I must apologize to regular readers of my Blog.  I am profoundly sorry.  I owe you this apology for not posting anything since September 5, 2016.  These last 3 months, I confess, I was overly obsessed with the US Presidential election and overly despondent of the outcome. Today’s post won’t all be about politics. No, this is my yearly review.  I owe you one.

I started 2016 off strong with a post about my continued membership of the Rhythm Nation. Janet Jackson and the San Francisco 49ers inspired me to greatness as the 1980’s ended. Love trumped hate in 1989 and I wrote I still believed that.

My February rant was an admission I love to dance. I wrote about an incredible road trip with work colleagues who joined me in an after work night out on the town and loved and laughed at my funky gyrations like I was putting on a show just for them. It’s good to let off a little steam now and then and dancing is a tremendous stress relief.  Just ask my co-workers who saw my show.

In March, I was appalled with a suicide bomber’s killing of 60 innocent Christian men, women and mostly children celebrating Easter in a park in Lahore, Pakistan. I argued that the strategy of suicide bombers is flawed because their senseless murders don’t result in real change for their cause and only inflames their enemies. At some point, wouldn’t it make sense to change tactics? I guess to these people rational thought doesn’t cross their minds and perhaps never will.

At the end of April, I responded to a Daily Prompt e-mail by WordPress because I was flat-out of ideas to write about.  My words were all about how I didn’t feel “Stairway” was a good enough prompt and I begged my audience for innovative ideas to write about.  Only a few responded and I chose one idea.  A good one.

In May, I wrote about what it feels like to still be playing baseball at my age.  Not softball, baseball.  I dedicated my post to my friend Ronda who generously and genuinely wanted to know.  So, I told my baseball story.

On Father’s Day, I dedicated my writing to Oscar Boy, my then 14-month old Black Labrador Retriever.  I laid down some rules for him that, if only that damn canine of mine could read, would result in a better behaved domesticated animal.  I wrote about his predecessors, Mabel and Hazel, and shared how much better behaved they were and to model their behavior or risk getting cooked alive by me, Mommy Dog, and/or Grandma Dog.

I started leaning a little more to the left with my post in July about how I questioned when was it ever OK to be an asshole?  I wrote then that we had one running for President of the USA and his supporters were absolutely OK with that.  The criticism I had read about President Obama, our military, Hillary Clinton, and others was at such an unprecedented, disrespectful level, it seemed Trump-supporting Americans were becoming immune to disrespect.  Along with John Lennon, I imagined what living in peace would be like.

After my Fantasy (American) Football League draft and my grade of “A” I wrote in August about how great work would be if all I had to do was put a team together of the greatest players on the planet.  I wrote about how addicted I was to the fantasy game and how many teams I was participating in.  I thought then and still do now admire the so-called “experts” whose profession it is to recommend to Gamers like me the professional football players to add to their teams.  Talk about a dream job!

Which brings to my last entry.  For the first time in my life, on Labor Day of all days, I started to think about retirement.  It’s still probably ten years away but I spent the day writing and dreaming about what the next phase of my life would be like, where I would live, and what I would do.  It’s not a bad thing to get to this stage of life.  I’ve been super lucky and will put a game plan together.

In October, November, and December, I’ve gone through nearly all 7 stages of grief.  I stayed up until well past midnight on November 8th until CNN projected Donald Trump the winner of the US presidency.  Paralyzed at this news, I hardly slept that night.  I was in a fog for probably the next week.  I’m still not at the acceptance stage and probably never will be.  Not even after January 20, 2017.  Trump’s election had killed all my hopes, my dreams, and my creativity.  I couldn’t write.  I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t believe my country had elected this buffoon.

So, there you have my year in review.  What did you think?   I feel like this year my writing improved and maybe there is something in that.  Fewer better.   Over the last 3 years, I’ve gone from writing weekly to bi-weekly to monthly blogs.  To me, one post a month feels about right.  What we both don’t know is what stories 2017 will bring.  It’s time to move on to the new year.  Trump’s no longer going to get me down.  It’s time to get writing.

Thank you for reading.

When you’re young and just starting out you don’t think about retirement. That’s for old people and many years away from your right now reality.  I used to believe I’d worry about it in 20 or 30 years and I was super confident back then everything would eventually turn out OK.  When you’re young, everything is idyllic, even your inevitable withdrawal from work.  Well, here I am, two or three decades from those first thoughts and on Labor Day ironically all I can contemplate is retiring.

