Dance So Slow

Straining to listen to you
talk
over the rumble of the crowded bar
I can only make out every third
word
But some things just don't need to be said
aloud
You take my hand from across the
table
and smile
and a bounty of information is shared

With a glance
I motion to your glass
and you sip
and take a firmer grip of my hand

We walk to the dance floor
Only the bar doesn't have
one
Just an empty space where no one is standing
right now
I pull you close and twitch when your hair pokes my
eye
And we sway,
but not to the rhythm of the song on the radio
because we have our own rhythm, our own
song
playing loud above the cacophony
for our ears
only

With your face close to mine
I take you in
Your perfume, stale smoke and a touch of
bourbon

Dance so slow
we're hardly moving

Life Lesson Learned on the Mound

His name was Greg Hannon. He was a sexist and racist pig and he wasn’t all that bright. He was one of those guys that just never seemed to shut up and never seemed to really know just what the hell he was talking about. Although he was born and raised in western Pennsylvania, I always assumed it must have been Alabama … he was a redneck in every sense of the word. I simply couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. Lucky for us, we were outside.

On that sunny March morning, there was nobody in the world I would rather have had standing sixty feet and six inches away from me. Although he was as irritating as a person could be, behind the plate he was an idiot savant. He knew his pitchers and he knew hitters. He could formulate a game plan instantly. He was a true student of the game and was able to identify issues with his pitchers instantly. If I was having difficulty with my mechanics … if my arm slot was wrong, if my release point was off, if my plant foot wasn’t landing properly … he recognized it and addressed before the pitching coach ever caught on. He was going to get me through this.

He, and most of the players on the field, had a year's experience in the minor leagues. I was a nobody. I had just walked on. I was the undersized pitcher who wasn’t likely to develop any additional power and speed and who was skirting by on location and three average pitches. I didn’t deserve to be there … and this was my audition. I was nervous as hell.

I had warmed-up and felt pretty good … but I was battling my nerves. I would think I was in control for a moment or two and then would be overcome with panic for a few seconds. That cycle was repeating itself as the umpire shouted, “Play ball!” I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself that this wasn’t my only shot. The lead-off hitter took his place in the batter’s box … and we were underway.

I didn’t even look at the sign Greg had put down. It didn’t matter. We both knew exactly how I was going to start this off. Fastball away. No reason to over-think this thing. I dug my cleats in next to the rubber and, in one fluid motion, went directly into my wind-up. “Nothing more than a session in the ‘pen,” I tried to convince myself. With a little more muscle than normal and a little longer stride than normal, I released my first pitch. Fastball away!

I missed the corner of the plate by a couple of inches. That much was obvious. Ball one.

Ask anybody who has every played the game and they will tell you about the importance of first-pitch strikes. Its common knowledge … it’s a cliché. I never much cared for clichés. It felt good; it calmed my nerves … so what if I was off the plate a bit? For the first time that entire day I felt like I could actually do this.

Greg didn’t deviate from the game plan at all and called for a curve … considered by most in camp as my best pitch. It was the right plan. The ball would start inside and finish in about the same spot as the previous pitch. If I didn’t hang it, we were going to be right back in this thing. Taking my time and feeling loads more relaxed, I threw a solid knee-buckling curve … and it crossed the plate in the exact same place as the previous pitch. Ball two.

Already our perfect game plan had gone to hell.

Two pretty good pitches. Two balls. What good is being the one guy in camp that everybody says is only there because of his control and not be able to throw strikes? Shit.

Greg liked that last pitch. I liked that last pitch. From the ooohs and aaahs coming from the stands, a lot of people liked that pitch. So we decided to go to it again … just scoot it a little more over the plate.

Only it didn’t scoot. It wound up in exactly the same spot. Ball three. Three pitches in and I had hit the same location three times … only that location was an inch or two off the plate. This was my big break, my audition, my chance to prove I deserved to be there … and I was behind 3-0 on my first batter. Shit.

Greg didn’t even put down a sign. He didn’t need to. We both knew what was coming. The batter knew what was coming. Everybody in the dugout knew what was coming. Everybody in the stands knew what was coming. Hell, you probably know what was coming. Fastball … right down Broadway. Nothing fancy … just throw a strike.

And I did. Belly-button high. Right over the meat of the plate. Ball four.

Ball four?

Greg was furious and began chattering with the ump. He called it high. “High, my ass.” I mumbled. As the batter took his base I couldn’t bring myself to look at home plate, or at Greg, or the ump or my dugout. I just watched the guy trot to first base. “First time playing professional ball and I walk the first guy on four pitches.”

And suddenly the nerves that I had kept under control for the past few minutes came raging in. I could feel my body tremble. I could feel the beginnings of tears welling-up in my eyes. I took deep breaths and repeated to myself, “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.” I might have been the victim of a bad call, but that didn’t make it any less bullshit.

“Okay, new start,” I told myself and returned to the mound. Greg put down the sign and I knew we were changing our game plan a little. Normally I was the kind of pitcher who hit spots, painted the corners and left you guessing. But judging from the one finger being slapped against his left thigh, I could tell that Greg had decided we would come right out and challenge this guy. Fastball in.

That’s exactly what I delivered and it obviously caught the plate. “Yes,” I half said to myself. “Ball,” the umpire replied. What? Greg chattered some more. He called that high? My God, I was being squeezed … it was well below the letters. Greg returned the ball and put three fingers down before he even was in his crouch. He wanted me to go to my split and I agreed. It may not have been my best pitch, but it was my most accurate. But because I took a little something off of it, it was also the most hittable thing I threw. Then again, at this point, who cares? Let the defense work … just so long as I throw a damn strike.

I threw the split (I called it a fork, but it was really more of a split-finger fastball … its just in those days, we didn’t have the term “split-finger fastball”) and it dropped beautifully. The batter checked his swing as the ball trailed into the dirt. Ball two. Shit.

I shook off Greg’s call for a fastball. “Hell no,” I thought. “Let me throw a big looping, hanging curve and have this guy tee off on it. I would rather let this guy smash one rather than throw my seventh consecutive ball.” Greg relented and I threw yet another beautiful curve … which wound up in the exact same place as the previous two and was called Ball Three.

Shit, shit and more shit!

And here I was … the kid who didn’t belong there … starting off my first professional ballgame on the verge of walking the first two batters I faced. I glanced over to the dugout to see my pitching coach and skipper both standing with arms folded. They were going to yank me … and then cut me … right then and there. I could feel it. My baseball career was going to end right here and now. I glanced over to Greg as the batter stepped back in. He was angry … not at me, but at the circumstance … and the ump who had squeezed me seven pitches in. He just flashed one finger … over and over again.

“Well, if I’m going out today, I’m going out throwing the hardest, fastest fastball I’ve ever thrown.” I took a long deep breath and went into my wind-up as tense as could be. I was going to burn the ball’s stitching into Greg’s mitt. There were going to be mini-sonic booms coming off this damn thing!

Ask anyone who has ever pitched, or who has ever even just thrown a ball, and they can tell you about the weird sensation when the ball seems to stick in your hand for just a millisecond too long. How that late release could completely ruin a simple thing like throwing a ball. It happens from time to time. It happened right then and there.

Even as the ball left my hand, in my head I was screaming, “Noooooooooooo!” The next second and a half seemed to take forever as I watched (in seeming slow motion) as the ball trailed down, down, down. This was going to be Ball Four … or rather, Ball Eight. I was done.

Then, a silly thing happened … the guy swung! The worst pitch I’ve thrown today and the guy swung! What’s more … he hit the damn thing!

It was a sharp one-hopper to my right. On instinct I reached across and snagged it. The momentum of that action pivoted my body towards second base and I slung it to the shortstop to get the runner coming from first. He tagged the base and, on a hop, threw a rocket to first. Double play!

Two up, two down. No harm done. And I hadn’t even thrown a strike yet.

I share this story to convey a truth I have learned about the world and our lives on it. Sometimes when things seem their bleakest, pure dumb luck will step in and set things right. You just have to keep plugging away … like I was on that mound … and trust that something good is right around the corner. Lucky breaks come … you just have to gut it out until they do.

