On Saturday, May 11, my pale Northwest face baked in the Northern California sun, as I watched my nephew graduate from Menlo College.  I listened intently to the speeches and for the briefest of moments thought how nice it would be if I were asked one day to be a commencement speaker.  I realize this dream is akin to recognizing I’ll never run a marathon, play 2nd base for the San Francisco Giants or make sweet, passionate, love to Beyonce, but what the hell.  Fans of my blog, you’re going to get the treat of listening to what would one day be my graduation message.

Class of 2013 listen up.  I’m about to give you the best goddamn advice anyone in this fine institution of higher learning has ever given you.  In the next 15 minutes, I’m going to teach you how to never be poor, the keys to a successful career, and the cold, harsh, facts of life.

My Uncle Allen once said if you never want to be poor, pay yourself first.  No matter what amount of income you earn, after you receive your paycheck always set aside a few ducats for yourself.  It’s not important how much money you make, it’s how much you KEEP.  If you spend more than you take in, you’re ALWAYS going to go broke.  Look at Mike Tyson.  That guy raked in what $300 – $400 million during his career.  If he had just socked away a little bit after each fight, Tyson would’ve never had to bite off Evander Holyfield’s ear.  Pay yourself first kids and you’ll never have to resort to cannibalism.

In life, we spend about a third getting an education, a third working, and if we’re healthy enough to enjoy it, a third in retirement.  For most of you, the education train stops here.  You’re never going to stop learning, but as of your last final, you’re probably never again going to sit in a classroom, read a textbook, write a term paper, or take a final.  It’s time to enter the working world and while you’re going to hear this phrase a lot, there really is no substitute for hard work.  Getting your first job is tough.  It’s tough for everyone, but eventually something will come your way.  It may not be your dream job but even if it were you’re probably going to change jobs every 3 years anyway.  You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who does the same job their entire career.  The hard work thing is not to be taken lightly.  The effort you put in to your job says everything about you.  Nothing speaks louder then a reputation as being a go getter, a hustler.  Word gets around in the work world.  People notice how many hours you put in and co-workers are not shy about telling stories about the slackers.  Leadership also takes notice.  You can hear all the stories about nepotism, favoritism, elitism, but at the end of the day, the lazy never prosper.  Work hard and the fruits of your labor will be recognized.

The world today is harsh.  We are at risk every day of dying due to the threat of terrorism.  The global economy is driven by instantaneous travel, communication, and grativication.  Enjoy the moment.  Live each day like it’s your last.  Work hard, but also play hard.  Love hard.  Cherish your friends, your family, your loved ones.  You may never see them again.  Revel in the wins.  Reflect and learn from the losses, but don’t dwell on the shit.  Success and failure can all come and go in a flash.  Don’t live a life of woulda, shoulda, coulda.  Go.  Fight.  Win.

Congratulations Class of 2013.  I’d be happy to go party with each and every one of you and your families.  Today, is a day to celebrate and tomorrow is the opportunity for you to go out and be great.

When I was a young lad, my father liked to load up my family in the station wagon and go for a drive.  The purpose of these road trips varied; house hunting, picnics, and when Grandma went with us, she brought her easel and would paint.  Inevitably, while we were on the road, the natural release of flatulence would come up.  When my dad was the culprit, he’d always crack the same joke, “I think the wires are burning.”  Mom would giggle and say, “Excuse me.”  My father would get furious that she would dare infringe upon his sacred air and would pull over the car and yell to get out!  I think one of the reasons I have such a nice ass is because during these trips I squeezed by butt cheeks so hard if I had charcoal up my ass it would be a diamond by the time we got home.  Unfortunately, one or two of my silencers would ultimately drift out.  Again, my dad would pull the car over and demand to know who had done it.  My farts have a smell unlike any other and it seemed to hit my dad particularly hard.  He’d yell, “Your stink is so bad you’ll never get married!”  He made me think.  I better make a concerted effort to hold to work on my game or else I faced a life of bachelorhood mired in my own stank.

During high school I never had a girlfriend.  His words seemed to have come true.  It’s not like I farted them away, I was just an awkward kid who liked to play sports and say goofy things.  Plus, the girl I had a crush on dated an older boy.  I wasn’t getting anywhere.  I was popular because I was a jock and pretty funny.  Skills that I still have today, so I figured I better embellish them and try to find my true love somewhere else.

