not only was I alone from that point on, but I was completely clueless.

I had some confidence that this was going to get done. Dad mentioned I should have the small fence on the side of the house, which has four six-foot sections and one small gate, in a few hours, so I thought this was going to be a good deal if I could get it done in an afternoon.

Five hours later, this is all I had done. And I wasn't taking a slow route by any means! I was measuring for accuracy, cutting with caution, and assembling to perfection. I made sure every piece of wood was level to the ground and standing straight up and down. It was just taking forever to put together each section. Especially when I would have to figure out how to hold up the wood in order to screw the wood screw in properly to make it not only two inches above the ground, but conforming to the pattern and equidistant from each other slat. I didn't know what I as doing wrong.

Then came Sunday. Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. Apparently this was waived for the devoted sons who promised to build fences. It didn't hurt that I had the house to myself since everyone was out on the boat or downtown or who knows where. I knew I couldn't build the gate the same way as I did the sections because gates aren't permanent fixtures on a fence. They swing back and forth. So I had to assemble the gate on the ground and the install hinges to the fence and the gate.

The gate, which is half the size of any section and uses much less wood, took longer than the rest of the fence! I spent most of the day trying to get the thing to fit. And when it was done, on Monday, I mentioned to my dad that I was thinking about assembling each section of the fence the same way, by building it on the ground and then installing it to the posts. His response, "I would've done that in the first place."

At what point of "I have no idea what I'm doing" did I somehow subconsciously turned down any advice? I'm still lost on that one. However, fast forward to today, the alternative method is working fine. The fence is half finished and I am winning the fight. It isn't easy work. It isn't fun work (for me.) I'm not even close to being good at this work. But there is on thing the fence taught me; I didn't get a degree in architecture or anything that involves building physical objects for a reason.

I just don't have the talent for it.

"Where the Wind Comes Sweeping Down the Plains"

I think my friends Chris and Ally said it best when they declared me a vagabond. In my short life, I have lived in many different places for many different reasons. Starting off as a Navy Brat and later as a young adult jumping ship only to escape what could happen, my nomadic lifestyle has been booth a hindrance and a blessing.

The hindrance since I have yet to establish myself at any location. The constant uprooting and resettling creates a revolving door of friendships and contacts. While some friends last, many others unfortunately fall to the wayside.

The blessing, however, is the unpredictable. The opportunity to hit the reset button in life, immerse in new societies and discover what a city has to offer outside of the tourist attractions.

The month of April can best be described as an accelerated version of my nomadic life. Between Oklahoma City, Washington, D.C., Chattanooga, TN, and Dallas, I've logged more than 5,000 miles in my truck. I visited old friends and spent time with family along the way. And through it all, I learned two important things.

Firstly, I need to settle down. I need to stop moving around all the time and start living a "normal" life. The constant uprooting does nothing but wreak havoc on my wallet, my sanity and, frankly, my ability to grow up. It's a lot of fun to travel around and to live in many different cities. However, something should also be said for living in one town and traveling the world on vacation.

The second lesson, and probably the more interesting one, is how much of an Okie I really am. In high school, I always talked about taking the first plane out of Oklahoma as soon as I graduated. I wasn't going to look back. Chicago was the focus of attention and I didn't want to shy away from it. By the time I started college, at the University of Oklahoma, I proclaimed to be from Illinois. I admitted to going to high school in Oklahoma City but left it at that. And it was true. I was born in Illinois and I did go to school in Oklahoma City, but aside from visiting family in the Land of Lincoln, I hadn't lived in the state in years.

But the reality hit a bit when I finally left Oklahoma, six months after college. I had finished a campaign and was heading to DC to try out the political life. I wanted to be a congressional staffer and was determined to make it. Little did realize how many other kids my age shared the same dream, and how few positions were truly available to fulfil the dream. In the course of ekeing out a living, before I finally landed a job as a government analyst, I still mentioned that I was originally from Illinois but started mentioning Oklahoma more often. Of course, being an insane OU football fan helps bring out the Okie in me.

When I arrived in Chicago, however, being from Illinois became an afterthought. I would always talk about Oklahoma, bringing up the politics, the Oklahoma City Thunder, and Oklahoma football. I was beginning to take pride in my Sooner upbringing, and not just from the university. Returning to Oklahoma in April really brought out how much Oklahoma truly is where I am from. I may have lived in several other places, and have been born in another state, but Oklahoma is my home state. And I take great pride in that.

I'm sure many people, especially those in Chicago, will say Oklahoma has always been my home, but it usually takes longer for people to see the obvious. For me, it seemed to have taken a little over ten years, maybe longer. It doesn't matter how long the realization took, however, just that it happened.

That appears true for many people. We, as humans, are so consumed with the world around us that we ignore the truth in front of us. Even those who are consumed with themselves, the vain members of our society, cannot notice what is truly staring back at them in the mirror. And usually it is those conceited few who never discover the truth.

Sad, really, to think someone will live their entire life and never realize the lessons they are to learn and discover who they are meant to be. Or maybe it is they who always knew who they were to be but refuse to acknowledge it out of fear of failure?

"Do What Makes You Happy"

I remember sitting in the living room of my apartment a couple years back. I wasn't happy and didn't know what to do about it. I was talking to my roommate and pretty much decided on the spot to move to Chicago. It was purely based on me enjoying Chicago while being frustrated in DC.

After I made that decision my roommate's mother came to visit. She wanted to say goodbye since we had been fairly close while I was in DC. It was a sad parting, but an exciting one at the same time. What she said, however, reveals so much about her and about her impact with whomever she encountered. She told me that I need to do what makes me happy. This wasn't the first time she said that, nor the last. I can say that I took those words to heart and have tried to live them every day.

Do what makes you happy. It's a simple sentence with a complex order. We often hear people complain about their jobs, their homes, the city they live in, the friends they have. If we did what makes us happy, would we still be working? Would we move to the countryside to escape the trappings of the big city? Would we start a new life in a strange place?

What makes me happy is taking risks. That's why I like what I've been doing. Granted, the risks don't always pay out, but that's part of the fun.

What makes me happy is close friends. That's why I always make it a point to visit them when I come into town.

What makes me happy is going to new places That may be why I seem to move all the time and come up with new locations to check out.

That wasn't the only thing I took with me when I left DC, it wasn't even the only thing I took from my roommate's mother. As I mentioned earlier, we had been fairly close while I was out there. Some of the greatest memories involve her; a birthday gift (which I will always cherish) wrapped in box after box with each individual box wrapped, a trip to Monticello so I could indulge in my history addiction, trying new wines just because the label looked fun.