Some of my friends and family members are already retired. The big joke of retired folk is a cliché, “I guess I’ll take today off” they say.  It’s like a fantasy coming true when all of sudden it hits you that you could really be taking every day off for the rest of your life. For someone like me, this is going to hit particularly hard. I’ve always been a hard worker, I’ve mostly enjoyed working and I’m someone who has identified personal success with work success. What if that is soon gone?

Oh, realistically I’m still probably about 10 years away from finally hanging it all up but my dear wife is talking about it seriously in like 4 years when she’ll have completed 35 years as High School Counselor extraordinaire. So, then what will she do? She’s got it all planned out to work in a local Oregon winery and pour wine. Sounds fantastic.  For her.

I remember when her father retired. It was a monumental event after all his years providing for his family. In retirement, he kept to a routine and left each morning like he was going to work but instead would visit his old buddies, drink coffee, and B.S. with them while they were still working.  He came back home by noon to a hearty lunch, an hour-long nap, and a cocktail or two promptly at 7:00 pm every night, dinner than bed at 10:00 pm.  He treated each day like he never stopped working.  It was to me, his young naïve son-in-law, a dream come true. He did this same thing, day after day, for 25 years until he died at 87 having lived a full life without regret or compromise.

They say a third of your life should be getting an education, a third working, and a third in retirement. I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’ll do with myself after my work life is over. I’ve been almost religious with my saving, so money shouldn’t be a problem unless of course the economy has a precipitous turn for the worse. I can’t possibly be the guy who just sits around counting the hours away until my last breath.  I never have been and never will be a guy who sits idle.  I also know I can’t be working forever, so I will have to do something in retirement!

I’ll exercise. I’ll travel. I’ll write. I’ll play baseball and golf.   I’ll drink wine.  I’ll read.  I’ll go to professional sporting events.  I’ll attend concerts.  I’ll even puddle around the house maybe even throwing away a thing or two from my past and doing the chores I probably should’ve done years ago. Still, I haven’t thought about retiring much before this weekend because despite all of the stress and late nights and cross-country moves, I’ve genuinely enjoyed working. My extended work family has been important to me. Sometimes, I can’t imagine not seeing some of my work friends perhaps ever again.  Silly me.  Getting all sentimental.

With social media, I’ll always have an opportunity to connect with work friends near and far. We’ll just not have the same ridiculous deadlines, average performance reviews, and wildly successful projects to keep us going. I’ll spend more time with my wife and my dog and my retired friends who live nearby. I don’t yet know if we’ll stay in Oregon or move back to my beloved San Francisco Bay Area. That’s another thing to think about. Where do I want to spend my last years of life?  No matter where it is, I will create a plan and execute like I always do.  For my dear wife, it will be a home with a view.  Ah, a view.

I just don’t want to ruminate about retirement any more.  I just want to get to work.

Over 25 million Americans play Fantasy Football. It is the ultimate reality game where you can play against family, friends, and strangers by selecting professional players like you were the General Manager / Owner of a real team. It’s your wits against your opponents and your undeniable belief your selection process is better than theirs. With 3 teams on 3 different websites I AM HOOKED!

It is estimated the average age of a Fantasy Football participant is 33 years old and 20% are Female.   I don’t quite fit this demographic.  In America, your team’s performance becomes the water cooler conversation every Monday morning at work.  Favorite teams have almost (or maybe already have) been replaced by the individual performances of your players and there’s nothing like a good brag about how ‘your’ Antonio Brown went off on Sunday.

Oh, when you’re putting your team together there’s a Drafting strategy but you need a lot of luck your guy is still available.  You want to select always the highest ranked veteran players with successful track records, the best rookies, and your estimated “Sleeper.”    The Sleeper is always an interesting assessment.  This is the athlete who everyone thinks will be good only if the moon and stars align.  Usually, this is a second stringer who is lower ranked than the top players and you ‘steal’ him away from the teams drafting ahead of you.  When the starter goes down, you look like a genius!

Some of the leagues I play in are for money and some just for bragging rights.  The bottom line is, I take it seriously and my compulsion to win is greater than ever.  I’m constantly tweaking my lineup.  I drop players after bad performances and constantly look for replacement players because you never know when an injury will shatter not only your favorite player’s knee but also your chances to win.  Football is a rough game but so is Fantasy.  You don’t ever want to finish last.

For my non-American or non-Football fan friends, the game is really quite simple.  You are awarded points for individual and Team Defensive performances.  You score points for Touchdowns, Field Goals, Yards gained, etc.  There’s no less than 25 scoring categories.  You compete against another team in your league each week by selecting a starting lineup and the highest number of points wins.  Usually the top 4 teams make the playoffs and winner takes all.  The websites from the likes of CBS Sports, ESPN, Sports Illustrated, Yahoo, and NFL.com all offer games free of charge and they do all of the calculations for you in real time.  You can check for up to the minute results on your mobile device, tablet, or PC.  When I’m walking the dog, going to the grocery store, or even leave town, I’m not far away from seeing how my team is doing.