I remember the rest of that game fairly well, but not as well as I remember those first two batters. I struck out the next guy to get us out of the inning. I gave up a run on consecutive doubles in the second. I struck out the side in the third. That was supposed to be my day, but the coach sent me out for the fourth even though my pitch count was high because he wanted to see if I could gut it out. I pushed myself through that inning giving up a hit and a walk, but no runs. We would eventually win that game 4 to 1.

Something that started off poorly … a disaster even … ended well. So remember, next time you are going through a rough patch in life (as we all do) that if you keep struggling through … some dummy is going to hit into a double play and everything will be okay.

Respect the Fish, Man

As a little boy growing up in West Texas, I always enjoyed the summer days when my brother and I would walk the six or seven blocks to our local public swimming pool (which, of all things, was called “The Swimming Hole” ... and yes, that's actually a picture of it) to join dozens (it seemed like hundreds!) of other kids in the pool. As one of the youngest, I always stayed and played in the shallow end while my brother dove off the high dive. Not because I wasn’t able to swim (I was alright at it), but because I didn’t want to get caught up in the rough-housing of the older and bigger kids. I just wanted to put my goggles on and go under the surface … so I could look at everybody else underwater.

At the age of twelve, my mother worked a massive amount of overtime so that she could dig a pool in the family’s backyard … something that, in retrospect, probably put the family well into debt. I don’t think she particularly cared. I sure didn’t. We had a pool!

When you take an imaginative twelve year old boy and give him a pair of goggles and sixteen thousand gallons of water on a hot summer’s day … well, so long as he didn’t drown, you had a full-time babysitter. I was always a bit of a loner … I didn’t need friends my age to play with … I had a pool!

Ask anybody who was once a young boy who put on the goggles, went underwater and pushed off the side of the pool … cutting a path gracefully in the water … and they will tell you one thing: Aquaman is pretty cool!

Those of you who read or follow what is going on in comic books these days knows that Aquaman is going through something of a popularity resurgence thanks to Geoff Johns, who made Green Lantern and the Flash interesting in recent years. Those of you who do not follow comic books still know who Aquaman is though. He’s one of the most popular and well-recognized superheroes in history. Unfortunately, for the past couple of decades, he’s been something of a joke.

We can thank Saturday morning cartoons in the ‘70s and ‘80s for that. Why, in the ‘60s Aquaman had one of the best action cartoons around … following in the footsteps of The New Adventures of Superman and then joining the world’s greatest and most popular superhero in The Superman-Aquaman Hour of Adventure. But the ‘70s rolled in and in 1973 there was a new take on Aquaman … as one of the Superfriends!

For the next dozen years Aquaman shared his adventures with Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and (in later years) a number of other Justice League of America superheroes. Thanks to some unimaginative writing and to the show’s focus on being child-friendly, Aquaman got the short-end of the stick. Unless an adventure took our heroes underwater, Aquaman was stuck riding shotgun in Wonder Woman’s invisible jet and standing around asking things like, “What do we do now, Batman?”

But as much as we might joke about a hero who’s biggest contribution to saving the world is often “talking to fish,” I think we all identify with Aquaman. I think we laugh because we relate to him. Aquaman may be the King of Atlantis, but on the surface, he’s just like us. Think about it: here is a hero with a strong sense of right and wrong and with abilities that are very specific, yet very fantastic. He’s not as smart as Batman, can’t fly like Superman and isn’t as strong as Wonder Woman … heck, even Robin the Boy Wonder has better gadgets in his belt … yet in his element, he is something special! He’s just along for the adventure … just like you and I in this world … and waiting for the opportunity to contribute. On top of all of that ... he has a family ... a wife and (for a time) a son ... not something touched on by his other Super Friends.

He is the ultimate underdog among superheroes … and that’s what makes him more human and more relatable than the rest of his Super Friends. He has the doubts and insecurities that you and I have … but he also has an amazing talent and skill ready for display. He rides a giant seahorse, for crying out loud!

So laugh at Aquaman! He can take it. Make him the butt of your jokes. That’s okay. But next time you’re in a body of water, take a deep breath and go under … push off and glide through the waves … and I promise, when you come up for air you’ll remember … Aquaman is pretty cool!

Justice League of Comedy at UC Lounge NYC

Friday, December 30, 2011 from 8:00 PM - 10:00 PM

NATIONALLY TOURING JUSTICE LEAGUE OF COMEDY BRING 'HEROES OF HUMOR TOUR' TO UC LOUNGE ON FRIDAY, DECEMBER 30

King Rich and Kyle Davis, collectively known as the Justice League of Comedy will perform a special "New Years Eve Eve" show at UC Lounge (87 Ludlow Street, NYC), December 30 at 8:00PM. General admission tickets are available for only $10.


The Justice League of Comedy has spent the past two years touring clubs large and small, from high profile comedy clubs to one-nighters in seedy biker bars where they barely escaped with their lives. With nothing but desire, an alarming sense of truth in laughter and a Nissan Sentra, they have hit all four corners of the continental United States ("Well, not really, we haven't been to Maine yet.") performing for enthusiastic and, on occasion, indifferent audiences on their 'Heroes of Humor' tour. They truly believe they are saving the world, one laugh at a time.

Road Trip of Self-Discovery

He wasn’t asleep, but he sure wasn’t awake either. His arms were crossed with each hand tucked tightly into the opposite armpit. He knew he must look a damn fool … but he was chilly and hadn’t had hardly any sleep the night before. He also knew he would have to take over the driving soon, his companion having driven the past seven or eight hours. He cursed himself for not being able to sleep in the car. At least then he would be a little rested.

The sun hovered just above the horizon in front of him. Had it moved in the past few hours? He didn’t know. It sure hadn’t seemed to. The radio played a sad top-40 hit and, in the state between sleep and awake, he was sure that this same song had been playing for the past hour or so. He felt a little numb. And as hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering …

He used to enjoy these trips. They were trips home. To his loved one. This one, however, was misery. Sure, it was still a trip home … but home to what? “Well, at least it will be nice to spend a night in my own bed,” he thought to himself … until it dawned on him that his bed would be empty when he got there.

“Jesus,” he thought, “I’ve got to clear my head. I can’t go through life feeling this depressed each and every passing moment. For God’s sake, somebody throw a pie!”

He reached over to the cup holder to take a sip of the coffee he had bought at the gas station an hour before. It was cool now. Gross. He then searched his pockets for his lighter and lit a cigarette. “How many of these damn things have I smoked this trip?” He looked in the pack and counted. There were thirteen cigarettes still in there. Oh yeah, and an empty pack on the floorboard. Twenty-seven cigarettes in around sixteen hours. “Oh my throat is gonna be a mess when I get home,” he mused. “If I get home. How much further now?” He looked over at the GPS and its arrival time … still nearly six hours away.

“God dammit.”

The wind blew a loud whistle through the crack of his window. He didn’t want to open it any more because it was well below freezing out but he couldn’t shut it because, well, he wasn’t about to put his cigarette out. Not yet. So with the cold wind blowing directly into his hairline and the sound of rushing air drowning out that stupid damn song on the radio, he decided to try to wake himself up and concentrate on the task at hand and not the events that had left him alone and feeling worthless.

In his mind the sound of the wind slowly transformed to the sound of applause from last night’s audience. “Why can’t every moment be like that?” Somehow or another he had transformed himself the night before. Somehow or another the weight of the world was lifted when he hit that stage. He smiled as he thought of the autographs he had signed afterwards, the hands he had shaken and, most of all, the group of women who clamored around him after the show. “How many shots did they buy me last night? And how am I still functioning?”

Last night he was a rock star! Drinking heavily (or rather slurping … “Jell-o shots are stupid,” he thought) and dancing (dancing, for crying out loud!) with a group of beautiful women. One had pulled him into the bathroom and they made out for a while … but when the time came to consummate the filthy event, he just couldn’t do it. He was disappointed with himself for having let it even begin. “Hell, I’ve never been one to screw a perfect stranger in the bathroom … even on my best day. Then again, who am I being faithful to?”

The last half-hour of the previous night’s frivolity had been spent with him deflecting their advances and desires to be taken back to his hotel room. If it had been fifteen years earlier, who knows what debauchery he would have indulged. He questioned whether it was a case of him not being in an emotional position to take advantage of the situation or whether he was just getting old. “Twenty-five year old me would have at least taken the blow job.”

Or maybe he had just developed a moral compass? Nah.