When I lived out there, I could see why everyone gravitated towards her. She cared for everyone who came into her home. Anyone who was friends with her daughter was treated with such great respect, and usually a great meal, that it was hard not to think of her as another mother, which is why many ended up calling her Mom. I knew a truly special woman while I was out there, and felt better off for it.

I haven't been back to DC since I made that decision and moved to the Midwest. I did talk to her a few times, letting her know how I was doing and that I was doing what made me happy. She always said she was glad to hear that and could tell just by my voice.

With friends getting married in October, I had planned to return to DC and see her again. But that wasn't meant to be. When I return to Virginia in a couple weeks, I'll be going to say goodbye to an amazing woman. It's surreal to think of it all, and I'm not sure if it has really sunk in completely.

I can only hope to keep her memory alive by doing what makes me happy. It seems like the right thing to do.

Annie and McSt. Patty's Day

One day can reveal a lot about a person. Usually, these are stories where someone faces death in the eye and doesn't blink or refuses to back down from their beliefs. This time, it comes from my friend who realizes who she is through bad connections with guys.

Last week, my friend Annie had a couple of days off for a change. Instead of wasting them cleaning the house or running errands, she wisely used her time to celebrate Patrick's Day of Sainthood. Now, as many Oklahoman's know, there is only one place to go for this auspicious holiday and she was there.

But let's step back a couple of days. Prior to that, Annie had contacted an old friend of hers whom she developed an interesting, if only because it was never really defined, relationship with. He was someone she could confide with and help her through the rough patches when needed. They hadn't really seen each other for some time because of conflicting schedules and private issues. But with the upcoming freedom in both their schedules falling on St. Patrick's Day, they agreed to do something. Her friend, whom we'll call Noah, said he'd contact Annie to set something up.

---

If I wanted to add to the confusion I would toss in the neighbor friend whose live-in girlfriend decided to move to Chicago to pursue her career in musical theatre, despite musical theatre really being a New York thing, but that story disappeared before it even took off. We'll stick to the two guys for now.

---

After running her errands the day before, Annie had the Tuesday off to celebrate her Irish heritage, although her family name is German. Joining with some friends in Norman, the small entourage proceeded to celebrate St. Patty's Day in traditional fashion with plenty of ale and lager and no regard to the next day. Of course, so did everyone else at the bar, leaving a clear absence of available seats.

Using her typical cunning, and a little bit of ingenuity, she managed to snag a table away from an unsuspecting group - we'll just leave the details out, however, to save face - and proceeded to allow new found friends to join. These friends were all in the military, and judging from the photos I will say they were NOT Navy - and of course one of them caught Annie's attention.

This man, whom we now call Chris McStPattysDay, or McSPD for short, had the typical military style going for him; clean cut, gentleman, heavy drinker. Each of the qualities my friend, and I presume most women on a holiday like this, would enjoy. As the day wore on into the night, my friend's frustration at Noah continues. Not only had Noah not contacted her to get together, but he hadn't contacted her about anything. Finally, Annie had had enough.

If you recall from an earlier story, Annie has had some experience with cell phones. Using her phone, she made it abundantly clear to Noah that his inability to call her, even to say he's too busy, had left a poor taste in her mouth. His response was a simple apology with no real explanation. This sent Annie off.

Now, Annie hadn't been the type of person to stand her ground lately. Her previous workplace took this once strong-willed woman and made a beaten soldier on the verge of PTSD. When someone told her she couldn't cut it, she'd apologize. When someone trampled over her, she'd let it be. Not anymore.

After hearing the non-apology from Noah, Annie ripped into him telling him that his inability to make plans or call to say it wasn't going to work out made him less of a man than he was before. There was little room left for Noah to wiggle out of, leaving him stranded in his ark for another 40 days.

Meanwhile, the night had ended in Norman and Chris McSPD had acquired his prize; the number to Annie's cell. Granted, this is nothing of an achievement these days as more and more women screen their calls to avoid the men they met the night before (a very wise move in many cases.) Nothing was made of the new number the next day. Everyone proceeded to work off their hangovers, walking gingerly in the office and whispering through the phone. It was Wednesday, however, that the cell phone's existence provided a little twist.

Most mornings, Annie awakes to her dog or an alarm clock. Wednesday morning, however, she woke up to a picture text sent from Chris McSPD. It wasn't a normal picture you'd receive, there were no sunrises or clever ways to ask one out for coffee with a picture of a coffee mug and a question mark. Instead it was a picture of, well, let's call it his miniature version of the Washington Monument.

Disgusted, Annie erased the picture text and refused to respond. By Friday, she had thankfully forgotten the offending picture and tried to relax with a girls night out. Unfortunately, Mr. McSPD didn't quite understand the reason behind a lack of response to his "artful" message. So, he sent another text. There were no photos with this message, just a declaration that he'd be out with his friends. I presume he announced his plans in the hopes that Annie would quickly respond her desire to join. This plan didn't quite work as Annie merely erased the message and went about her evening.

A week later, with no word from Chris McSPD, Annie and I were having a conversation. Now, Annie would say she enjoyed her conversation whereas I would argue that it was nothing more than a dressing down of my faults, of which there are many. During this conversation, Chris McSPDhad texted again. This time he asked what Annie was doing that night. It was good to see the evolution of one person over the course of 10 days, from primeval photos of himself to implied invites to actual questions. Unfortunately for him, he lost any chance of getting to know Annie with the initial message.

To make sure the boy got the message right, Annie replied to "What are you doing tonight?" with "Not you." And left it at that. McSPD, in an effort to save what little face he had, replied back that there was no reason to be mean, he just wanted to know what she was doing. There is a need to save face, which we've all done in our lives, and there is a need to cut your losses and move on. This was not the former in any way. When Annie pointedly explained the problem of him sending pictures of Mini McSPD, the boy got the message and replied that he was deleting her number from his phone.

While there were promising moments for both gentlemen to achieve more than a conversation with Annie, they both failed to properly utilize the cell phone and fell flat on their face. But more importantly than learning how a phone should work, the story brought about a greater end. Annie's self-confidence had returned. In the time span of one day, St. Patrick's Day, Annie re-discovered how to stand her ground, refusing to let old friends walk over her and denying the advances of bad acquaintances.

In the end, finding the backbone always trumps dating new people. At least on a holiday like St. Patrick's Day.

"If the human race dies, the Earth survives."

I don't understand people. As fascinating as they may be, there are some who pointedly vilify others purely for difference of thought. It is frustrating to see so little work being done when two opposing viewpoints can't sit down for one minute and work on understanding the other.