The brilliance of this strategy for the NFL, television networks, and advertisers is this – I now watch more games than just the one for my favorite team, the San Francisco 49ers.  My “man cave” has DirecTV’s NFL Sunday Ticket where I can flip to any game my player is playing in and can even set the Fantasy Football Tracker channel to proactively notify me when my player has scored.  Oh, man, this is so fun.

I’ve played other fantasy sports like baseball and golf but nothing compares to football.  I think because there are so few games and the outcomes so unpredictable.  Not that baseball and golf are all that predictable, it’s all just a big fat guess really.  No one really knows who on any given Sunday is going to do well.  But, there are websites and television programs dedicated to providing you with all of the statistics you need to make the best educated decision.

Or you can simply come to the guru of the “Portland Gamers” and I’ll give you my rankings like I’m Matthew Berry, who has made a living of such a thing.  A Fantasy Pro.  Now, that is what I call a dream job.

We seem to be living in the Age of the Asshole. At no point in my life can I remember a time when there were more assholes in the world than right now. It used to be just a few assholes existed and you couldn’t stand for the things they said or did and we shunned them but now we have one running for President of the United States of America and for a large percentage of Americans that’s OK.  Guess what folks?  It’s not OK.  Assholes suck!

I don’t begin to pretend for a minute that in my lifetime I haven’t been an asshole. Oh, just ask my wife, and she can retell nearly every single time I was reprehensible. I, of course, tend to forget these times and yet of the ones I do remember, I’m filled with incredible guilt and regret over such actions. Today’s asshole just doesn’t seem to care and neither does the American public at large.  We tend to accept the asshole as a way of life now.  We shouldn’t.

We Americans seem to have lost all sense of decency. We disrespect our President, our Police force, our Military, our people of color, the LGBT community, Christians, Pagans, our Veterans, just about everyone. What is causing all of this hatred?

Some would point to an apathetic American society who is unwilling to accept our differences.  Is it so wrong to love your fellow person? Can we not as a human race be more accepting of one another? No one is perfect. No one. We all have our faults, our idiosyncrasies, our skin color, and our beliefs. Still, I’ve never felt so shocked about how American people treat each other today.  We can’t seem to get past not everyone is like us.  This is not OK!

There’s no respect, no love, no empathy. This is not what I envisioned for the American way of life in my advancing age. The Internet is a wonderful vehicle to connect people  but it seems to be dividing and fomenting anger instead of love. Why can’t social media not bring us together as a people instead of turning most of us into “un-frienders.” Can we not lead the online voices of the majority of good people to drown out the venom of the haters?

Assholes need to be shunned and real heroes voices like those from our Military, Teachers, Counselors, Veterans, first responders, Government leaders, and, yes, athletes, need to be heard. Let’s let the virtual world know we’re tired of all the publicity afforded to dickheads.  If we don’t, anger and disorder will continue to rule.

Imagine all the people living life in peace.  I am.

Oscar Boy, thank you for the Happy Father’s Day wishes.  I know you sent them to me telepathically because Boy I know you love me.  As your Daddy Dog, I felt it important to lay down (once ag…

Source: A Father’s Day Message to My Son – If Only He Could Read

Oscar Boy, thank you for the Happy Father’s Day wishes.  I know you sent them to me telepathically because Boy I know you love me.  As your Daddy Dog, I felt it important to lay down (once again) a few ground rules in hopes this time, on my special day, they will sink in and guide you along your journey to adulthood.  Without your commitment to these core principles you will be yelled at, isolated, and forever compared to the two amazing poochie monsters we owned before you, Mabel and Hazel, your sisters and the two best canines who ever lived.

First, and foremost, never, ever, steal Mommy Dog’s sandwich again.  Unless, of course, you enjoyed seeing her meltdown before our very eyes.  While, I’m sure the turkey, bread, and vegetables were delicious, was it really worth making Mommy mad and being shut into the washroom alone for 10 minutes?  Eat your own food!

Next, you have destroyed our entire sprinkler system in the backyard.  This is also unacceptable behavior.  I’m sure you thought the plastic pipes and sprinkler heads were delectable, but repairing your chew toy will cost Daddy and Mommy about $3,500.  What were you thinking?  I already give you 3 rawhides per week.  Chew those!