Emotions are a funny thing. Somehow he had lost himself, lost his confidence, lost his desire … and he couldn’t quite understand why. Or how. Most of all he was angry with himself … for having blown it with her and for not getting it through his thick head that she was the one who had blown it. He deserved better and he knew it … he just couldn’t convince himself of that fact. Not totally.

“I thought I was over this already.”

He flicked his cigarette butt out the window and rolled it up. “My God, that same stupid song is still on the radio!” In the quiet he started to analyze his life and his character, if for no other reason than to prove to himself that he was worthy of love and happiness … even if she had thought otherwise. He had done some great things, he had done some selfish things, he had given and he had taken … and not always in the same ratio. He was quiet and aloof yet could be the life of the party when called upon. He was a jumble of both positive and negative character traits. He also suspected that he felt everything a little more strongly than most people … love, hate, joy and regret … and that maybe was his weakness.

Then again, perhaps that is what made him human. Perhaps that is what made him relatable on a stage. Perhaps he was just like everybody else … even if at this moment he wallowed in self-pity … because sometimes everybody does the same.

“For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health for as long as we both shall live.”

Perhaps he wouldn’t ever get to share that vow with the one he loved … but there in the passenger seat of a filthy Nissan flying down the highway in Virginia, he made that vow to the stage. Perhaps the reason he was so comfortable on the stage is because that’s the one place where he could share truth, his truth … and show that his weakness was no different than anybody else’s. He wouldn’t wallow in his self-pity … he would share it and invite others to laugh at it … and in time, it would go away. It will go away.

There were people more valuable and more important all over this planet … “but none of them are me … and a lot of them would be damn lucky to be with me.”

Remembering My 9/11 Experience

Note: My experiences on September 11, 2001 pale in comparison to those of thousands upon thousands of others. I did not lose anybody I personally knew in the attacks. I discovered very soon afterward, however, how fortunate I was. This is my experience and mine alone ... and by no means do I mean to indicate that it is more significant than anybody else's. To those who lost a loved one on that terrible day, I continue to offer my most honest condolences. To the first responders ... NYPD, FDNY, EMTs and private citizens ... you have my utmost admiration.

Ten years? How the hell is it that ten years have passed?

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I had some time to kill before I went to work. We had moved to NYC only the week before and I was spending each morning riding the trains and ferries and finding alternative ways to get to the office in Long Island City. I was exploring the city more than I ever had before and enjoying every moment of it. I was riding trains I had never been on and exploring neighborhoods I had never spent any time in. I wanted to know my beloved New York better than I ever had before. That morning I chose to visit the twin towers and take a stroll through Battery Park.

At about a quarter after eight I bought a bacon-and-egg on a roll and a cup of coffee from a street vendor at the foot of the World Trade Center. I sat on a bench wolfing down my sandwich and calling a few family members to tell them (to brag, really) about where I was. This was in the days before Facebook and Twitter ... so you had to actually call people to boast about your mini-adventures of the day. I spoke with my brother and my mother-in-law and told them how I was nearly blinded by the sun glistening off the towers above me. I had always loved New York ... but now I was a citizen and I loved it even more ... I wanted to share that love with everybody I knew.

I finished my boasting and my sandwich and went downstairs to catch the N train for the long ride to Queens. Little did I know it would be the last N train to pull out of that station that day ...

Somewhere along the ride (probably beginning at Penn Station or 42nd Street) I began to overhear passengers talking about how a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. At the time it didn't seem to be all that serious. Those of you who lived in NYC before the attacks will remember the amount of air traffic above and around Manhattan in those days ... there were always tiny planes and helicopters all over the place, many of which flew in and around the southern tip of the island. In my mind's eye, I envisioned some idiot in a two-seater prop plane had probably tried to buzz the towers, got too close and clipped the building. In my mind's eye it was just another "only in New York" kind of moment.

Getting off the train at Queensboro Plaza, I heard a loud bang ... it sounded like thunder. I cursed myself for forgetting my umbrella! Why, just the night before it had rained like crazy and I hadn't remembered my umbrella and was forced to walk through a downpour getting soaking wet. Now I was going to have to do it again ...