We see this in the obvious arena, politics, but it can be witnessed elsewhere: various security agencies, differing states, cities, countries, and even religions. It is childish to witness such animosity towards others on a consistent basis with little hope for compromise.

Then again, I will always hate the University of Texas, so who am I to complain.

---

The other day I went to Kohl's to buy some new running shoes. For the first time in my life I needed to replace an old pair of shoes in less than a year because I had literally ran them to the ground. It's a good feeling, by the way, to wear out shoes because of exercise and not from the passage of time (my previous pair were seven years old). When I was in line waiting to purchase my item, I observed a lady paying by credit card. Normally this isn't a big deal. But when the cashier checked the signature on the card and returned it to the woman, it became a big deal.

The cashier had failed to completely read the card, as we later learned, and didn't notice the signature was actually a note stating "check ID." This is common in a vain attempt to pro vent fraud. Nowadays, most people who use credit or debit cards simply make purchases online since you don't have to check for signatures. There is no opportunity to "check ID" while sitting at home in your PJ's.

When her card was returned, the lady snapped at the cashier, "see this? It says check ID. If you're going to take my card, you should at least read it." Afterward a brief pause, she continued, "Next time, you should do your job and look at the cards to make sure the signature is right or the id is valid," then promptly huffed away.

Now, I'm not saying the cashier didn't do anything wrong. It's obvious she should've checked the ladies identification. But the manner in which the woman responded was uglier than the situation warranted. Simply handing the cashier your driver's license and calmly explaining the "check ID" note would've been enough to remind the cashier about her responsibility. Snapping at a woman in public does nothing more than cause undue embarrassment to the employee and sets the customer on an unheralded power trip.

And I think that is all this was about. I doubt this had much to do with added security for her purchasing power. It appeared to be more of a feeble attempt at promoting a higher authority over her counterpoint. It's a shame, really, that things fall like this. And this woman is no different from the many people in this world who perform the same show at restaurants, discount stores, banks and other service institutions. There is a growing need to have authority over others, especially when the world is run on such power.

In recessions, I've seen, it grows to be worse. More and more people exude their superiority through hostility, or they find ways to knock other people down through derision. It's a by-product of uncertainty, and a dangerous one at that. The more financial chaos we find ourselves in, the more we want to seem better than others - as a way of saying we haven't fallen off that cliff just yet.

I don't have an answer for it. I can only hope people become aware of how they are treating others throughout their day. Sometimes chastisement is warranted. But undue hostility towards strangers cannot be the direction we take. If it is, then I have more to worry about than the OU-Texas football game in October.

"If that bastard doesn't shave and look like a leading man, we'll sue you..."

There is a sort of stigma with being unemployed, a perception of having all the time in the world to do whatever you want. However, this stigma is just not true. When you have no job a lot of time is spent, ideally, finding a new job. This includes networking, interviewing, resume updates, cover letters, and all sort of other administrative work most people forget about when they sit on their cushioned chairs in their office/cubicle, surfing ESPN or Facebook until the clock strikes five.

With what time we have outside of looking for a job, most of us unemployed Americans cannot go do whatever we please. There is the little problem of no income that keeps us from visiting all the great museums, and seeing every movie coming out this week. The lack of income prevents us from driving across the country for no reason outside of saying hello. It's a frustrating thing, but one we all get used to until the day comes when we hear the words "you're hired."

And no, I haven't heard those words yet. But I'm hopeful.

---

In the time since the election, when I lost my job along with a great number of other Republicans that day, I have shaved a total of six times. Once was the day before I flew to Liberia. The second time was a failed attempt at shaving in a dimly-lit room in Zwedru using my blade and a mirror broken off of a motorcycle. The third time was the day before I flew back to the United States, using a full mirror but no running water. The fourth was for a job fair (which was a total bust, I might add!) The fifth was for no reason whatsoever and the final one was for a job interview that I had two weeks ago in Dallas. Why do I mention this? Because along with the lack of a job comes the time to find out if I like the beard or not.

I call it my unemployment beard. I let it grow unkempt for a week, trim it down, then grow it untouched for another week. I keep the edges clean, but don't bother with keeping it at any certain length. Does it look good? Probably not. I'm not a beard person by any means. But it is a nice reminder that there are still things I can do without the worry of committing a professional faux-pas.

More people should do something like this. Find a way to step out of your box, your little zone of familiarity, and jump into the deep end while you can. Unless you find yourself independently wealthy, or some mindless celebrity, unemployment is the only time you can really see what can be done.

There is an advantage for me doing this over others, I will admit. Most of my friends don't live anywhere near me so they cannot witness the Unemployment Beard. It saves me from hearing the incessant cries of ridicule I am certain to receive if they would see what I was doing. As they aren't here, I can roam the streets without fear of comment from any peer.

Having friends nearby, however, shouldn't deter anyone from growing their own "unemployment beard." Just make sure you don't commit to this while going to a job interview or on your first day on the job, hence the word unemployment. It's a time to be free and enjoy yourself. Plus, everyone will know something good happened to you because you had to eliminate your little experiment for the sake of gainful employment.

"If I were king (or in her case, queen) of the forest"

Everyone in life has a path they take. Sometimes the road is smooth, filled with the occasional stone or brook, slowing them on their journey but never really stopping their dreams. Others are filled with deep chasms that force them to look elsewhere as they live along in their life.

Then you have those who has the path filled with such potholes, washed-out bridges, flooded passings that anyone wonders how they make it to the other side. Their stories are comedic, adventurous, and entertaining. The hero (or heroine) never seems to let the hard times destroy them, while making sure to enjoy the good times within reason. It can be amazing, to say the least, that such people exist and such people fail to come out better than before.

When you meet someone like this, make sure to never ever let them slip away. Always keep them as a good friend, or else you may find your life slipping into the mundane.

---

It has become quite apparent that my friend, the one I called Annie a few posts ago, has lived a most entertaining life. In her short time on earth, she has managed to not only keep me on my toes, but also keep me guessing what's going to happen next. Because of this, it is only fitting that I would include her stories on this blog as I am certain other people would find them just as fun to read. So, from time to time, I'm going to be writing about her life. I'll still call her Annie until she allows me to use her real name (which I presume will be never.)

---

My friend decided some time ago to experiment with the idea of having a roommate. Normally, this isn't a bad thing, since many young Americans share houses and apartments to make ends meet. However, in the case of Annie, this hasn't happened. Not since her freshman year in college, we're talking close to 10 years now, has she shared living space with other people.