The couch pillows, my socks, Mommy’s sports bra, our shoes, the trash, used Kleenex, and your blanket were not purchased for you to put into your mouth.  Stop, please stop, or you’re going to be in big trouble.  You have at least two dozen legal toys to play with like the Kong ball, countless tennis balls, stuffed Squirrel, Moose, Duck, and Beaver, the Birthday Monkey and a Tug Toy which are all SAFE to chew.  Play with those!

By adherence to Daddy Dog’s rules, your reward is a lifelong overabundance of love, two square meals a day, treats for any good reason including acceptable behavior like sit, down, stay, come, leave it and wait, car rides when we have to run errands, multiple walks per day, a weekend visit to the Dog Park, sleeping in the same bed as Mommy and Daddy, an annual beach romp and swim and the aforementioned rawhides during the evening.

Now, I know you can’t understand this but I sure wish you could.  You also need to know the rest of your family and the expectations we have put upon you based on your siblings.  Your pack includes two more who you will never know until we all meet up one day at The Rainbow Bridge.  But, oh, they were good dogs.

Your oldest sister, Mabel (a Yellow you), was adopted at a mere 6 weeks.  She was the runt of her litter and quite possibly the best behaved dog we’ve ever owned.  Though she had her moments including nipping at Mommy’s heels so incessantly she was nearly given up.  Eventually, she grew out of puppyhood, drove with us across the country from Alameda, California to Boston, Massachusetts and lived an amazing, fun-filled life until Spondylosis got her in the end.  The worst thing she ever did was drink my whiskey and push Mommy Dog out of bed.  She was my favorite.

Hazel (a chocolate), your middle sister, was discovered at Seal Beach Animal Control Center, where I volunteered part-time.  She was known for her beautiful, high-pitched, singing voice when a visitor entered the room, snuggling underneath the blankets, and enthusiastic walks.  Like you, she would do anything for a treat.  She lived a long life but forever wished she knew the reason her first pack gave her up.  We never understood either.  She was Mommy’s favorite and a wonderful dog.

You’ve still got a chance, Oscar Boy, to become a favorite of ours too.  But you better shape up and you better start minding us better and real quick.  We can’t always pay attention to you, though we know that’s what you want.  We can’t always play and give you treats and let you do whatever the hell you want.  The only thing that saves you, Oscar, is your adorable face.  Your sweet disposition in the morning, from which only God knows where it comes from, is behavior we want to see more of.  Even lying on your back, showing us your furry wiener is better than being an asshole.

Don’t be an asshole.

Love, Daddy J. Dog

This post is dedicated to my friend Ronda.

I was 8 years old when I played organized baseball for the first time.  It was tee ball and my games were at Harvey West Park in Santa Cruz.  I don’t remember much about the games back then except for the time I hit a ball over the outfielder’s head.   The sound of my mother’s scream still rings in my head.  The adrenaline bolt I felt then I feel today when I do the same thing.  There’s something about the feeling you get when you crush a baseball that’s nearly indescribable except maybe it’s just like hitting the one perfect golf shot you hit each round that makes you want to come back.  When the magic happens, after so many frustrating swing attempts, you don’t feel anything except exhilaration as the ball soars off your bat.  You can hear a sound like no other when you hit a ball well – you know you’ve hit it good – and then unlike golf in an instant you know it’s time to run.

Now, some 40 plus years later, I still play the game.  In High School, I played Football and Basketball and I was a decent player but it was baseball where I excelled. After 4 years of baseball in college at the NCAA Division 2 level, I took a few years off, coached a co-ed softball team where my wife and I were teammates and champions, and then I moved to Boston and returned to playing baseball.  I haven’t stopped since.  Nowadays, I have to remind my friends it’s not softball, it’s baseball that I play.  You know, smaller ball, 90 feet between the bases, the pitcher stands 60 feet 6 inches away from home plate and throws overhand from a mound.

I exercise regularly just so I can continue to play baseball.  No game gives me greater joy.  I even like practice because I know everything I do outside of the game is preparing me to play the game.  Playing baseball means having the ability to produce bursts of speed at any moment but it also means endurance.  You need to be in shape to play 9 innings after 8 hours of work.

Playing on work nights can be tough.  The baseball fields where I play are about 20 miles east of downtown Portland and I work about 20 miles west.  It can sometimes take 2 hours through commute traffic to get to the field.  I usually arrive just 30 minutes before the start of the game.  I pull into the parking lot and change into my uniform.  The inside of my Ford Escape smells like a locker room.  I grab my bat bag, my helmet, and my uniform top.  I never put on my uniform top until just the beginning of a game.  One of my superstitions.  I head to the dugout and greet my teammates and put on my spikes.