I turned to look back at the sky when the cloud of smoke caught my eye. The World Trade Center was on fire! My God ... that plane must have really done a number on the buildings! At this time I didn't realize that it was a jetliner that had crashed into the towers, I didn't realize that the noise I had just heard was actually the second plane crashing into the South Tower. I walked to the office, only a few blocks, in a bit of a rush ... went up the elevator and stood staring at the burning towers through our window. We began to listen to radio reports and ... to be honest with you ... I couldn't really tell you what news was being reported at the time. At one point, I turned to a colleague and said, "it just goes to show what amazing buildings those are. Somebody flew a freaking plane into them and they are still standing." Seconds later the South Tower collapsed ... making me feel rather the idiot and having me wish I had just kept my stupid mouth shut. Half an hour later the North Tower fell ... and suddenly I was truly frightened.

All mass transit was shut down and I was, for all intents and purposes, stranded in Queens. All I could think about was getting to Hoboken where my (then-) wife was teaching because cell phone service was dead. I walked with somebody from work to his apartment and we tried to watch the news ... except no channels were coming in, just a very broken-up signal on the CBS station. After a few hours of waiting (talking nonsense with this fellow from work who I didn't really like), I had had enough. I was getting to Hoboken come hell or high water!

And so I began my walk ...

I couldn't tell you much about that walk really ... I was in such a daze. I walked across the Queensboro Bridge with thousands of people coming the other way ... people were trying to get out of Manhattan, not back into it. Many of them were covered in dust and soot ... it instantly reminded me of news images of refugees trying to escape war-torn countries. I had to push and shove my way across that bridge into Manhattan. I made it to Central Park and began to walk down 5th Avenue to Rockefeller then over to 7th Avenue through Times Square ... all of these areas normally teeming with tourists ... and I hardly saw anybody for hours. In fact, outside of a handful of police officers, during the walk from Central Park to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, I bet I saw less than twenty people. New York had become a ghost town! It was eerie and disconcerting. As I approached the tunnel, however, I became just one of hundreds of people trying to escape the island.

It was nearing the evening and they had just opened traffic back up at the Lincoln Tunnel ... we had all lived in fear all day that "whoever-this-was-that-attacked-us" (we weren't really using the word "terrorist" yet) would be targeting the bridges and tunnels next ... but the Lincoln Tunnel is not just something you can walk through. I, and several dozen others, hitched a ride through the tunnel in the back of a meat truck. There were no windows and the ride was slow and uncomfortable. I was scared. Amazing how not being able to see your surroundings will increase the fear level. On the Jersey side of the tunnel, past the toll booths and up the hill, we stopped and my fellow passengers and I departed. I was on the edge of Hoboken (only a mile long) and minutes away from my destination ... but first, I jogged to the 14th Street Pier to look back at Manhattan. The southern edge of the island was covered in black/brown smoke which appeared to be bellowing into Brooklyn.

Enough!

I ran (and I mean ran!) back to Washington Street and then all the way down to 4th, made the right turn and up to where my (ex-)wife was teaching. She was okay! At the time, it was all that mattered.

Early the next morning, she and I went to Pier A (along with another thousand or so people) to survey the damage. We had only just learned about the tragedy and the heroes of 9/11. Many people took pictures. Many others wept. I hadn't the day before ... maybe I was too scared to ... but this morning, the morning of September 12th, I wept as well. A little girl then made a comment that stopped the tears and brought me a smile. She said, "it looks like somebody knocked the front teeth out of New York."

"You're right," I thought. Our smile will never be the same. But like the boxer who has just taken a punch, we will pull ourselves off the canvass and continue the fight.

Final note: The picture above of me with the World Trade Center in the background was taken on September 9, 2001 ... just 48 hours before the attacks. It's a terrible picture of me ... but it shows the towers how I remember them. To that end, I refrained from any images of the towers burning or falling ... I want them to be remembered for the glory of being the nation's largest buildings, not for being the site of one of history's most heinous acts.

A Letter To My Warren Boys

Dear Derek & Ty,

I wonder if you know how unique you are. I wonder if you realize how truly special you are. You are Warren boys ... and that is something to take a great deal of pride in.

There have been generation after generation after generation of boys named 'Warren" before you. But it is only recently that the term "Warren boys" has gathered such a singular distinction. The new and true definition of Warren boys was established long ago by your father and your Uncle Chuckie. We were the first iron-clad, dyed-in-the-wool Warren boys ... we gave significance to the term. We established the parameters from which all future Warren boys, such as yourselves, would be judged. And now it falls on you, the next and the greatest generation of Warren boys, to carve out greater lives and grander stories and legends.

Do you know what 'Warren" means? "To Preserve" ... and that is the task that now falls to you. To preserve the character of the Warren name ... and more importantly, to preserve the unparalleled and sublime grandeur of being a Warren boy.

Sounds all highly dignified, doesn't it? In some ways it is, but in many ways, it is not. It is simply a matter of pride.

You see, your dad and your Uncle Chuckie were as opposite as opposite can be. We really were. Your grandmother may say differently, but trust me ... I was there. Our personalities were different, our eye color was different, our talents were different and our skills were different. Your old man did fairly well in school, your Uncle Chuckie did not. Your Uncle Chuckie could make music out of anything, your dad can not. But there was a special, almost magical knowledge that we always possessed ... our differences made us matchless individually and extraordinary together. Knowingly or unknowingly, we lived by the same code. The same code that I will now share with you:

1. The Warren boys are not afraid to take chances.
2. The Warren boys always appreciate the skills and talents of others ... and always have a desire to follow that up with a "now see what I can do."
3. The Warren boys bask in the glory of the moment ... even if those moments seem to come too few and far between.
4. The Warren boys will fight (and fight hard!) for what is right.
5. No one (and I mean NO ONE) says anything derogatory about a Warren boy ... except another Warren boy ... and gets away with it.
6. Give joy as often as possible. Receive joy and then quickly pass it on. Don't bogard the joy!
7. Do no harm to others (unless they have it coming) and never be afraid to bend the rules when necessary.
8. Stand up for your loved ones. Stand beside your loved ones. Put your loved ones ahead of yourself ... even if they are acting like idiots.

In all honesty, that's a hard code to live by ... and we didn't always succeed. But we tried. Always.

The freedom to be atypical and stand apart from commonality (and more importantly, to support others in their special uniqueness) is what gives the Warren boy his swagger. It's a confidence bordering on cockiness. It's our strength ... because no matter what others may think or say about us, we know the other Warren boy has our backs. It allows us to be ourselves without (too much) concern of what others may think of us. It allows us to move forward in this grand adventure we call life. We are a very exclusive club ... there have only been four of us ... and as wonderful as so many people are that you will meet, they aren't Warren boys.

Warren boys defy the odds. Your uncle had a pacemaker put in when he was only thirteen years old. I remember your grandmother telling a neighbor that it was very likely Chuck would not live to be eighteen. Screw that! He lived to double that ... and he lived his few short years with us hard, fast and full of vigor! I was blessed to learn from the "original" Warren boy ... live for the moment, because the moment is all we really have.

Warren boys are filled with talent! Just look at yourselves. That talent is just as important as your life ... because talent, however large or small, is what makes life worth living. It's what we can share with the world ... and we don't share it to become rich and famous, we share it because we have it to give. Nurture it ... it is the garden of your soul ... sometimes it blooms, sometimes it rests ... protect it and love it.

Lastly, Warren boys would give their lives for one another. You know I would give my life for either of you. But did you know that your Uncle Chuckie would have too? I don't know many truths in this world ... but I know that.

This life is going to knock you on your ass from time to time ... it does it to everybody, but has a special fondness for knocking down a Warren boy ... and there are going to be times when you genuinely question whether or not you can go on. There will be times of great sadness, there will be losses too painful to imagine, there will be times when you question your self-worth and ask God why he has made this life so difficult. There's not a cure-all for those times. I wish I had one to give you. I wish I could take every ounce of pain you will ever encounter upon myself. But it doesn't work that way ... we can only offer one another our undying support ... and it is "undying" because I look at the two of you and I see the spirit of your Uncle Chuckie flowing through you. That support, that love, truly NEVER dies.

But I do know what will help you get through those moments. Just look at yourself in the mirror and say, "I'm a Warren boy." Eventually, the swagger will return to your step. I promise.

Love,
Dad