It appeared that the stars were perfectly aligned, also, when a co-worker needed a place to stay for three months while preparing for a wedding. Ironically, this person hadn't lived alone before, ever, and so she needed a roommate before getting married. The two agreed to basic terms, not using a rental agreement, and proceeded to prepare for the eventual move-in date. Naturally, for my friend at least, this is where the fun stopped.

At first, there were moments where the newbie would ask questions that would raise eyebrows, such as fluctuating move-in dates (by weeks, not days). These questions can usually be taken as signs of exuberance in the eventual moving in. Normally, the questions are random and odd, but nothing more than silly things.

But then, things took a turn for the worse. There were the impromptu meetings in the work-place, where everyone could hear what's going on, even when my friend would be on the phone. Follow that up with odd remarks that indicated this person wasn't going to be the best roommate. Remarks that equal a haughtiness about her character, that she is better than my friend. I won't go into details, but the two backgrounds would indicate otherwise.

The week before this girl was supposed to move in, my friend messages me with anxiety over the upcoming move. She doesn't want to have her as a roommate. I first tried to convince her that it was just nerves, since she never had a roommate, and that things would be okay. But then there were other remarks that caught even me off guard.

First she wanted to move in during the weekend while Annie was away. So, she came up to her at work, again where everyone can hear her, and asked for the keys to move in. Without regard to the concept of privacy, she became exasperated when my friend refused to blindly hand over the keys to her house so the newbie can move in and lay claim to the world without consultation. To add to the enjoyment, when my friend thought it would be best to move at a time when they both could be there, the potential roommate turned away, only to text later that she would delay her move by a week.

While this is going on, around Valentine's Day, more problems creep up for my now-stressed friend. A while ago, she befriended a nice guy. Without going into too much detail this guy wanted to date my friend and then disappeared only to show up later on with a wife. Not that matrimony stopped his affection. Shortly after the divorce (who didn't see that coming?) he continued his pursuit of my friend. Of course, Annie is just not that into him and has tried to convey the message that they are friends, but nothing more. Apparently this guy hasn't received the message as Annie was welcomed on Saturday afternoon with flowers on her doorstep from the non-boyfriend.

To add fuel to the fire on Monday, the non-roommate asked about moving in throughout the week, kind of like a puzzle. She apparently wants to move in some of her things throughout the week and then finish it off on Saturday with a larger move. Before Annie could respond, because she was taking care of personal errands (i.e. hair appointment), she received another text asking if it was okay that someone else stayed with them for a few days. To say the least, this was the nail in the coffin of their arrangement.

So by Monday evening she has two problems, how to have a non-break-up with a non-boyfriend and how to end a living arrangement with a non-roommate. Of course the non-roommate got an inkling that something was awry when Annie said that they'd talk about the issues later. Tuesday morning, she comes down to Annie's desk, again so everyone can see and hear what's going on, and asked about when a good time would be to talk about the moving in. Of course, this would've been easier through e-mail, but the non-roommate hasn't quite grasped the concept of e-mail protocol. She thinks e-mails should be like phone calls; you respond the moment you get the e-mail and not when it is convenient for you.

As the day wore on, the anxiety had clearly shifted from having a roommate to having to end the arrangement. At first she was going to end it in person, but then started wondering if this was warranted. Granted, when ending any major relationship; whether it's a roommate situation or a romantic encounter, you should do so in person. However, when she later discovered that the non-roommate was talking to someone else about the possibility of moving in their place all pretense of having to end it in person vanished.

Of course, there was the impending fear of what would happen once this arrangement was ended. Would the non-roommate make things uncomfortable at the office? Would she try to have Annie removed from work altogether (using various lies, of course)? Or would things end smoothly?

Turns out, things ended smoothly. Annie explained that she the non-roommate would want someone else as a roommate since the non-roommate is getting married and wants to talk about the plans or just talk about life in general(something Annie doesn't want to do any of that after work.) The non-roommate agreed and things ended amicably. Looking back at it all, it was a situation that could've been worse, but failed to live up to the pending fireworks. Kind of like Superman Returns.

As for the non-boyfriend...well, that's for another day.

"Baby, Uh Uh, It Don't Work"

There is something spiritual about music. The use of our imagination, manipulating external objects in uniformity to convey an emotion or message, can only be described as divinity on earth. Music is such a unifying factor of humanity. The songs sung by the many animals in the world, such as the birds in spring, have a purpose, typically mating. But the songs of man can have no other purpose than to enjoy being alive.

It is no wonder, then, that music's many forms can be seen in great and small measures. While Bono and Bon Jovi are celebraties for their songs and talents, people like me play the violin, strum the guitar, or sing in church, purely for the love of the creating music. People worldwide play without the objective of becoming the next Mick Jagger or Leona Lewis. They play to make people smile and enjoy the moment.

Rarely do you find a culture that abhors the thought of music. Even those that distance themselves from instruments still allow the voice to ring out in joyful noises.

But when can music become a nuisance, a part of a growing problem? When it becomes a part of the drug.

---

I have a friend in DC, no names are needed at the time, who loves to swing dance. When I say loves to swing dance, I mean LOVES. I'm certain she would give up her day job to swing dance her life away if she didn't need her 9-5 to pay for the dancing. That's right, she pays for her obsession. It's not cheap to strut your stuff five days a week. It's almost comical, really, to think of all the times she has passed on doing other things, like enjoying the great company of good ol' Oklahoma men, just to make it to another hardwood dance floor and perform the Lindy Hop to a live band.

Dancing, for her, has become like a drug. And all the signs are there. She pays for her "fix," even gets a discount for being a loyal contributor to her "dealers" coffers, through a "frequent dancer card." When the costs climb to high, she volunteers for her dealers. And when people tell her it is getting to be too much, she replies that you cannot have too much dancing.

And this isn't like a swing-dancing only problem. Dancing is tiered, just like our drugs. There are serious-problem drugs and street-legal drugs in dancing. Going to the prom - or something like that - and swaying your hips from side to side, arms barely moving is akin to smoking cigarettes. It's not good for you and you look like a fool doing it. It's hard to figure out the equation of dancing and drugs without some help, so I've devised a little cheat-sheet for those out there worried about their friend's dangerous dancing behaviors.

Street Legal: They're okay to do, but only on occasion

We already mentioned the high-school dance style equalling the smooth taste of Marlboro Lights, but there are other dances that can be placed at the same level. Think of them as a can of Skoal or a bottle of really cheap (and really bad) wine.

• Disco. It's dead, no one seriously dances like this anymore. But when they do, it is for comedic purposes. Harmless, but stupid.
  
• Cheer. This pretty much goes for all organized group dancing seen in elementary school on up to high school (and college, I guess, for cheer). These dance routines are hard work, no doubt, and the dancers are to be commended for their athleticism. But, like other drugs, they are habit-forming and the dancers are constantly practising, performing, or thinking about their dance.
  
• Stepping. The best way to describe this is the stomp-dancing you see in the National Pan-Hellenic fraternal organizations. These rhythmic movements are addictive in nature, with the dancers learning more and the viewers salivating at every chance to see a performance. It is no wonder movies like Stomp the Yard raked in such a large profit (more than 4.5X the film's budget).
  

Gateway: They won't kill you, necessarily, but they can lead to some dangerous living

These dances are not only bad for you, but can lead to things that are downright wrong for you. Think of it as the marijuana of dancing. It never leads to a better life, just more money wasted.

• Ballroom. Most people don't ballroom dance these days. Well, more people do because of Dancing with the Stars, but it's not like they have teams in every school and people compete the way they do with the other dances mentioned. Really, these dancers perform, dance hard, and never back away from it. The desire is endless. The junkies keep trying to get their fix. They pay their money just to enjoy their dance. They spend their money to join exclusive clubs and dance the night away. Once the club has had their annual formal, the dancers will find other clubs to join or come up with other formals to hold. Does it stop? Only by finding bigger thrills (see following section) or the grave.
  
• Swing. This kind of dancing just blows my mind. Just watch a routine and you'll notice hips jutting, skirts swishing, hands swaying, and bodies flying through the air. And it's all supposedly PG. This is the dancing my friend does, and it's mind boggling how much of it she does. I know that if she could afford it, she'd do nothing else but swing dance. Her job is solely to provide her swing kick. However, I give her a break because I love swing music. Everything from Brian Setzer to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, plus many more, gets my heart racing and my adrenaline pumping. Of course, I don't dance, so I can control my addictions.
  
• Clubbing. I'm not entirely sure there is a competition for clubbing, but just going to a dance club can tell you that this style is a drug, one that is usually enhanced by alcohol and drugs. Prior to the advent of clubbing it was unknown that man and woman could touch so much of each other without taking their clothes off. Then again, as tightly packed as the dance floor is at most clubs, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise. The bumping and grinding seen in a dance club would make your mother faint, but only the best of the best continue on to the next level of dancing.
  

The Hard Stuff: Stay Away! Do Not Even Think About This Stuff!

Your heroin and crack/cocaine dance moves are the serious stuff rarely attempted, unless you've been doing the stuff for years and can't help but continue their addiction. The fitness level needed for these dancers only accentuates the problem behind the dancing. When you have to watch every calorie taken in, abhor any kind of fun to compete, and forget that lives are lived outside of your field, then you know you are in it deep and it will take a lot of recovery before you join us back in the real world.

• Ballet. I'm sure some people are surprised to see this style here, but unless you've spent a part of your life in ballet, it is hard to realize the stress associated with it. Fortunately for me, my life was spent covering ballet as a reporter. I had no experience in dance, but was the only staffer who had any fine arts background (proudly playing the violin for nearly 20 years now). The most dedicated dancers, the most serious schools, and the most reputable dance troupes, demand the most out of the art form. If you don't have the emotional stamina you will be chewed up and spat out by the ballet world. I'm thankful for my time covering this dance form since it gave me a greater appreciation for what they go through, but I could never imaging having to go through anything remotely close to what ballet dancers go through.
  
• Street Dancing. I'm not really talking about the guys who dance on the corner in Virginia Beach or Los Angeles, although some of them would fit here. I'm talking about the new American dance style that was featured by the American Team during Superstars of Dance. This is serious stuff here. The dancers scare the living crap out of me because of their acrobatic maneuvers. Watching it gave me a sense of hip-hop mixed with a little Parkour. I'm sure some people break bones trying this stuff. This drug can be lethal, I'm telling you now. If you can't handle a little swing, or even a little ballroom, stay away from street dancing. Leave it to those who have been on the drug for years.
  

Hopefully someone will listen to the words of wisdom and avoid the evils of dancing. If not, then I pray for their soul, because there is little hope for the child who starts off with an innocent dance routine in elementary school. Before you know it, she'll be swaying her hips to the rhythm of song and moving into a world of destitution and despair.

"Is this heaven? No, it's Iowa."

Does anyone truly look forward to the end of their life? How many people embrace the concept of their own death? Not many people do. Death is a great unknown for us. Just as in the purpose of life, the finality of death is pretty uniform. It is only in what happens after death that we start to see the tenets of faith, or non-faith, diversify humanity.

Death can have its uses in life. Often people mention their "bucket lists," a series of tasks they wish to achieve before they "kick the bucket." The list can range from the basic - apologize for wrong doings, visit old friends - while others are nothing short of inspiring - visit the Seven Wonders of the World.

Then there is the death clock. You can find here. Finding out how long you have to live can be great motivation to make the changes you talk about during New Year's parties and doctor's visits.

No matter what people do with knowledge of their own mortality, one fact remains: time may be the undefeatable enemy, but we cannot wait for it to overcome us. Grasp what few moments we have and live it for all its worth.

Then again, watching Chuck can be just as fun.

---

This week I heard an interesting question: if you knew you were going to die within the next hour, who would you write to and what would you say?

To say this is an odd topic of discussion is an understatement. Who, in their right mind, would enjoy spending their time talking about this? Other than me? People normally want to debate the meaning of life or, more often, entertainment and/or sports.

Since the question was asked, however, I was compelled to answer it. The first thought in my head was to write "HOLY CRAP I'M GOING TO DIE!!!" I would presume it is a normal reaction for many people who are fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to know of their impending demise. It's not like there is enough time to write the Great American Novel you dreamed about, go skydiving, or see the world. You can't exactly call all of your friends and family to say goodbye, because that call with your mother will last longer than the time you have left (especially if you never call). So would writing a letter be the only logical thing left to do before your demise? Maybe not.

I would rather spend my last hour doing a few other things. I could find any recording available of the last time the Cubs won the World Series, just so I can live the moment as if it really happened. Or watch the last quarter of the OU National Championship win over Florida State in 2001. I still grin from ear to ear when I think about that game. Maybe watch the last episode of West Wing, pretend for one fleeting moment that I, too, could change the world.

