2010: The Best Year of My Life

It's been eight months since I've posted anything. Yes, most of you thought that I was either A: dead; or B: finally took that job on the cruise ship where I was going to have to wear buttless chaps (note: this is not a joke, this was an actual job offer). But in actuality, I was going through an incredible transformation: take it that I was in a chrysalis, growing massive wings (but tough, cool guy wings, no nancy-pansy rainbow wings) and making incredible transformations in my life. The last four months, January - April, have brought the most incredible things to light - and I've finally been able to admit things that have been hidden for an incredibly long time. In summary, my future is wonderfully bright and I feel lighter and even more positive (is that POSSIBLE?!) than I ever have. 2010, you've been my best year ever.

Finding Self-worth, Moving Forward

The aforementioned relationship with Allison slowly deteriorated over the course of a little less than a year. Shortly after the last post, we made the decision to move in together (me, in secret hopes of abating her stress and frustrations associated with dating but not living close). However, as everyone ALWAYS tells you, moving in together to solve a problem NEVER solves a problem. You are supposed to move in together for the adventure, the fun, the practicality and the companionship - and I'm afraid those were not the motivations. I could go on for a long time here, saying things that may sound cruel or place a great deal of blame. Call me or find me in person - we'll talk. But in short, and in honesty, Allison was simply a very unhappy person that I could not make happy. Her unhappiness, stress and our general difference in beliefs about how the world works led us to fight often (which I had never truly fought with a partner before) and grow farther and farther apart.

Eventually, I had the understanding and realization that I had been "settling" for Allison, thinking she may be the best I could do, and adult relationships were normalized by arguing and compromise after compromise. But, and more importantly, I realized that I was still young, there was a great deal of life left to live, and I did not have to settle for all of this stress, arguing, frustration, and disappointment. I was resolved to pull myself up by my boot-straps and find the confidence to end what I knew had become something unhealthy for both of us - after 14 months.

The tricky part was timing - I was resolved to end it as of Thanksgiving shortly after she was let-go from her waitressing job; however, Christmas was on the horizon, her birthday was right after that, and then New Years. Her previous boyfriend had broken up with her right before all three. Her entire family only gets together for these two holidays; and as of Thanksgiving, her family thought everything was fine in our relationship. I felt a pang of guilt for breaking up with her the same time her last boyfriend did, giving her a complex about the three holidays and relationship timing; and, would hate to have her face her family one month later and explain everything, instead of having a year for them to find out through the grapevine and ease into it. Therefore, (and I expect a great deal of judgments from everyone), I resolved to postpone the break-up until the 1st of the year. The month was terrible, living a lie, but there was no intimacy, no dates - just sharing an apartment together - it was a gloomy month, and I'm rather sure she knew what was coming.

On January 1, I sat down with her in our living room with a physical list in my backpocket prepared to fire off all the reasons I had had enough. But in the end, all I needed to say was "I've fallen out of love with you," and that was all she needed to hear. The smoothest break-up I've ever had. Five minutes in and five minutes later we were playing Paper Boy on NES, resolved to maintain the friendship. In actuality, the friendship would vanish within a month - with little to no explanation as to why it wasn't maintained and we had moved out. Time to move on, for both of us, I guess. But, in the end, I felt relieved and optimistic - I had found the self-worth to tell myself that I was better than this, to stand up, to speak out against what I had been lamenting to friends about for months, and give myself a fighting chance at a happier, brighter future. This was step one.

Celebrating the Finer Things in Life

On January 7, my mother celebrated her 60th birthday. As tradition, dad marks mom's big birthdays with something memorable, fun and amazing. This year, he sprung for my mother, himself, my brother and me a week in the Bahamas at a resort on Great Exuma Island.

Mom was having knee replacement surgery just a week after this vacation; and, after the unexpected death of her father [See: Sweet Route], she had not had any kind of vacation for a year.

The resort was tranquil and calm in the off-season, and we enjoyed our own little bungalow with the best event-planner I've ever experienced at a resort. The weather was slightly cool, but it was wonderful to see my mother relax, smile and laugh heartily - I haven't seen that in a long time. Our wonderful family getaway included:

• A mangrove kayaking tour where we saw stingrays and had a beautiful lunch set-up on a private beach
• An adventure to the north tip of the island to the traditional boat-building yards
• A day-long boat trip that included seeing wild hogs that swim, an island covered in Iguanas, me getting to swim into the hidden grotto where a scene from James Bond's "Thunderball" was filmed, getting to walk on a sand bar where Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed, tours of the islands that belong to Nicolas Cage (actually went on it), Best Buy founder, Oprah, Bill Gates and Faith Hill and Tim McGraw.
• The best Bahama Mama I've ever had.
• A daylong fishing trip with my father, where we caught about 18 coral reef fish, brought them back to the resort's chef, and we had the most amazing fish dinner I've ever eaten in my life!
• Heck, I even caught a bird with my bare hands!

I love the Caribbean and have hundreds of wonderful memories of the area: but what was most important was seeing my mother happy again. She is recovering from her loss, and I think we as a family are too. That's what's important. That's what keeps family together.

To the Center of the Earth!

This is just a short bit of fun, but I finally got to go caving again. I loved caving in high school, and got to go a few times in college with the Outdoor Adventure Club. So the Grotto, which is the local Cincinnati caving club, has a member who's staff at the museum, and offered to take us all on a trip. About ten of us went down to the Great Saltpeter Cave, and then we did a really good cave: variable levels, wet and muddy, fun formations. It was an awesome challenge - and I actually slipped and really hurt my left elbow bracing my weight - a good crack and everything. A $90 check-up later and luckily it was just a shocked tendon - a little massaging and rest was all it needed. But definitely a great trip - first time I've ever seen a massive ice formation in a cave!

Recovering the Satellites

In July of 2007, I did something that was incredibly painful - outside of the loss of my grandfather and the challenge of the marathon, I endured the hardest thing I've ever had to. I ended the relationship with the love of my life.

Melissa and I had met in 2005 when I transferred to the University of Illinois and we both joined the sailing club. Our relationship quickly ignited, and we had our first kiss after a nervous, three-hour walk around campus at 4 a.m. in November. Friends of ours have labeled us "the super duo" and "the dynasty." It was the most incredible relationship I've ever had - adventurous, fun, calming, insightful - we were best friends and partners - people loved to be around us, and we were boundless social hosts and travelers. Frankly, as I learned this Christmas, she's the only girlfriend my mother's ever approved of! She was always incredibly supportive of me, and I her, and it was the stuff dreams are made of, kid.

As I was finishing my internship in the woods of Elton, WI in the summer of 2007, I was coming to a scary realization - Melissa and I would soon be maintaining a long-distance relationship for four years. She was headed directly to graduate school in Chicago, a two year program; and I was headed to Cincinnati for work, with a two-year plan to return to schooling. At the switch, she would enter the working world, most likely in Chicago, and I had no real desire to go to school in Chicago. Hence, at least four years of long distance, thinking I'd be in a two-year grad program.

The long-distance, committed relationship before Melissa had been rife with infidelity from the other party, and lying to me about it. The one before her; well, there was never an admittance, but the evidence was overflowing for her being in the comfort of other men. To say the least, I had developed a complex about long-distance relationships.

My fear of a long-distance relationship, and the perils that lay within, got the better of my hopeless romanticism; and in July of 2007 I went to Chicago and ended the relationship, my heart breaking inside. I will never forget how her utter beauty had transformed to a reddened, crying face - it was gut-wrenching. I was still madly in love with the girl, but was just too afraid of utter disaster in the four years that would follow. I thought, maybe, that ending it then in an attempt to salvage some sort of relationship/friendship would serve us both better than the slow deterioration of our connection over four years of frustration.

I've questioned that decision every single day for the last two and a half years.

For six months Melissa and I barely talked - the pain was too great. I put on a facade of determination and certainty - although deep down I was racked with concern that I had made the wrong decision, and frustration at my own fear about what our future could've been. I buried deep down my feelings for Melissa - telling myself it just wasn't possible at the time. Too long in the future I would admit to myself that I never fell out of love.

We saw each other every few months at alumni get-togethers; and there was always a tension, not a negative tension, but just an electricity in the air. Almost as if we both knew what was supposed to be right (as did all of our friends), but both felt prevented to making it happen.

A massive turning point came during the death of my grandfather. At that horrible pain and loss, in my darkest of hours, the only person I could think of for comfort outside of my family was Melissa. It was not hard for the thought to come - it came naturally, that I just wanted her there - not necessarily her words of wisdom or hug of comfort - but just her presence had always been so calming, and I sought that again. I was surprised that she had come to mind, but enlightened in the wake.

That was a flag to me - nearly a year and a half after the break-up, I admitted to myself that I still had very strong feelings for Melissa. But, as mentioned in the previous chapter, I felt trapped in my current relationship; settling, and thought the Melissa chapter of my life was over. As my determination to end the relationship I was so unhappy in neared, a new thought entered my head:

Melissa had to know I was still in love with her.

I had no idea where Melissa stood - none of our mutual friends reported back to me about her relationship status, and I had no idea if she felt anything towards me except resentment from what had happened two years ago. But my resolve was final: Melissa had to know that I was still in love with her, that I had never truly fallen out of love with her.

But I didn't want to tell her to win her back. I had a calming resolution: that everyone on this planet deserves to be loved. If I had to answer the question "why are we here," that would be my answer: to love and be loved. It's the most wonderful experience. So despite whatever Melissa's feelings may be, I felt she needed to know that I loved her, very deeply still, and that was that. There was no hope or goal - she simply needed to know that she was the love of my life and I would always love her.

I coordinated with Melissa that we needed to talk; nothing bad or too serious, but I just had some important things I wanted to say in person. And on the third Friday of January, I drove to Chicago, IL, my heart racing with anticipation and a well-rehearsed speech running through my head. I may have also been wearing a suit - but I'll always claim it's because I left right from work.

She nestled down in the corner of her couch, wrapped in a red blanket, defensively awaiting what I had to say. And the words, thankfully, came smoothly and honestly. It was such a refreshing experience, finally telling her the honest truth about my feelings for her, but that there were no strings attached. Just honest, raw love and nothing more, nothing less.

Tears came to her eyes. When I finished, we embraced, and as she told me about her heart, tears came to mine as well. She was still in love too, always had been and always would be. We resolved that the distance had been horrible, and that we were meant to be. Being as it may, we were either giving it all or nothing - we were either reunited as the most incredible team on the planet, or nothing would happen at all.

I have reunited with my soul-mate, the love of my life, my best friend, my fellow adventurer, the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful, insightful, daring, funny, intelligent and interesting person I know. As my best dude put it, "the dynasty has been rebuilt."

Our friends are elated, my parents couldn't be happier, and my heart is whole once more. And the future; well, the future has yet to be written, but there's plenty of ink :).

Going for Gold

With my beautiful relationship rekindled with Melissa, I was invited along on a trip she'd been planning for months: the 2010 Winter Olympic Games [yes, I just typed that].

We flew into Portland in February, and met up with our incredible college friend Cat, horse-rider, sailboat master, and lab-tech extraordinairre. Cat had actually provided consul to both Melissa and me after our break-up, but refused to share cross-information (probably the best move). So it was great to have us all back again. Her "new" boyfriend, Scot, joined us - who is a mountain man to the "T" - and is one of the fastest long-distance runners I've ever met. Smart guy - good company. We rented a car and road-tripped to Seattle, WA, where we toured around Pike's Place Market, and then completed the jaunt up to Vancouver, British Columbia.

In B.C., Melissa had a grad school friend who was living on the outskirts of the city with her boyfriend Bryson, a Canadian I quickly formed a bromance with. Totally cool dude and down to Earth. So we had free lodging for a few days, and the fun began. Night one included my first true Chinese buffet - which changed my life, as I ate an entire fish head, eyes and cheeks.

Day one caught us touring around downtown Vancouver taking in all the sights and sounds the magnificent city had to offer. I fell in love with this city and the experience - it was clean, beautiful weather, and hearing eight different languages within the throngs of people every five minutes was exhilarating. People were friendly, outgoing and just downright pleasant. We saw First Nations (Canada's Native Americans) performances, held one of the Olympic torches, saw THE torch, tasted the delicious phenomenon known as JapaDog and even met Al Roker!

In the evening, those who had been included on the trip for a while had tickets for Latvia vs. the Chech Republic for hockey that evening. Ross, the track coach for University of British Columbia hosting Cat and Scot, and I did not have tickets; so, we got a great street-side table at a pub in downtown. Round after round of drinks we watched the games on television and got to know each other; and due to the massive size of our table, we welcomed group after group of travelers to join us, share a pint, and talk about the games. Canadians and Australians alike, we met some great people and had an awesome time killing time in downtown Vancouver. When our party joined us after the hockey game, we were three sheets to the wind - ventured off to a club and danced the night away.

At 5:00 a.m. we caught the bus to Whistler. This was officially the best skiing of my life. Two massive mountains, a gorgeous, cloudless day, and runs that could take 45 minutes to get to the bottom. Everyone snowboarding except me, we raced across beautiful and incredible trails with barely any traffic, rode the gondola between mountains and just experienced the most incredible day of skiing. The day finished with a warm seat in the lodge, listening to live reggae music and eating the largest plate of nachos any of us had ever seen.

The following morning, Becca, Bryson , Melissa and I went to Dim Sum in China Town, which was incredible. Becca is fluent in Cantonese, and ordered us the most amazing brunch items - insane amounts of food with complex, sweet and salty tastes. I wanted to try some authentic meals, so Becca ordered us steamed tripe (intestinal lining of cows). THAT I did not like, as I described it as a texture of warm, wet Velcro. But then I said hit us with something real - so she ordered something I did not understand, and then it came.

Chicken feet.

The process of eating chicken feet is a little gross, to say the least. They're boiled, I think, so they're soft. But you pick a foot up in your chopsticks and tear off one of three toes. You then work the toe around in your mouth, sucking the entire time, to loosen the meat from the bone (like trying to get the cheese out of the middle of a Combo). As you succeed, you spit the knuckles back out onto your plate one at a time, until it's all clean, finishing with the palm.

[Return after you finish vomitting]

The process is horrifying; but actually, they were really delicious - just tasted like orange chicken. I'm not going to lie - I had two! I'll skip the details of the allergy scare but I will tell you this - I fully support Universal Healthcare. As a Canadian citizen, you pay ZERO DOLLARS for an emergency room visit; however, as an American in Canada, you pay $780. Do the math.

After some finagling of logistics, we convinced half of our parade to stay an extra day in Vancouver to watch the first U.S./Canada hockey face off. It's Canada, and it's hockey - how could you miss that!? If you watched the game, you know it was amazing - our goalie is a brick wall! Such a close and well-fought game; and being that we were in the basement of a Mexican bar surrounded by Canadians and Indians, we truly felt the global aspect of the Olympics. We had wanted to stay for the game because we really thought Canada would beat the U.S.A.; but alas, as we walked home and sang "America the Beautiful," a sad gloom hung over the entire city. We visited the torch one last time, and we were out of town the next day.

I can now officially say I've been to the Olympics, and it was worth every minute. Beautiful scenery, wonderful people, so much to do and a healthy city - Vancouver might just be one of my new favorite cities.