In college, I continued to hang on to the dream of becoming a professional athlete albeit a stinky one.  I just seemed to know it was going to happen.  My roommate introduced me to Bonnie after football practice.  She had just come from swim team practice.  Who knew that just 5 months later we would meet up again at my birthday party and I would joke my way into her heart.

I don’t much remember exactly how things went down, but I do remember at the party she wore black and I told her black was my favorite color.  I said some other witty things that night and we seemed to hit it off quite well.  It was Saturday night and I asked if I could take her out.  She said she couldn’t because she was dating another boy who lived out of town.  I asked her what was she doing the next day and she said she was going to Mass.  I was undeterred about the boyfriend thing.  I told her I was here and I wanted to spend time with her.  I would meet her at church.

We arrived at St. Joseph’s at different times, so I had to sit alone.  I had never been to a Catholic service before.  I didn’t pay particular attention to what was being said and kept my eyes on the lovely brunette I hoped to date one day.  I followed the rituals and when it came time for communion I joined in and thanked the priest for the cookie.  It was tasteless but I was there to impress not eat.

The effort seemed to work and rather than bore you with all of the details that led up to nearly 27 wonderful years of marriage the more important thing is when I did ultimately release that first air poo from me arse, it didn’t drive her away.  She nearly fainted but the thing I feared the most didn’t materialize.  She stayed.  For better or for worse with the worse definitely being those times when I had gas.  In some respects, it’s a good thing that I am an athlete, that I am funny, or else what my dad has said all those years ago might have actually come true.

I’m barbequing baby back ribs tonight.  I really don’t have any secret recipes.  I simply throw on Stubb’s Spice Rub and baste in Stubb’s BBQ sauce.  Cook until done and serve.  The aroma floats about the neighborhood like a great spirit in the sky.  I hear a lawnmower.  My sweet girl is at my feet.  Her muzzle is grey.  The hair on her body is falling out.  I see her pink skin.  She moves slowly as the arthritis gnaws at her joints.  She’s dying.

At nearly 14, she’s been in our lives for 12 years.  I first saw her at Seal Beach Animal Control Center, where I was volunteering, way back in 2001.  I remember calling my wife asking if I could bring home 2 Labrador Retrievers and at which she flatly said, “No.”  I chose the female chocolate anyway because she looked like a Jimmy Dean sausage.  My wife’s anger at me for not adhering to her wishes melted away after 30 minutes together with our new pet.  They were soon hugging each other on the floor.

She wiggle wormed her way into our hearts.  We had mourned for 4 years after our 1st dog, Mabel, was put down.  She was a yellow lab who swam like Michael Phelps and had the heart of a lion.  She was a runt, like Hazel, and one of 14 pups in her litter.  We chose her because she fought off her siblings like a gladiator and came right up to me looking for freedom.  We put her down at 10 only because she had inoperable Spondylosis.  This time, as I lay on the concrete floor with Hazel and her yellow brother, Boomer, I knew this girl was different.  Her name was “Lucky” then and indeed her number had just come up.

Over the years, we came up with countless albeit corny terms of endearment:  Poochie Monster; Socker Hound Thief; Sir Dog A Lot; Hazelita; Hazel Girl; Sweet Thing; Hazel Nut; the Singing dog.  At the time, they all seemed to fit and I’ve probably forgotten a few others.

I remember, after moving from Long Beach to Portland, we were in a corporate sponsored one room apartment.  Hazel loved chasing after ducks and after a long walk she dove into a nearby pond swimming after a particularly tasty looking Mallard. Soon she was gone from sight.  I called and called.  She didn’t respond.  I walked back with tears in my eyes trying to think of the words I was going to use to explain to my wife I’d lost the dog.  At the top of the stairs, soaking wet, shivering, there she was.  Hazel.  The look on her face matched mine as I imagined she was going to have to explain to “Mommy Dog” how she had lost me.

I don’t know how many days and nights we have left with our sweet Brown Girl.  She’s my rock, my soul, my partner in crime.  BBQ spare ribs always makes me think of the time we gave Hazel rib bones the first time.  She devoured them like candy and looked as if she just hit the lottery.  The next morning, I was ready to BBQ her as she left little pudding drops of shit all over the house.  Thanks be to God for hardwood floors.

I wish we could communicate with our canine friends.  I want her to know I’ve dedicated this week’s post to her.  I want her to know there is a “Rainbow Bridge” up in Heaven.  That she’ll meet our Mabel Girl soon and they can compare notes on what kind of owners we were.  How we loved them both with all our hearts.  We’ll meet again in the afterlife together one day girl.  I just want you to hang on a little longer.  Stay.  Please.

This was a helluva week in Boston.  I lived there for five of the most glorious years of my life.  I made forever friends in the northeast.  Along with the rest of the country, I was captivated by the history that evolved this week.

On Monday, one of the women who work for me told me at about lunch time that one of our colleagues and her partner were safe.  I asked safe from what?  My manager said, “Didn’t you hear about the bombings?”

Our colleague’s partner has just crossed the finish line, grabbed her water, and they were a block away when the 1st blast went off.  They were pretty shaken. No pun intended.

My week ended with my texting and calling two of my dearest friends who happen to live, in all cities, Watertown.  They were in locked down in their home and my pals were on the internet quietly providing updates they were safe, helicopters were in the sky, and that they heard gunshots.  Finally, the news broke the 2nd bomb suspect had been captured.

What really interests me in this whole story is the American justice system.  Over the course of the next several months there will be a formal sentencing, trial, and a final judgement.  If I were king, I would have a slightly different approach to punishment for murder.  If I were king I would propose implementing one or more of the following sentences for the surviving victim’s actions of death and destruction at the Boston Marathon:

• Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, you have been convicted of 4 counts of murder and 170 counts of intent to murder.  You will be flown to a height no lower than 30,000 feet and dropped from the sky without a parachute
• Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, you have been convicted of 4 counts of murder and 170 counts of intent to murder.  You will be dropped in shark infested water bleeding from several razor blade cuts
• Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, you have been convicted of 4 counts of murder and 170 counts of intent to murder.  You will be shipped to North Korea and dressed in a “I hate Kim Jong-un” tee shirt
• Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, you have been convicted of 4 counts of murder and 170 counts of intent to murder.  Your new home will be the Tiger Den at the Bronx Zoo
• Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, you have been convicted of 4 counts of murder and 170 counts of intent to murder.  You will hang by your testicles until dead

I’m having difficulty believing there is adequate punishment for people who commit heinous crimes like the one we witnessed on Monday.  Our current prison system is not enough.  I want the SOB who ruined our Patriots Day and killed and injured those innocent people to suffer forever.  Every act of violence reduces our freedom to do, to say, and to live how we want.

I curse these SOB’s. The older brother getting run over and killed by the younger brother proves God loves us.  I hope justice will prevail and forever hell is where they’ll reside.

Please join me in the crusade to love one another and make people laugh.

My 1st Post is Dedicated to Brandon.

For some crazy ass reason, I’ve decided to write a blog.  I don’t know if anyone will ever read the silly things I’m probably going to write about, but I never thought I would have 681 Facebook friends either so, who knows?  The burning question for me is how did six hundred and eighty one people find me?

Which leads me to this motherfucker Brandon, who writes me monthly letters, old school, stating the same thing on yellow notebook paper:

Dear Timothy,

My name is Brandon and I would like to buy your house at:  _ _ _ _ X Street, Alameda, CA  94501.

Please call me today at (415) _ _ _ – _ _ _ _.

Please call as soon as you can,

Brandon

Well, you know what Brandon?  I don’t want to sell you my house and I’m not going to call you.  I don’t know you.  I probably don’t like you and even if I did, I wouldn’t sell you my house.  So, fuck off.

The more disturbing question is how did you find out I owned a house in Alameda?  This is about as disturbing as finding out your football coach likes to shower with 8-year old boys.  Keep away from my junk!

I mean how stupid are American homeowners?  Brandon, do people actually call you?  I can only imagine the phone conversation.

Hi Brandon it’s Charlie.  Thanks so much for your letter.  Yeah, I’ll sell you my house.  Why don’t you tell me your hotel room number and I’ll bend over and take it up the wazoo and give you my deed right now.  No credit cards.  Cash only.  Bye!

Seriously, dude?  C’mon, man, whatever happened to the good, old fashioned, way to buy and sell real estate?  You find an Agent, you look at properties, you secure financing, you submit an offer, your offer is accepted, you go through escrow and you sign the papers.  Has that process died for you like all of the opportunities for love?

You have to be pretty fucking desperate to write a letter to homeowners begging them to sell you their house.  I pity you, man.  It feels like you’re trying to buck the system and it doesn’t feel right.  At least, not to me.  You have to earn money the old fashioned way, as an old Smith Barney ad used to say.

So, fuck off, Brandon.  Please never write to me again.  My house and my junk are not for sale.