And if I were going to write a letter, I'd make sure it accomplished two things; how I want to be buried and any vain attempt to come off as the most profound human ever. The letter would start off quite simple:

From the Desk of Shimko

Dear ,


I'm dying. Sucks, I know. But since you're reading this and I'm studying the insides of my eyelids - for eternity - I figured you might as well know a few things.

First, make sure NO ONE sees this page. Burn it after you take care of what I have asked you to do.

Now, Make sure EVERYONE is crying at my funeral. I don't care how you do it, just see that tears are flowing faster than the Obama inauguration.

I don't care about a casket. Cremate me instead. Have my ashes strewn in the following places; Owen Field so I can be with the Sooners, Wrigley Field so I can be with the Cubs, Capitol Hill so I can haunt every legislator walking the halls. And do what you can to let the world know of the ghost roaming the Capitol Building, keeping an eye on things and cursing those who corrupt. If I can't be recognized as a leader in the community while alive, might as well turn into the stuff of urban legends...

The other half of the letter wouldn't be as easy. I'm sure it would go something like:

From the Desk of Justin Shimko

Dear ,

Since you are reading this, I have passed on. This isn't a time for tears, as they are falling for someone who cannot see them. Instead, think about the great times we had. I don't have much to say, since so much has been said while I was alive. I don't regret anything I have done, even (insert situation that resulted in my death). Life is short, but it can be exciting.

I guess it is fitting I get to write this letter. I'm always one to announce my plans right before I do them. So here it goes. In just a few moments I'll be taking on the greatest, most mysterious, adventure of man. While you all will live your lives and walk along paths long documented by society, I'll be taking a trip down a path no one has definitively written about. In a way, this is exciting. Too bad no one will get to know what it's like until they encounter it.

In truth, however, I'll probably just write "my passwords are (insert passwords). E-mail everyone to let them know what happened. Cancel my subscription to (insert all my subscriptions). Don't forget to erase my hard drive and make sure my Facebook account is canceled."

"Carpe Per Diem - Sieze the Check"

"In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."

"Carpe Diem."

"The ancient Greeks did not write obituaries, instead they asked only one question
of a man: 'Did he have passion?'"

"Life is a succession of moments. To live each one is to succeed."

With all the advice on how to live, it can be surprising to see so many people struggle through life. Truth is, though, it's not. Not when there is so much uncertainty about life and where we are taking it. The many faiths in this world, including the absence of faith, agree only on one absolute; our time on this planet is limited and, therefore, precious. What we do with it, how we understand the meanings behind our moments here, defines the individuality of man and establishes the tenets of faith.

But why the fixation on life? Why is it necessary for us to figure out that we need to live our life to the fullest or to live the life of a pauper or to live hard and die young? Why should our life be spent trying to figure out how to live our life?

---

One night, after working a lively fundraiser for a campaign I was recently a member of, a colleague asked, "If you could meet someone from the past, someone from the present and someone from the future, who would they be and why?"

I like these questions. Not because it makes me think, although it does (and a lot), but because of the answers everyone else may present. I feel you can gain real insight into a person through random questions such as these.

For me, the answers were not as easy as I thought. I could've copped out and gone with the obvious; Jesus Christ, President of the United States (or some actor/actress/model of the day) and my wife/children. But how can you discover someone through those answers? I wanted to come up with something crafty, something original, something me. So I chose those people whom I follow quite a bit.

First was the past. I opted for Theodore Roosevelt, a great man who rarely toed any party line. He was a true Republican in the sense that the government must not involve themselves in matters outside of their ramifications. He stood against the spoils system in New York and the party machine throughout the country. More importantly, he recognized that not everything is understood in black and white. He saw trusts as an evil when they control ed the markets, but necessary when they controlled the railroads. He further acknowledged the equality in races - stating that all men, when they so choose to be, should be welcomed in society to further civilization's cause.

Not everything Roosevelt did was good, in my opinion. Some of his progressive ideas were a little too progressive. While his idea of the railroad being regulated by the federal government and not the states was accurate under the Interstate Commerce Clause, his move towards federal growth signaled a change from 19th Century politics to 20th Century progressivism. With the Republicans' rejection of Roosevelt, in favor of the excellent juror but horrible executive William Taft, came the rejection of controlled progressivism. The left took hold of the concept and created a distorted view of how progressivism was supposed to exist. It is sad, really, that so much promise of the New Republican Era was snuffed out by the few remaining members of the Republican Machine.

I want to meet this man for reasons outside of his politics, however. I want to meet "Teddy," as he was known but hated to be called, because of his ideas on conservation and the West, as well as his thirst for history. Many people would view their life as successful if they wrote a book, or several, became governor of the largest state in the Union, served as a war hero, transformed the United States Navy, or traveled the world. But Roosevelt was not many people. Not only did he accomplish these feats, but he also set up a cattle ranch in the Dakotas, reformed the New York City Police Department, as well as the Civil Service Commission, raised quite a large family that doted on him constantly, save his brother whom he tried to save from the despair of alcoholism, all before he turned 42.

What I want to know from him, then, is what possessed him to do all this at such breakneck speed? Why did he feel it was his duty to pursue such a renaissance lifestyle, and become one of the most popular Americans of all time? His jingoism aside, there is more to his ideals about the United States and her place in history than letters alone can provide. Further, his views on race, despite his clear declaration of giving each person a fair shake before judgement without regard to color, are somewhat cloudy. Which Roosevelt was the real Roosevelt? Was he the one who declared that if the man is capable of shooting beside another in war then he is good enough to work with? Or was he the one who thought there was little hope for the Native American and the Arab? Either way, we will never fully know since his time has passed and we are now left with only his written works and a few recorded speeches.

Moving to the present made things easier. My choice would be someone I could actually meet, solely based on the person being alive. I chose my person based on the corruption of power and its effect on the mind. Chinese President Hu Jintao reflects much of this mindset. Not him specifically, but the position he embodies in the party he leads. The concept of communism if fascinating to me. With everything it promises, the ideology of Marx and Mao still fails to uphold the concept that all can be equal. I believe this to be from the inability to consider the need for individuality and the desires of humanity. On paper, society would be great if everything were equal and our society was a classless one. But in practice, the elimination of individuality, of competition and the desire to succeed in one's own way destroys the pillars upon which communism struggles to survive.

For President Hu, I would like to see how it is possible for him, and his colleagues, to continue to exist living in the facade of communism. Their efforts have changed greatly from Mao's "Great Society." The introduction of capitalist ideas, known as "Communism with Chinese Characteristics," takes great strides towards private enterprise and end the socialistic mindset instilled with many communists. However, there is still a great denial occurring at the highest levels of the party. Why? Is the party that afraid of the truth reaching the masses that individuality, human rights, and the prospects of democracy could destroy their livelihood so much? Or are they so consumed with maintaining their grasp of power in the antiquated forms of society that they have failed truly live?

Which brings me to the future. I didn't choose the easy answers because I truly don't want to know those answers. There is no fun in knowing who my wife is before I realize that I want her to be my wife. The fun in life is about not knowing what is going to happen but taking the leap anyway. With that, we have to wait. I'm okay with waiting. We all should be, really. It's our destiny to wait. Since the dawn of man, we have had to wait for everything to happen. It is when we are ready that the action takes place. I don't mean do nothing, however. We continue to work towards our ideal society, but we have to wait to see the fruition of our actions. Waiting enables us to enjoy the end so much more.

I don't want to chose my children, either. There is too much danger derived from figuring out how your children turn out. Science fiction aside, knowing who your children come to be creates indecision as a parent. You second-guess your every move, wondering if you changed the future you have seen. Instead enjoying your time with your children, its spent agonizing over every word, every decision, every action. That alone will change their future, no matter how hard you try to leave it alone.

I can't choose no one since the rules clearly state someone. Nor do I want to chose no one. I want to meet myself in the future, right before I die. This isn't to find out any of life's mysteries - do I succeed in my dreams, where do I end up settling down, what did I become in life. No, I want to find out if I was happy with my life. Because my life is not about who I meet or what I do, but whether I was happy while meeting these people and doing these things. Did I learn to make the most of every moment or do I did end up wasting them all away?

None of this matters, however, because I already know I will be happy with my life. I was able to live. No matter what happens to me, what challenges I do not meet and what successes I achieve, the opportunity to exist is the blessing I cannot turn away from. That is my life lesson, my quote that exists in the world.

"Don't spend your life trying to figure out how to live it. By the time you do, it'll be all over."

"Do I Know You?" or "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again."

Technology can be fickle. Take cell phones. While this little gizmo has "freed us from our homes," in truth, they create leashes. We are never alone unless the phone is off, or out of range, and even then the thought of missing an important call throws us into a panic. The black books and date books have been replaced by contact lists and digital calendars. Our text messages become our modes of vital communications - including the all-important break up message (Its not U, its Me). And every person now has their own personal assistant, taking messages for us when we don't know who's calling or don't want to talk to whomever has the time to speed dial our number.

But what happens when you receive a text message from a mystery person? Usually, you ignore it, but sometimes you just play right along.

---

A friend called me the other night. For her, the evening began with a random text message. The message itself was commonplace, but my friend - we'll call her Annie - decided to play along with the game.

Annie had called me wondering if I knew the number and, in turn, the person with whom she was texting. Unfortunately - or rather fortunately for the story that transpired - I did not. I tried looking up my numbers in my phone. I reverse-checked the number on a few websites. I even did a google search in the vain attempt at finding someone foolish enough to publicize their cell phone number (which this obviously was since Annie was texting with the person).

The messages the two had already exchanged revealed very little. Actually, we could only determine the person was male when he commented that he was trying to understand women - and what guy isn't?

My original suggestion of calling the person from my phone, to a number in another state, and listen for the voice mail and figure out the person's name did not go well.

"What if he answers?" Annie asked. Well, I would just ask for someone who obviously isn't there and apologize for dialing the wrong number. Needless to say we didn't take this approach.

There were attempts to find out more information. Annie asked how Christmas and New Year's went, only to find out New Year's was busy and Christmas was awkward with his sister bringing her boyfriend and the mystery man getting a guitar from the parents. So we could only narrow it down to guys with sisters and not musically inclined.

I had her ask about the guy's work, only to find out that work is slow. Still no clues here. This is when I brought up finding out directly through my original plan.

"But what if he's a guy I used to date and want to date him again?" she replied. How the two correlate, I have yet to figure out.

Granted, all of this could've been prevented if Annie used her cunning mind at the beginning of our scenario and asked who the person was straightforward. Most people do this, or ignore the text, when confronted with a number and no name. It's not rude, since the number is obviously not one we have used before. But, no. My friend didn't start thinking of asking our mystery person until later in the game. Each time, however, I had to remind her that it would not be wise to bluntly ask for his name since it would reveal holding a, now, lengthy conversation with someone we did not know.

As an alternative, however, I decided we should have Annie feign a bad phone, asking our John Doe to call her. She wouldn't answer the phone in this situation, so we'd either have a voice clue or he would provide his name. Granted, by this point, normal people would've given up and admitted to having no clue who was on the other end. But we are not normal. Nor was there a point of giving up. It was late at night and the mystery was puzzling.

Before we were able to enact our brilliant plan, Mystery X had asked about my friend's Christmas. When she responded her holiday's similarities to A Christmas Story, his response shed new light into the game. The man does not like the movie, and why should he? I think the movie is horrible, and could go into great detail about it's failures as a glimpse into Americana Christmas.

After a brief debate regarding this new information Operation: Lampshade (not my name) was enacted. Shortly after sending the message, Annie's phone was beeping in to another call, indicating that our ruse was working. It was only a matter of time before we could unmasked our friend.

Now, typically when a person dials a number to test out a phone's ability to receive incoming calls they will do one of two things. Either they will reach the person who's phone is in questions or they will leave a message providing evidence of the failed attempt. When you deal with our unknown entity you get a third option: no message. What can we do next? Do we call his bluff in not leaving a message, thus revealing the phone did work and we chose not to answer it for ulterior motives? No, we come up with a new plan.

When receiving the text confirming that our plan failed, it was time to establish a new method to our madness. We would reply back that Annie would check her voicemail to see if she could at least receive a message. When he responds that he didn't leave a message, we would then tell him to hold on. A few moments later, we would send another text message asking to call again since we have now reset our towers. Granted, by this point it has become absolutely apparent that we are losing our minds. But, we trudged on because, as Annie put it, "At this point, I'm addicted to the game."

---

At what point did this become a game? After having lived through it, I'm still unsure how we went from trying to figure out who this person was to trying to come up with the most creative ways to discover his identity. Even the cell phone towers wasn't the most interesting. At one point, my friend actually said she was going to stop by some pay phone on her way to work the next morning, call the number up and listen for the guy's answer. She would keep silent, but listen to figure out the person's identity.

---

We didn't get this far in the game, however. At some point in the chaos, Annie took an educated guess into who this might be and texted a possible mutual friend. When that person didn't respond, she started second guessing herself. But, before we enacted the continuation of our psychosis, I suggested she send a text saying "Wait, I thought I was talking to X," and see what would happen. Indeed, it turned out her guess was right and the mystery person now had a name. Of course, I still have no idea who this guy was, but it was entertaining to play along.

"Bark twice if you're in Milwaukee."

Visiting relatives can be a nightmare. The trip can be one frustration followed by another. The kids are bored, or fighting, in the car. You want to fall asleep after driving 50 miles down the same tree-lined highway. The wife, or husband, or whatever, nags about something because they are just as bored. Then you get there and you can't wait to spend even more time with each other. By the time you're done with your visit, the relatives remember why they live so far away, the family remembers why they don't spend more time together, and you can't wait to go back to work because it feels like a vacation.

I'm so glad I'm single.

---

This past weekend, I took a trip to visit my grandparents. While I didn't get to leave as early as I wanted to, because of extreme cold temperatures from the Great White North. Being just me in the truck, the drive was quite pleasant. It definitely was a welcome detour from the monotony of my bedroom/office. By the time I arrived, the air warmed up to a balmy negative one degree. Not that anyone was paying attention the entire time they were driving (or wondering when the last time he experienced above-zero weather).

Aside from the cold, the trip was relaxing. There was the usual nagging from my grandfather about being a Republican in a Democratic family (a very Democratic family, I might add) and we had a lively discussion about why the current economic problems aren't a repeat of the Great Depression. I will say, however, that there is some difficulty trying to discuss the Great Depression with your family when they've actually lived through it and you only studied about it. But it wasn't what I did or what we discussed that set this weekend apart from other trips to their home. It was what I learned.

My grandfather isn't in the best of health. He's had problems with his back and hip for several months and you can tell it bothers him. Not the pain, mind you. He would never admit to being in pain. But it is the limitations his predicament has placed in him. His work ethic is something to admire. For as long as I can remember, he would be up before the sun rose and wouldn't rest until the sun dipped into the west or the heat prevented him from continuing on. When it go to hot to farm, he'd work around the house. Only on the weekends, or when there was a big family gathering, did I see him enjoy the outdoors. And did he ever enjoy it.

This is the man who taught me fishing. When I was young, he took my brother and I out into the middle of the lake not far from Ladysmith. He'd show us how to cast with our beginner poles, teach us the fine art of reeling a line in to lure the fish onto the hook, and what to do on the rare occasion that we caught something. I remember one of the earlier times we went fishing together, I tried to cast a line as far as I could. I took the pole as far back behind me as possible and swung it around to the front, remembering to let go of the line in the process. Unfortunately, I didn't really swing the pole above me but in a more sidearm movement. This provided two quick lessons in fishing. One, the quick jerk and late release of the line does not work when you are trying to cast a long way out. Two, sidearming should stay in baseball, because you never know when you'll catch your grandfathers hat on the line and send it into the water. No matter how many mistakes I made, my grandfather remained very patient with me. He never told me to stop, instead he would show me how to do it differently. As young as we were, it took many tries before we could get it right.

When I was older, my grandfather made the leap from a great man to a superman. My brother and I had the good fortune to spend a few weeks with our grandparents one summer. Because of the long visit, my grandfather thought it was time for us to visit their cabin, and to go fishing. But this time we didn't learn our lesson from fishing. The cabin was right next to the lake, with its own little pier and boat launch. We didn't need to drive around to somewhere to get in the water, and that spelled trouble for my brother and I.

After we settled into our temporary home for the weekend, our grandparents let us take a canoe into the water for a short while. Excited as we were, I don't think once my brother or I took into account how little we knew about rowing a boat. It seems easy enough, though, so we just hit the water without pause. A few minutes into our adventure, we quickly realized the water current was pushing our little boat faster than our little arms could row. Despite our best efforts, we kept drifting farther and farther away from the cabin. When there seemed little else that we could do, out from the shore, well away from the cabin, was our grandfather. He told at us about what to do, row the canoe as close to the shore as we could. He calmly bellowed out for us to not try for the straight line in, but to just eventually get to shore in any way possible. After what seemed like forever, but probably was only 15-20 minutes, we were close enough to the shore for him to climb aboard and row us back to the cabin. Not once did he scold us. Not once did we feel ashamed. He just told us that it is a lesson all boaters will eventually learn.

These stories built up my grandfather as the man who could do no wrong. Then there were the tales of how his heart was bigger than his chest. As I mentioned earlier, my grandfather lived through the depression. He is from the old school mind about work; women stayed at home and men went out to provide for the household. When my grandmother was stricken ill for several months, however, it was his heart that proved there were exceptions to everything.

While I was in high school, I received word that my grandmother wasn't feeling well. She had hurt her back somehow, but the pain was not going away with bed rest. Through time, and several doctors, the pain was discovered to be a symptom of a debilitating disease, forcing her into a life of immobility. Her days of cleaning the house, attending women's group meetings and planning church events appeared over, replaced with the routine of bed rest and watching the occasional television program. No longer would my grandfather receive his home-cooked meal when he came home from the farm, nor would there be an immaculate home when he returned from his day's labor. But that is when the man's compassion for his wife took hold of his ways.

I remember hearing from Dad about his taking over the maintenance of the home. He became the provider of the household and the keeper of the home. His days were split between the farm and the housework, cleaning what needed to be cleaned and cooking what meals he could prepare. For the modern man, this doesn't seem like much. But for my grandfather's generation, this was nothing short of love in its purest form. My grandmother's condition eventually improved, and my grandfather returned to his old lifestyle, but I can never erase the thought of him taking the steps necessary to maintain the home and take care of his wife throughout that whole ordeal. I'm still amazed at what transpired over that year, especially since neither of them will talk about it. Only occasionally do you hear my grandmother mention she was ill.

This weekend proved to be more than just a visit to see the family. It was a realization that even the mightiest of men slow down as time moves on. His walk was a little slower, with pain shooting through his hip at every step, and his restlessness grew a little higher, with the back keeping him from his everyday chores. But this man, the one I grew up to idolize, was still the man I visited this weekend. Despite his ailments, his humor and his character are still alive, more vibrant than before. He never backs down from a fight, never lets a good comment remain silent. Each opinion I may have is countered with a jab about why I must be wrong because I am a Republican. This weekend showed me that while he may have lost a step, he still has his mind and he is still the same man I loved when I was growing up.

He may not be the immortal god I built him up to be when I was younger. He isn't even the perfect person we all want to be someday. But he is exactly what I'd like to be when I grow up; compassionate, humorous, strong and hard working. There is nothing that would make me happier than knowing that I lived up to my family name by emulating the man he came to be.