I have a pregame routine I learned in college and seldom deviate from it.  I deeply stretch my legs starting with the hamstrings, then my quadriceps, groin, and calves.  I stretch my lower back and my arms.  Then I do about a 6-8 wind sprints of about 100 feet.  Next it’s time to throw.  These days it doesn’t take quite as long to warm up my arm.  A dozen or two throws and I’m good to go.

Next up is infield practice, if there’s time, before the start of the game.  Infield is one of those pregame rituals that I really love.  The juices start flowing and gets you ready to play.  There’s a routine here too.  The coach hits balls to the outfielders – left first, then center, and ends with right.  Throws go to second base, third, and finally home.  When the outfielders are done, it’s time for us infielders.  Groundballs start with the 3rd basemen going to first base, then the shortstop, the second baseman, and then my coach likes the 1st basemen to throw to 3rd base.  I’m not sure why exactly.  The 1st basemen seldom, if ever, throws to 3rd.  We have a round where we turn double plays and finally end with throws home.  The whole process can take just 5-10 minutes.  The warm up is as critical now as it’s ever been to an old baseball player like me.

It’s usually at this point where I check the lineup to see where I’m hitting in the order and what position I’m playing.  I’m an infielder.  Depending on who shows up, I could be at 1st, 2nd, Shortstop, or 3rd base.  I don’t care.  I like them all.  I hit anywhere from 4th to 6th in the batting order.

With only 5 minutes before the start, as the coaches are exchanging the lineup cards and talking to the umpires, I realize I’ve got to go to the bathroom.  Even now, I still get overly excited to play this game.  I sometimes have to go 2 or 3 times.  If  I wasn’t still thrilled to play the game, I wouldn’t play.  It’s not jitters.  I’m not nervous.  I’m excited.  I want to go.  Go hard.  I’m a competitive son of a bitch, so I want to win.  Every time.

Baseball is a funny game.  You fail more than you succeed  which is why I probably love it so much.  When you do get a hit, make a great play, win, you cherish it like your first love.  You never want it to end.  You want it to last forever.  But, failure can happen too just like that bringing you back down like someone hammering a nail that’s sticking out.  You succeed.  You fail.  You fail again and again and again.  When you win, it’s here and then it’s gone like a spring rain.  It’s here and then it’s gone.  It’s here and then it’s gone.

I learned at a very young age when you step between the white lines you run to your position, you don’t walk.  So, when I take the field, I run.  Charlie Baker never wants to be called a lollygagger.  There are a lot of pitches in a baseball game over 100 in most.  Your mind wanders.  You have to concentrate on every pitch and expect every ball is going to be hit to you.  You also need to think about the countless scenarios of where you should be going if the ball isn’t hit to you like covering a base, backing up, or being a cutoff man.  Baseball is about routines.  It’s about making the plays you’re supposed to make.  It’s not the team that makes the great plays who win the game, it’s the teams who make the routine plays every time that wins.

Hitting is an entirely different experience than fielding.  It’s 1 on 1.  You have to be ready to swing at every pitch.  You also need to be looking at your 3rd base coach for any signs a play might be on like a steal, bunt, or hit and run.  If no play is on, then like Yogi Berra once said, “Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.”  Inside the batter’s box, I talk to myself like Crash Davis did in  the movie Bull Durham.”  Throw that shit again, Meat. Throw that weak-ass shit again.”  Mentally, you have to think you’re invincible.  Anything that pitcher throws, you can hit it.  If you have any doubts whatsoever, you’re out.  If you think take a pitch vs. swing, you’re out.

Baseball is the ultimate team game in that you need the other 8 guys not only to play their positions and help you get outs and but to knock you in to score runs.  Plus, your teammates help pick you up after you’re feeling down when you make a mistake or fail to come through at the plate.  Baseball is a game of failure.  The best hitters in the game fail 7 out of 10 times.  When you’re not hitting well, it can wear on you.  Going hitless can kill your self confidence and make you feel like a worthless teammate.  You always need to pick yourself back up and trust you’ll get ’em next time.  There are other ways to contribute to winning like playing stellar, error free, defense.  Winning isn’t all that matters.  Feeling like you’ve contributed to the win is all that matters.

I’m going to play baseball for as long as I can.  The game is in my blood and is who I am.  It’s taught me so much and made me so tough that even the worst day at work can’t bring me too far down because I know there will always be teammates to pick me back up and another chance to enjoy those briefest moments of success.

This morning I read with much sadness a headline on BBC.com about a blast killing 60 people at a Lahore, