What I've learned

(An idea shamelessly borrowed by the fine folks at Esquire.)

I learned more about the human condition in the six or so years I waited tables and bartended than I have in the other 30 that I’ve lived. Despite the current cultural/philosophical climate that suggests that “You’re OK and I’m OK,” I’ve come to realize that I am, in fact, helplessly human and completely unable to reconcile myself with perfection. And that’s why I need God. I had a pretty significant accident a few years back. I don’t think God made it happen, but He used it to get my attention. Lying in the emergency room with a flood of doctors rushing around like a scene out of “ER” is slightly frightening. And by that I mean I was terrified. In that kind of situation—and in the months that follow—you have no choice but to take stock of your life. From that vantage point, looking back over the previous few years leading up to my accident, I didn’t like what I saw. Thirty-nine seemed old to me when I was 29. Forty-nine, on the other hand, seems incredibly young. I learned my lesson. That being said, I’m really an eight year-old boy trapped in a man’s body. I’ll know more tomorrow than I know today, and I knew less yesterday than I know right now.

High school was fun. Not that I’m one of those guys for whom the whole of their existence can be summed up by the four years they spent in one place 20 years ago. But, as a whole, I had a blast from 1990 through 1994. Of course, 1994-95 remains the worst one-year period of my life. Man, talk about a crappy run.For those of you who knew me then, just forget that guy, OK? I don’t know who that was. Being a teenager in the early ’90s, when rock-n-roll was really, really good, shaped how I listen to music today. I’m always comparing everything to that time in music history. The more I listen to music, the more I realize how fortunate I was to come of age with Pearl Jam, U2, Nirvana, Blind Melon, Soundgarden, Rage Against the Machine (and on and on and on) on my CD player. Of course, now I don’t have any of those CDs. I moved around too much when I was in my 20s. Easy to lose things. Besides, all of my music is digital now. Sign of the times, I guess. When I was a sportswriter, I traveled a ton. You’d be surprised how many minor celebrities you’ll run into in airports. Ted “The Million Dollar Man” DiBiase. Darius “Hootie” Rucker. Freddy “I played professional soccer when I was 14” Adu. I saw lots of professional wrestlers. I once had lunch at a TGIFridays at Hartford-Jackson and noticed that F. Lee Bailey was sitting next to me. But you know the celebrity that drew the biggest crowd? Ben Stein. I know. Go figure, right? He was on the same flight as I, headed to Detroit once. Guy must’ve signed 40 pieces of paper, and he did so graciously. The first thing I ever wanted to be was a comic book artist. I was pretty good with paper and pencil when I was a kid. But at some point, I inexplicably stopped developing as an “artist.” I never got any better. So, the next best creative outlet was writing. And that’s pretty much what I’ve stuck with (even if the kind of writing I get paid to do isn’t exactly glamorous.) Except, of course, for the time I told my brother I wanted to be a bounty hunter when I grew up. Not sure what that was all about, although I was reading a lot of comic books at the time. Might’ve had something to do with it. My brother was, and still is, the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m telling you, the guy is amazing (and I miss him so much it hurts.) And my dad? He’s the best human being I’ve ever met. My mother got dealt a raw hand in this life. There’s probably many times she wanted to give up, but she never did. Now that I’m a father, I’m starting to understand why in the world that woman loves me so much. My Paw Paw was a genuine war hero. Bronze Star, Purple Heart, led a platoon through a minefield when he was 19. The real deal. He survived getting his bicep blown off my a mortar round. Died in ’99. I’m honored to share his name. My Maw Maw, his wife, is still alive. Just two summers ago she was on the roof of her house washing the shingles. My Grandaddy retired from the pulpit to Florida, where he became one of the best shuffle-board players on the East Coast (or at least in his retirement community.) He died in 2010, just a few weeks shy of his 82nd birthday. Liver cancer. His wife, my Granny, was the best alto singer you’ll ever hear. She died in ’94 when she was only 59. Her death was a seismic event in our family. In some ways we’re still dealing with the aftershocks. The simplest explanation for why I failed miserably the first time I went to college right out of high school—and the subsequent reason I did so well the second time, when I was in my late 20s? Life management. The second time around I understood how to manage my life. I miss my friends. I mean, my really, really close friends. They know who they are, and they all are in separate categories related to the time in my life when we met. Childhood friends. High school friends. First-freshman-year-of-college friends. Friends from my 20s. Friends from my second shot at college. There are any number of reasons I don’t see them much anymore—some live in other states, others’ lives have pulled them in different directions, some have suffered through personal demons. But there are times in life when you just really need your friends.