Call Me a Hoosier

As I said earlier, I was on a two-year employment plan. I wanted to work for two years, then go back to school. After much debate, and really unable to settle on a very specific career-path, I decided on business school - it's a versatile field with an incredible educational potential. With an MBA, I could be flexible and really pursue anything, with a sweet tool-belt full of knowledge (like Batman, in business). Business school it was.

In October of 2008, I began studying for my GRE backstage while I was Harry in "It's a Wonderful Life" at the Covedale Center for Performing Arts. I know you don't have to take it for business school, but I wanted a warm-up. I think most of the cast thought I was stand-offish: not much of a chatterbox when I was studying - and theater folk love to chat. It's ok, I came back for "Peter Pan" later when I wasn't studying.

The GRE went well in January of 2009, and I began studying the schools. I began by region: my primary interest was the East coast, but would settle for Midwest since I like the people. There are great schools in all of these regions. I had an interest in entrepreneurship and marketing - class sizes had to be small to moderate, I wanted a focus on leadership and teamwork, and I wanted a lively and active community around the campus. I wanted a constructive, competitive team-work environment: where I totally want to beat you in something; but if I do, I'm going to teach you how I did it so you're better next time. I wanted to be challenged by my classmates, and challenge them in return. Lastly, I wanted to get into the best school possible.

My list started at 27, whittled down to 12, and eventually six. Then began the arduous process of managing all the applications - expensing application fees, thinking about essays, writing essays, filling out all the repetitive CV information. So much data entry! But I got them all done, the applications were out. Now that my lines were in the water, I simply had to wait.

A mixture of yes's and no's started trickling in; and in the end, my decision came down to two schools.

In March, I sent in my deposit and secured my position. I am now officially a member of the Kelley School of Business class of 2012 at Indiana University, looking to join the Johnson Center for Entrepreneurship and Innovation there this fall. The school is one of the top 25 business schools in the country, and the Entrepreneurship Program (my intended focus) is #1. I'll be moving to Bloomington this fall, and starting a brand new, intense, chapter in my life. I couldn't be more excited or more honored: it's an incredible program that will outfit me with amazing tools and a network of outstanding people. When I had my interview last fall, I just felt at home and so welcome. I felt comfortable on the campus, loved the people I met, greatly enjoyed the program - I am confident I will be successful there and will make a lasting contribution. Oh the Places You'll Go. It's a big move, carefully calculated over a two-year chess match; and now that I've pounced, the gears are turning to continue to elevate my life to a higher plane.

Body Come Back

In the Flying Pig Marathon, I suffered severe IT Band Friction Syndrome, and endured three months of physical therapy in the summer of 2008 to fix it, never making a full recovery. In the fall of 2008 I joined an indoor soccer league; and after making an amazing save as goalie by leaping straight up into the air, I landed directly on the side of my foot and sprained my ankle. After one month of physical therapy, I was reunited on Thanksgiving with the guys of my highschool graduating class for our annual "Boyzzzz Football Game" back at school; and trying to cover a sprinter way quicker than me, I rolled my ankle again and was carried off the field. Two months of physical therapy.

Since the beginning of 2009, my physical activity - once an intense soccer player and marathon trainer - had all but stopped. I put on more than 30 pounds, couldn't run more than a mile without pain, and did not watch what I ate. I was fat. I was sassy. I was feeling fat and sassy.

But after the first of the year, it was time for a resolution - to get control of my body again. The first step? Set two goals: complete the Flying Pig Half Marathon; and complete my first triathlon, the Fighting Illini Sprint Triathlon. I now had a horizon: how would I sail there?

First it was about a healthy lifestyle. I developed a healthy-lifestyle plan with two friends in Chicago also preparing for the triathlon. We basically all shared "pots" of weekly allowances of bad things to put in our bodies, such as coffee, alcohol, fried food, etc and recorded it on all a Google shared document. So for example, collectively, we could only drink six cups of coffee a week. We also had to achieve a team-number of cardio minutes, as well as a group goal of 30 pounds of weight loss. We had 16 weeks to complete this. I made a point of conscious eating, eating healthy, cooking a lot, eating smaller meals, stopping when I was full and not eating too late at night before my metabolism slowed down.

I then designed a work-out plan for myself (taking gym class in college CAN actually make you smart at something). Three days a week of muscle strengthening. Instead of focusing on balanced daily exercises like in the past, I tried muscle-groupings: arms on Mondays, chest and back on Wednesdays and legs on Fridays. I had a lot of sculpting to do around my mid-section, so I added in core every day. Lastly, I needed to pad my legs with muscle around my knees to avoid a resurfacing of IT Band Friction Syndrome, so I worked in knee exercises each day too. I did circuit training, so my heart-rate was always up and continuously burning fat, as well as spacing out muscle exercises to rest one group while working another group, e.g.: biceps, triceps, abs, biceps, triceps, abs, etc.

For cardio, I went five days a week, spacing out the various challenges of the triathlon, always trying to increase my speed, distance or resistance each week. I offered to be a trainer for the museums's Flying Pig team again, so I had a commitment for a long run every Thursday to train for the half marathon. So each week I had a solid combination of indoor running, outdoor running, elliptical, swimming, spinning and biking. I also opted, in everyday life, to park farther away, avoid elevators and walk a little more briskly.

I have officially lost 24 pounds of fat. My strength has increased in every exercise I do, my pace has increased from a near-11 minute mile back to an 8:30 mile, I can swim the 300 meters in under six minutes (never having been a swimmer), and all my pants and belts fit again. I'm no longer nervous to take off my shirt and I feel great. I have more energy, am more positive and happier. I finished the triathlon in 1:17, am confident I can finish the half marathon, and maybe even be a competitor. My healthy body is back - and I couldn't be more proud. It takes hard work, but every drop of sweat is worth it.

MyMuseum Center in a Minute

So a little over a year ago, I got a zany idea. I was at a PRSA (Public Relations Society of America) luncheon, listening to a speaker. The story that captivated me the most was the story of "Will it Blend?" LONG story short, the CEO of a blender company got the wacky idea of making YouTube videos of their blenders pulverizing the latest must-have gadgets. The videos were wildly successful and company profits rose 500%.

Afterwards I was inspired, and really wanted to make my own video series about the museum. After fooling around with iMovie on our ancient eMac, and taking out a permanent loan on the museum's hand-held digital camera, I got to work. Thus, MyMuseum Center in a Minute was born.

Pretty simple concept: weekly, 60-second videos about stuff going on at the museum. Took me a while to get the format right though: silly or academic, lots of sound effects or none, music or not, camera on tripod or in someone else's hands? The most important thing that I upheld, even had to fight back on, was that each episode had to be about something EVERYONE could enjoy, you had to be able to learn something, and that it was not allowed to ever become just a commercial for a one-time, revenue generating event (that one I really had to fight back on, as the upper-deck people often-times wanted to turn my Bill Nye-esque series into revenue-generating pocket lining when TV ads for events were too expensive. "NO," I say, "NO!").

Despite my battles and conversely REALLY enjoying making the series, I produced 55 episodes all on the museum's YouTube Channel: created the idea, built the channel, chose the topics, wrote the scripts, starred in it, filmed it, edited it, produced it and marketed it. A lot of work, and I'm very proud of my lot of work.

At any rate, the museum submitted eight things to the Ohio Museums Association (OMA) competition for marketing stuff - a bunch of pamphlets and brochures and my YouTube series. After much calculating, my series won the award for Visual Communications! It's the largest recognition my work has ever received, since the OMA encompasses more than 1,500 different museums, zoos, aquariums, parks, art galleries and more in Ohio. I'm going to get a nice little certificate, frame it and put it on my wall. With this being my last week at the museum, it's kind of nice going out with a bang and a big reward for my hard work! MyMuseum Center in a Minute will always be my baby.

Sail Fast, Sail Hard

This spring my father invited me along to Charleston Race Week. Looking at my days off, and smiling at the high number, I couldn't say "no."

My father's ex-coworker, Randy, bought a beautiful Alerion-38 and named her Bliss. Deep blue hull with a mix of white and khaki deck and cockpit, and a very nice cabin - she's gorgeous. She's stationed out of Hilton Head, SC, and is typically used for day cruises. She's raced in the Race Week before and placed 2nd last year, but Randy was back for blood.

I flew in Thursday night during an insane rain storm, but bounded awake Friday morning at 6:30 a.m. to get started. I'll spare you all the finite details, but here's what you need to know:

The sailors were all staying in one beautiful resort right on the water of the Charleston Harbor

• 191 boats were competing in a 3-day regatta
• 10 boats in our class, PHRF G
• Friday and Saturday saw winds up to 18 knots with waves swells of six feet

The boat only required Randy, my dad and me to operate - since trimming was completely controlled by the push of a button.

• On day one of offshore racing, we managed to have a third, second and a first, taking first place for the day.
• On day two we hacked out a fourth and two firsts, accompanied by Randy's daughter and a family friend = second for the day.
• and on day three, with lighter winds (Bliss's favorite) we took a photo-finish second and a crushing first place = first for the day.

Overall, we won our class! So I finally got to sail again, off the beautiful shores of Charleston, SC, with my father, the man who first introduced me to sailing (and who I always love to sail with). And we won. A wonderful host, an exciting victory, and plenty of sunburn to keep the memory going for a couple weeks.

Summer Lovin'

So before I dive into the crazy, intense life of an MBA student, I'm taking the summer for some adventure. For May, I'm moving in with Melissa in Chicago. While she's at work, I'm spending the month reuniting with high school and college friends, learning the city by bike and visiting every museum in the city with my reciprocal museum membership.

In June I'll be spending three weeks at the Tennessee Lakehouse, hiking, fishing, boating, writing, relaxing and doing maintenance on the house. I'll be hosting friends in those three weeks as well, sharing the awesome of the area. For one week I'm going to volunteer and set-up the Festival of the Bluegrass, a totally incredible music festival in Lexington, KY I went to last summer - a friend's family runs the thing! A whole week of celebrating in the country with friends as we assemble one of the region's largest music festivals? Awesome.

In July, Melissa and I will be roadtripping all the way to Route 1 in California, and driving up the coast (of which neither of us have done), stopping in San Diego, San Francisco and LA to visit friends, use our free tickets to visit Disneyland, stop in wine country and see the Redwood Forest.

Following the roadtrip, we'll be doing a week of backpacking in Montana with friends from college and then it's off to a wedding (not ours ;)).

In August, I'll take one week to join an ex-fellow cast member of mine aboard a cruise-ship named Princess where he's currently a performer, with the extreme discount of knowing someone on board. We're headed from New York to the Caribbean (I know, tough tough life).

I'll then have one week to move to Bloomington to start my graduate program. It's going to be a great, great summer though! Wooded lakes, windy cities, Pacific coasts and Caribbean sunsets. Yup. I said it.

Perks

Just to throw it in there, I've seen Cage the Elephant, AC/DC and Ben Folds live this year. I also got contacts, finally. Later glasses! Whew!

Summary

So that is my amazing year, and I'm only four months in! Here's why I think it means the most to me: I feel in utter control of my own life. And not only am I in control, but I am moving everything up, everything forward, everything to new heights and new potential. My life is improving, and it was already pretty darn good to start with, but I am causing this upheaval - I am causing massive amounts of good in my own life. I've basked in the sun of the Caribbean, won a nationally-recognized sailing race, reunited with the love of my life, returned my body to it's peak condition, gotten into one of the best business schools in the country, won a statewide award, been to the Olympics, skied down one of the best resorts in the western hemisphere.......and I'm JUST getting started. My life is back in every single way, it is mine. And I can say with full confidence and brimming smile - the future is looking very, very bright.

Boo!

It's been nearly six weeks since I've written anything, and I do feel a twang of regret for that. But it's summer! It's warm outside, and there's cool stuff to do! I just can't sit inside clicking away at this black pad of buttons while all the hip kids go to the soda shop and drive their '57 Chevy's up to Romance Point! I have to live! (But I also have to write. Why? Dunno. It's like why I can't explain that I feel no guilt after downing a whole box of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese).

So here's a short and ridiculous story to jump-start me back into the world of writing.

About a month ago, Allison and I stayed up late to watch one of our favorite types of shows - ghost hunting television. We discovered a new show, Ghost Adventures, on the Travel Channel, which takes ghost hunting to a whole new, and awesome, level.

It's basically a team of three fraternity brothers - guys who have spent countless hours in the gym pumping up their triceps, countless hours in front of the mirror greasing up their hair, and countless hours practicing being the most terrified, wussiest threesome of guys I've ever seen. It was an hour long show basically consisting of the re-arrangement of these three phrases:

1. "Dude, what the F*$# was that!?"
2. "Bro, we gotta get the F&%@ outta here."
3. "I dunno dude, but I just don't have a good feeling about this....EEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

They were investigating some slave camp from the late 1800's down south, and locking themselves inside various buildings including the hospital and sleeping quarters for the slaves.

Now, I'm not going to get into my beliefs on ghosts, except that I believe it's possible. One summer at camp I was in charge of booking educational/entertaining groups for the children one day out of the week. One week I was able to get a hold of a couple of paranormal investigators in their late 50s who wanted to come teach the kids about ghost hunting and do an investigation of the camp. (Really, it looked like the wife was REALLY into it and the husband just went along with it, because he didn't know how to cook and he'd starve to death if he disagreed with Mrs. Ghost Finder).

After the couple taught the kids about ghost hunting, they went and did a private investigation, which they allowed me to tag along for. After an hour in the dark basement of the mess hall (food storage) listening to phrases like, "did you heard that," "can you feel that," and "we are not here to harm you, please send us a signal," I was not convinced. But whew, it was REALLY funny. Bless them. Haunted tater tots.....awesome.

At any rate, what these guys experienced in these haunted places WAS pretty scary. They claimed to have been scratched in the ankle by an unforeseen force AND heard voodoo chanting (this was in New Orleans area). Although the frat pledges were ridiculous to watch, it was a tid-bit freaky what they were experiencing.

Ally and I turned in for bed, and just as we had clicked the light off, a loud thump was heard from downstairs.

"What was that?!" Ally desperately whispered.

"I dunno, go to sleep...," I mumbled. (Important note here: I once told a girlfriend to go back to sleep during an earthquake at 5 a.m. - and I actually DID fall asleep. Nothing disturbs my slumbers, or my partners' frustration at my lack of panic.)

Five minutes passed by and another loud thump sounded out from downstairs.

"Ok, I heard it that time, we need to go check that out," I said.

The part of town I live in is not SUPER sketchy, but it's not a completely far-fetched idea that someone could break in, as its not in any neighborhood. Or, it's not a far-fetched idea that a VooDoo gypsy slave ghost from New Orleans had escaped the pledge hazing of the frat boys and was currently searching for my soul to devour. One or the other, no biggie.

I carry no weapons in my home, nor will I ever. I am a very firm believer in zero weapons in the household - whoever is breaking into your house is definitely better versed in weaponry than you, unless you're a cop or Arnold Schwarzenegger. However, at this very moment, I really wished I had had a proton pack......

So in my flip flops, Stewie Griffin boxer shorts and armed with a flashlight and a broom, I descended the stairs down to the second floor. Peaking around the corners of my dark home and listening for the noise, I heard nothing. Then *thump* from the basement. Awesome. Going downstairs in the dark with my only armor a flimsy pair of cotton boxers. Can't wait.

So I descend down to the next set of stairs to a small entryway that just hosts my front door (actually opens up into an alleyway) and the trap door to the basement - yes, it opens up out of the floor. Stone walls and only one lightbulb in the basement? Yeah. Ghosts make sweet sweet love in environments like this.

I creak open the trap door and shine my light down, only to find the dusty old wooden stairs leading the the dark abyss below.

"Baby, are you ok?!" I hear Allison shout out - not from behind me, not from the second floor, but all the crap back up at the bedroom door - at this point, three flights up. Thanks for the back-up hunny......So she wants me to keep talking so she knows I'm ok (which upsets me a little bit, because if I'm making noise then I'm giving away my position to the VooDoo Slave Ghost in the basement, which makes it far easier for her to locate me and drain my soul.)

So, just to re-cap -

• My back-up, Allison, is three flights up with two doors between her listening intently to hear my soul get vaporized through my nostrils
• I'm descending the dark basement stairs wearing flip flops, Stewie Griffin boxers, armed with a flashlight and plastic $5 broom, talking outloud to myself saying, in a sing-songy tone like how Will Farrel has to sing a song on the spot to his dad in Elf:

"I'm in the basement now, I'm looking for ghosts, I hope I don't get eaten, it's really cold down here, I don't want to die without pants....."

I begin to poke my broom handle into various corners of the basement, expecting some rabid raccoon to torpedo out of the darkness for my jugular at any second. "Nothing in the dryer!"......."Nothing in the camping gear"....."Nothing in the Burning Man stuff" (yes, I still have Burning Man crap I can't sell on Craigslist in my basement. I think that festival is the only thing that truly still haunts me......)

After a thorough investigation, I did not discover any intruders, varmints, or VooDoo gypsy ghosts attempting to devour my soul through one of many optional orifices. On my way back upstairs, I locked the basement door (yes, it creeps me out that besides my front door, the only door in the interior of the house that has a lock is the basement door....why does the basement door need a lock........) In addition, I shut the "Zombie Door" super tight.

Tangent: On Allison and mine's first date, we discussed irrational fears we had, which turned out to both be zombies. The door to the stairs of my bedroom can only be pulled open from the outside, not pushed open. We decided that in the event of a zombie attack, we'd be safe upstairs because zombies can only shuffle forward, and do not maintain the dexterity to pull a door open.

Safely back in bed, we clicked the lights back out and nestled down for a night of ghost-free relaxation. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, a large *thud* came from somewhere downstairs. In a shaky and concerned voice, I called two of my best friends who had just moved to San Diego for some advice. They didn't pick up (red flag #1 that I was trapped in a horror movie), so I left a message. Four hours later, they called back, and left this message:

"So, in my opinion, what you do, is you take your broom and a bottle of tequila down to the basement and you party with, and in the honor, of the ghost. I learned a long time ago that you gotta respect the paranormal. And, make them realize that you do respect them and accept them, and you're good to go man. That's our opinion from 2400 miles away - we miss you - yeah, sorry we couldn't be there to help, but if we were, we would be drinking with the ghost - and you could go stay at our house anytime you need to, until July 15 - yeah it's not gonna be our house in about two and a half weeks, but until then key yourself in, it's not haunted, so, talk to you later, bro!"

Yeah, thanks guys, SUPER helpful. Needless to say, I had huge bags under my eyes the next day, and may or may not be currently walking around without a soul......

Three Short Stories

Electric Sun

I have finally seen the most beautiful sunset the Midwest has to offer. People romanticize about the sun setting behind the Rockies on a crisp Denver evening, or watching the sun close her eye on golden lip of the Caribbean as you swallow a warm tip of rum upon a cooling beach. I never thought this would happen, but Illinois showed me a sunset that made me hold my breath.

I had come back to school for a weekend of sailing with my old best-bud clan of sailors from college. "Pirate" Rob and Greg piloted their individual 420's skillfully across the lake (#1 being the most knowledgeable young sailor I know, #2 being the most passionate); while Steve and I, not known for our skillful sailing but more for our entertaining sailing, dipped our 420 back and forth across the lake like a drunk moth around a porch light. From the West came the sound of rolling thunder, and slowly but surely, an ominous thunderhead (Cumulonimbus, for you cloud-connoisseurs) came crawling from behind the tree line. Wind started to pick up (which for you NON sailors, means A LOT of fun on a 2-man boat), but the rolling shadow that was becoming our sky picked one, innocent little deciduous and electrocuted him not but a few yards from shore.

Greg and Rob, being what modern culture labels "intelligent," tacked and headed for the dock. Steve and I though, being what modern society calls "insurmountably stupid to the point of deserved mockery by Erkle," calculated our chances of survival. Judging by the path of the storm cloud, if we stayed on present course the cloud would miss us entirely, and we wouldn't even get wet. For once, and I really mean this "for once," we were right.

The storm cloud passed, and headed straight for the dock where Rob and Greg now sought respite from the storm. There's a lull in wind after a single storm cloud passes, and we now sat in calmer water watching the cloud hover over some innocent cornfield miles past the dock, ears bending to the wind. And what we saw was worth every potentially poor miscalculation we had just made.

To our right, in the West, the evening sun was

disappearing behind one of the few patches of

trees Illinois has to offer, and was presenting nothing spectacular of a sunset. But to our left, portside, Eastward, the final minutes of the sun's presence illuminated the towering thunderhead in warm oranges, reds, pinks and shifting golds as the tufts of clouds moved fluidly through one another. The tempest raged from its black bottom beneath; and every few minutes, a white hot fracture would slice through the glowing pastry a wicked flash of searing electricity. It was as if watching a massive, floating orange slowly being ripped apart by electric instability from within.

It was a marvel to behold; and for once, I was glad there were no winds to push us away.

Drill This!

Starting very young, I have always enjoyed going to the dentist. As a young pain-in the ass, but equipped with massive doughy eyes, I reveled in all the shiny tools I could play with when no one was looking; but then used my effeminately long lashes to dissolve any frustration by the just-out-of-college, and always cute, hygienists.

In my current days, I find it a good opportunity to relax and have no responsibilities; and, make a completely unacceptable face at a relative stranger and it be completely acceptable for nearly an entire hour. During my six-month check-up a few weeks ago, it was discovered that some sort of protective covering placed on my eight rear teeth was wearing away, and I would need to have them re-coated. After the initial shock that insurance wasn't going to cover ANY of the procedure, I returned a week later to have it done. My return was ONLY due to the fact that my parents assured me that my teeth had cost nearly as much as my education, and I would be deported if I ever let anything bad happen to my pearly whites.

What I had not been prepared for was that the remaining coating would first have to be REMOVED, before the new coating could be applied. This concept is entirely foreign to those of us who use generous amounts of duct tape to repair our daily lives.

Never before had I experienced the dentist's whirring tool that inspires so much fear in the patients we see in Hollywood all the time. Before the hygienist delved into my slightly nervous mouth, I was given grandma blue-blocker glasses to wear. Why on Earth had I been given giant protec...

WHHHHIRRRRRRR!!!!!!

The drill collided into my back teeth with such a harshness that my brain jiggled, actually jiggled in my skull, and crap. flew out of. my mouth.

The purpose of the blue blockers became immediately apparent, as the solid chunks of white blocks vaulted from my molars, hung suspended in mid air over our heads for a moment of freedom, and then rocketed back towards my eyes creating a fine layer of gross on the eyewear. I kid you not, an instrumental version of "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" played over the speakers.

The best way I was able to describe the sound within my head to myself during the procedure was "Satan's DJ scratching it up on some fine ol' 45s." I don't know why, but that's the best way can define the erratic, high-pitched squeal coming from the "protection" being hacked from my bone.

The removal followed with the replacement, which was really just having my mouth stretched to inhumane distances (which is saying a lot, being that I won a talent show at summer camp for being able to stretch my mouth open to ridiculous extents). With my lips white without blood being physically able to squeeze through the flattened veins leading to them, various countries-worth of cotton were jammed into the corners of my mouth while silver protrusions excavated my gums. My giddy joy of the dentist's office died that day. See you in six months.

Clogg your Arse Off

This past weekend, the lady friend and I ventured to Lexington, KY to experience The Festival of The Bluegrass (yes, THE Bluegrass). My old school friend Mallory Cornett had booked all the talent for the festival, as her family began and continues to organize the festival for the past 36 years. What a cool legacy. Your family STARTED a music festival, and runs it every year? And everyone knows your name? It's like Cheers, but with Moonshine.

One sentence background - Mallory and I were selected by our high schools back in the day to represent them in Washington D.C. at the Youth Forum on Defence, Diplomacy and Intelligence; and due to our close proximity of living upon our return (after meeting there and becoming friends), we visit one another 1-2 times a year. WHEW! (I know it was a compound sentence, but it was ONE sentence, so it counts!)

Mal was able to swing us free tickets and camping for the weekend, provided we work the front gate for four hours on Saturday selling tickets. Not a problem.

We pulled into Booty Bay, our pirate-themed camp site of Mallory's, around 8 p.m. on Friday. Not here to judge, but it was a Pirate-themed camp site, and I was the ONLY PERSON who brought a bottle of rum. How can this BE!? Thank you Admiral Nelson for keeping me sane.

A motley circle of ten tents surrounded a two foot hole in the ground for a fire place, all covered by two sailboat sails for shade. I was at peace. I can't deny the fact that it reminded me JUST A TWINGE of Burning Man as we pulled in - thousands of miscellaneous RVs and trucks with goofy sayings spray painted on the side, all buffered by every make and model of tent covering the grass. Of course you had a few people stumbling here and there, having located moonshine on property - but thank god no exploding art cars or nudist bike rides.

We became acquainted with our campmates - a rag-tag group of Bohemian 20-somethings who had a unique mix of country and rastafass. Hayseed Dixie's cover of Snoop Dogg's "Gin in Juice" would have been the group's theme song - which we actually ended up covering that night in one of our many jam sessions.

The overall crowd was generally made up of 40-70 somethings in RVs who genuinely adored Bluegrass Music, and anything that the NRA, God, and the Bush Administration ever told them. Nothing wrong with them, but I want you to know the Bud-drinkin', beard-sportin', toe-tappin', painting-an-Eagle-clutching-the-twin-towers-on-the-side-of-their-RV kind of crowd we were swimming in. I'm not going to lie, freaking GREAT people, honestly. But that was the sea we swam for 48 hours.

There were no bandstands or selective seating for the shows - people brought their collapsible chairs to the one mainstage or sat in the grass at the two tiny side stages. There are four very notable points that happened during our two-day tour.

#1. I was introduced to fried pie by the Amish. Not only do Amish love Bluegrass, but they fry up a mean triangle of Cherry, Blackberry or Apple pie, complete with hot sugar drizzled on top. $3 a pop, and worth every gooey, sugary penny.

#2. I was engaged in a long, one-sided conversation around 4 a.m. with a 40-year-old barn-burner (that's her job, seriously) on Saturday, where I was told the ins and outs of burning down barns across the country for property resale. Surrounded by dying tiki torches on top of rolled-out AstroTurf from the edge of an RV, her colleague strolled in with a banjo strung around his shoulder, and a large, glass mason jar with about four ounces of clear liquid slopping in the bottom. "Moonshine!" she exclaimed, and reached for the jar. I explained that I had never had moonshine before, and both their eyes shot wide (as wide as two sets of 4 a.m. eyes can get after a weekend of intoxication). She then began to lecture me on how moonshine was made, and that the way to tell good moonshine was that if you see bubbles, or "fish eyes" as they called them, when you shook the bottle, it was the good stuff. She then vigorously shook the bottle, which had no more bubbles than Cheny's got aim. We all laughed, and she swore it was good. I took a sip, squinting my eyes, expecting a fiery burn that only Jose or Everclear can leave in your throat. But I was pleasantly surprised at a smooth, citrusy vodka-type flavor - and I woke up the next day without any contracted diseases from the jar - so it was a win!

#3. On the final night, I spent the vast majority of Mountain Heart (who were great) learning to "clog," which is not what the Dutch invented. It's basically a vertical seizure that demands zero eye contact with other participants, and basically resembles a subdued "jig" or "skank" move from Ska. It's exhausting, and looks more ridiculous than the mashed potato - but the locals did it, so I gave it a whirl too. We had a clogging dance circle; you know, like the ones you had at Jr. High dances. Awesome.

#4. The best music occurred after all the stages shut down and the various musicians became touring minstrels. From midnight until dawn, these gentlemen (mostly) would shoulder their instruments and meander between the various campsites of "Woo-ville," "The Shire," "Egypt," and "The Ragheads" and join in Bluegrass jams. A few of us had instruments in our camp (I with my guitar), and we roamed through the settled mist of pre-dawn Sunday morning joining in on these groups, or just listening. Standing basses, acoustic guitars, banjos and mandolins ripped strings into fire around campfires dotting the midnight mist like Red Giants extinguishing in the fog of space. I heard more soul out of some of those singers, and saw such dexterity in stringed instruments, than I've heard in a long time. I adopted a completely new found respect for the mandolin that night - mystifying. Next year, go.

Let's All Laugh Together

I rarely spend money on myself. Food, of course, and gas - but the rest of my measly paycheck goes to covering the bills and expenses of daily life - you know, the fun stuff.

So when I broke my promise to everyone and decided to act again this spring, I told myself I would spend the entire paycheck on myself and travel. I had never seen the West Coast, except for a 4-year-old trip to Vancouver that my mind has completely blocked out (god I hope I'm not recessing some horrible event); so to appease the long-ignored demands of many great friends, I bought a ticket to Los Angeles, California for mid-May to see what I had never seen. Hollywood, beach bikinis, movie studios, scripts blowing in the wind, surfboards, OC kids - I wanted to see it all!

California was absolutely wonderful - I really enjoyed swimming in the crisp Pacific, strolling the walk of fame, putting my hands in Frank Sinatra's imprints and fending off Jaws at Universal Studios. But those aren't the stories that need to be told -

- this one is.

On Saturday night, I went to see the show my host and wonderful friend, A.K.A. family, had been stage managing for the last few weeks on Melrose in Hollywood. For the sake of this story, I can't reveal names or exact locations - because whew, this is a doozy.

Two of my other college friends from Butler had joined me for the evening to see the show, and it was wonderful to see them after three years of absence. "Eileen" (as we'll call her), was my partner-in-crime as my faux spy duo "Red Team" in college, and an improv extraordinaire. Shorter than me but with twice the sass, she's quick and witty and fits into L.A. like the round peg in the round hole from your Play-school playset.

The other was "Tara" (A.K.A.), a happy-go-lucky sun-kissed brunette who was always smiling and always on the bright side of things. With a mid-section laden with tattoo art, she's a free-spirited delight to be around - so happy that most people think she's high when they meet her - but that's just how she is! Also hysterically funny.

Walking into the theater, it was the smallest venue I've ever seen for acting: ~five rows of collapsible metal seats, maybe ten seats across. The sound booth and light board were a standing-room-only site in the back corner, and the lights were way down. A keyboardist tickled away the electronic ivories in the corner as the pre-show, and the curtain was an assemblage of black fabric stapled together, suspended from a laundry line. Hodge podge my friends, hodge podge.

The producer came out to give us a bit of background on the show. Again, to protect the innocent, I'm neither going to to tell you what it was about nor the name, but let's just get this all clear right now. It was an old English story that takes place in the countryside. However, for no better reason than the director loved the idea of the future, it takes place far in the future - when cars fly and talk and voice-activated water comes out of the wall.

The show began. Now don't get me wrong, the actors did a fine job with what they were given - it's as if Michelangelo had attempted to paint St. Peter's Basillica with a pencil and some crazy glue. What I later found out was that the director had written the script only part-way through reading the book - he never finished reading the actual story! Thus, our tale unfolds.....

Everyone is dressed in old-world costume; yet, cars can fly. The family automobile flies and talks, in an old English accent - yet it's southern America. When a horse runs by, it's hoof sounds are generated by a young boy running throughout the audience with coconuts. Yes, friggin' coconuts. In the middle of a serious conversation in the kitchen, family members walk up to an invisible wall, hold our their hands and say, "water on," continue the conversation, and then say, "water off." When they start the flying car, the driver literally makes the engine start up noises with his mouth (think "vrrrrooommmm"); and when getting in and out of the car, the actors constantly forget to open and close the car door (so they're therefore pulling a Dukes of Hazzard every time they get in). At one point, a daughter flirts with an unseen lover behind the curtain; and when he extends his hand to say goodbye to her, after making out, it's the hand of the wrinkly old town sheriff. NOT the intention of the script, but it's the only man who wasn't on stage at the time. Gross.

Now at this point, there are bite marks in my left finger as I've lodged it in between my teeth to keep from bursting out laughing. Lines are ridiculous and out of place, cues are off, curtains are opened and closed by the cast, and monologues are delivered that even make Hallmark throw up a little in the back of its throat. The fourth wall is SHATTERED again and again, as we've been welcomed in as "family" at the beginning of the show; so forty minutes of being ignored are suddenly interrupted by the autistic child (not ACTUALLY autistic) in the show running up to put puzzles together with us......then he runs away with coconuts to provide the horse sound effects. Yup.....

Near the end of the first act, a man wins a prize in the show, but decides to give it to another character as a present. He delivers a long monologue about how sad he is about his late wife, and he has no reason to go on living. It is sappy, terrible, and WAY over the top. He reveals a gun (of which we were warned before the show was NOT a real gun.....WHEW) and his suicide is imminent. This doesn't sound funny......but it was so poorly written, delivered, and blocked - that it was. REALLY funny.

We had been holding our laughter in, when Tara finally burst and laughed OUT LOUD during the "serious" part of the show. My eyes shot wide open; but drawing on her old acting skills, Tara managed to turn her laughter into a heartfelt sob, and Eileen managed to rub her back and comfort her in her time of "sorrow." The whole scenario had almost reached its pinnacle at this point; however, when the lights went down, the old man yelled "bang" to signify shooting himself. Not a sound effect, not slamming on a table, not even a CAP GUN - the man. yelled. "bang." Yes. Later, we would find out that the director (who also performed) thought it was an awesome show because the acting had made someone cry in the audience. We didn't have the nerve to tell him the truth.....

After some absurd plot twists and a one-line resolution of the conflict in a zany "Oh my gosh, we forgot about this!" twist, we were able to sprint outside for some fresh air and laugh it off. The show took itself so seriously, and probably is a very intense and dramatic book (among women); however, it was so poorly directed and written that it was TOO easily mocked. If ONLY the Mystery Science Theater 3000 guys had been there....

Then a maniacal little light bulb went on over Eileen's head. "What if they changed it to PURPOSELY mock the script, turn it into a Rocky Horror Picture Show kind of deal?" Tara and I thought it was brilliant, and our ideas started to zip around like lightening - what if when the horse comes out, EVERYONE has coconuts for it - what if when the car starts, the whole audience makes the engine and techno sounds - when they said "water on," we all have little squirt guns we squirt the stage with - when someone cries, we all yell, "get over it!" We had an awesome time laughing about it. Then we told our host, Chris....

"You have to tell the Director about it," she said in a serious tone.

WHAT?!

"He'll think it's brilliant, he'll love it. Tell him," she asserted.

Now at this point, my creativity-induced laughter shrank back into its shell, and I didn't want to talk about it anymore. I felt like doing what Chris was suggesting was like going up to an artist and being like, "look, your painting is great, but you know what would make it WAY better? If we could all mock it." Yeah, paintbrush-rectal removal eminent.

But she insisted, and our take was I'm just visiting and Eileen and Tara live across the city - we'll never see this guy again. SURE, why not?!

The cast was headed next door to the comedy club (which echoed laughter throughout the whole show - NOT helping their case for a serious production) for a post-show beverage. Our team of four joined them, and with a table secured I bought a round for the director and he sat to listen.

Since it was Eileen's brain child to begin with, we had elected that she kick-off the pitch. And so she did, and she began to sell her idea to turn this serious coming-of-age story into a mockery of what it had been. Tara and I jumped in here and there to bolster her argument and add our own jokes and quips, but I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the director's facial expressions and his hand, ever waiting for him to smash the bottle of beer I had bought him and slit my throat. But he listened intently.

At the end of our pitch, all four of us smiled nervously at one another, backing up our story, but awaiting the wrath of an insulted artist. A wide smile crept across the director's face, and he actually began to weep. The man cried.

"I love it, it's brilliant. I'm so shocked right now, this is amazing!"

WHAT?!

He called over each actor one by one, even the "autistic" child, to have them hear our pitch. Each actor thought the idea was incredible, and wanted to add the changes the very next night. I started to feel like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone - were our ideas actually good, or are all these people friggin' insane? We are saying your show is terrible, and it should be mocked to be made enjoyable - are you not hearing us!?

We assured them that they couldn't make the changes right away - that the script would need to be rewritten intelligently so the jokes and audience play-alongs all flowed seamlessly - relaunch the show in six months. He relunctantly agreed.

We didn't hit a bump with our pitch until the overprotective, vicariously-living mother of the leading lady (about 14 years old) found a "problem" with our pitch. We said that the cast would all need to be 21 years old to deliver the jokes in the correct manner, and the audience would need to be permitted to drink during the show. Sensing that her daughter's future with this production was in jeopardy, mama leapt into action to argue why kids should be left in a show like this (and please, watch "Rocky Horror Picture Show" and know that that's NOT ok). Parents, there's a point when you need to stop shoving your kids through a machine to attempt to make them "the best" or "famous," and let them have a childhood and put them in positive environments. We've seen what this can do time and time again. So we left it open as negotiable, but rest assured - no children will be destroyed in the production of this show.

The director loved every bit of it, and thanked us again and again for the inspiration and offering to push his production "to the next level" - as he said. I was sincerely dumbfounded - I thought it was a potential night-ruiner and we'd seriously insult someone twice our senior - but we made this man's night, maybe even his year. Heck, the whole cast thought we were these brilliant prodigies from the Midwest! Does that even exist?!

And that was that. Eileen and Chris are now in discussion with the director to draft contracts to have the four of us rewrite the show to our mockery, audience-play style - upon the director's request. I might even get flown out time and again for consultation. What started as a terrible show evolved into something we felt horrible for laughing so hard at, and eventually ended up with the beginnings of a business deal to write a play for a man in L.A. who loves flying cars and stories told in the Old South of the United States.

Only in L.A.......

A Family Paradise

This past weekend, my parents welcomed Allison and me to their finished lakehouse on Norris Lake in TN. The culmination of my father's retirement after more than 32 years dedicated to the same company, the lakehouse will serve as my parents' respite for the rest of their years - I hadn't understood how beautiful twilight years could be until I saw their paradise.

About four years ago, my parents came and visited me while working at summer camp to let me know they were bidding on property in Tennessee ."The highest point of the highest mountain," they attested; but me being quite distant from the world of bidding on tracks of land (20 and without much direction), I was relatively indifferent to the idea.

Over the years I saw pictures of the view and random steaks in untouched earth, and eventually began to see blueprints of what was to morph out of nothing. They designed every aspect of the house, from the angle of the deck to the burners on the stove. Dad would have his high tower of an office to rule over the poperty, and mom would have the art project room she always wanted.

The house was "completed" sometime last year; but with the recent tragedy in the family, the pristine house has remained untouched in the wilderness of Tennessee ever since, as more important issues have been attended to. So as Allison and I drove in on a rainy Friday night after four hours on the highway, I was eager to see the legend.

Allison is a bit jumpy out in nature, not at ease as my Outdoor Adventure, summer camp, and sailing compatriots - so I knew this would be an interesting experiment to put her 30 minutes outside the nearest town. We had climbed the 20 minute drive up the mountain in my father's SUV, as my little runabout couldn't make the climb. As we hopped out of the car, and large wolf spider dragging her egg sack sat in the driveway greeted us, as if to say, "welcome to my humble abode." This did not go over well with Ally, so we headed inside.

Three trumpeting Jack Russel Terriers ran to our feet to tell us everything they had been doing for the last few days; and once everyone had settled down, we got the tour of the "cabin" (which is NOT a cabin by any means) and the four of us caught up. Here's one of the great things about isolation in a place like this - you can really focus on the people, and really talk and engage one another. I don't think we get enough of that in the city.

The inside of the house is absolutely gorgeous and amazing, with a wonderful kitchen, watch-out tower-office for my dad, a living room with satellite HD tv, Nintendo Wii (a gift from my mom to dad last Christmas), built in speaker system, and the quaint decorations and style of country meets New England. It's exactly what my parents need - every convenience you could imagine, space to entertain, and the peace and quiet that can only be found with years of dreaming.

Allison and I retired to one of three guestrooms on the lower floor, making me feel back in New England with greatly heightened beds, pastel colors, ceiling fans, and tall bedstands. Allison went to the bathroom to get ready, and I prepared a movie on her laptop to fall asleep to. I pulled back the covers and hopped into bed, and immediately smelled something 'funky.' The odor was the same as moldy sheets, and my first thought was that a window had been left open, rain had come in and molded into the sheets. I pulled the sheets to my nose, but smelled nothing. I began to look around the bed that I was laying in, and spotted a dog toy sticking out of my pillow case. How did the dogs get their toy into the pillow case I wondered, and reached down to pull it out. I was sure the slobber-soaked dog toy would be the source of the odor, and I gave it a squeeze to be sure what it was. crunch crunch it went, and I figured the object was one of their fake chipmunks they threaten and destroy around the house. I grabbed the toy and pulled it out to face level, at which point the smell became extremely pungent and I realized what I held was not a dog toy, but a shriveled up dead squirrel. I tossed the corpse onto the bed sheets, and hopped out of bed, of which I now saw squirrel droppings littered around. (Yes, go vomit now, shower, and then come back). Allison came in and said, "what's wrong?" and I, dancing around in my underwear trying to shake off the willys, just said, "we're moving!" and began to grab bags and take them to the other room.

30 minutes later the pillows and squirrel had been thrown away, the sheets were in the wash, and the windows were open with the fan blasting. Everything disinfected, dad and I laughing and surmising how the little bugger became lodged in the pillow case, Allison and I settled into a different cozy guest room and watched a little bit of Religulous before falling asleep. As I laid the computer next to the bed and lifted back up to snuggle under the sheets, my giant noggin connected with the lamp and popped the bulb, blowing the breaker on all the electricity on the lower level. "Goodnight," I whispered in the dark. "Goodnight," Allison responded. Wolf Spider, dead squirrel, head-electricity failure - and I hadn't even seen the lake yet.

We awoke the next day to light rain, and dad and I headed off to "town", A.K.A. Tazwell, for supplies. We did a little grocery shopping in this very tiny town (seriously, NOTHING going on), but it was nice to have this kind of isolation and quiet. No dogs barking, no traffic, construction, radios blaring, planes, helicopters, drunk people yelling at each other. Heck, out by the house there are no telephone poles or radio towers. It was wonderfully peaceful.

Upon our return, Ally and I were put to work. Mom gave us a weed whacking tool, and Ally and I were assigned to "Pokeberrry duty," more graphically and appropriately pronounced "pokeburry doody." The bean stalks of a weed had popped up in the flower beds all around the house, and we went to whackin'. After that, we were assigned to paper wasp nest spraying duty, which we dominated and became enemy #1 of anything with wings and stripes in all of TN. We finished up the chores of the day with discovering freshly hatched baby birds outside the front door, and dad and I built a new

bedframe for the bed Ally and I had stayed in (not that we had broken it with our humongous urban weight, but they had simply ordered a nicer one and hadn't had the time to put it together).

Ally and I spent the afternoon sitting on the middle of three decks reading and watching the rainstorm slowly re-approach from the west, and we tucked in to make dinner as the rain began to spatter on the deck.

We all made a team effort to make a delicious dinner and break in the dining room as we listened to the rain trickle off the various surfaces of the house and the soft jazz coming from the satellite radio. With the meal complete and dishes clean, Ally, my Mom and I set to playing Wii until the wee hours of the morning, so much that our elbows were sore from Tennis.

At ten a.m. dad rapped on the bedroom door and said I had to come outside. As I stumbled and rubbed my eyes as if waking up on Christmas morning, I walked out on the lower deck to see a beautiful view that I could hardly believe. Bright blue sky illuminated an endless reflective green lake (as if Caribbean water) in a sea of lush forest made of a cornucopia of greens. Not a motor echoed through the valley, nor a plane disturbed the clouds - just the gentle rustle of crisp, clean wind strolling through the hillsides. And just like Christmas, I ran to wake up Allison and come look at the sight. AND just like an expected sibling, she pushed me away to let her sleep. Ah well, this morning is mine alone to savor.

Dad and I worked more around the house, at one point discovering a Black Widow down by the heating unit. I had never seen a Black Widow in nature before, and as I ran to grab my camera, dad ran to grab the spider spray. He let me catch a few shots before he drowned the little thing in white spider spray, and as it crawled beneath the deck in a pathetic drag, I swear I could've heard a faint voice say "Rose....bud...."

Shortly after the carnage, we rustled Allison to come down to the boat. After navigating the partially sunken dock by the gorgeous clubhouse, we set to work cleaning dad's pride and joy - a beautiful 8-person deck boat with cream, navy blue, and gold colors (hmmmm, strangely resembles Penn State......). It's NOT a sailboat, which I'm a little bitter about, but it's still a heck of a ride. I'm holding by my deal that I'll pay for 1/2 a 2-man sailboat of dad goes for it though.

After giving the boat a good scrub down and the white shone bright in the afternoon sun, dad eased her out of the slip and into the smooth lake. What a ride! With the stereo blasting some great country music my brother had burned for my dad for Christmas, we soared across the lake at 46 m.p.h. without a hiccup (once figuring out the proper trim of the propeller). The moment of truth came - dad handed me the wheel.

He would point various directions of different points to check out, and we'd zip across the lake with Kenny Chesney and wind whipping through our ears. Norris Lake has 500 miles of coastline, and I'm looking forward to finding ever foot of them. After exploring a channel and lapping a few islands, we gassed up the puppy and headed home, as the clouds closed in and threatened rain again.

On the drive home I called 10 of my best friends and have already coordinated an awesome vacation week at the end of July, and am headed back next weekend with the family for Memorial Day Weekend.

Three levels of beautiful deck, a porch swing, outdoor fireplace, screened in porch, shotty cell phone reception, sketchy internet, an amazing view combining the wonders of the world, and not a sound for miles. It kinda makes a guy like me want to quit life to write and chop wood the rest of my days. If PR doesn't end up working out for me, you'll know where to find me. As my brother said, you have to pinch yourself to believe it really exists, and that we have it the rest of our lives. I can picture 4th of July fireworks over the water, a Christmas tree covered in snow on the deck outside, and little family members and friends' kids running around the rosebushes looking for Easter eggs. It's an oasis, and something I look forward to creating hundreds of memories in during the decades to come.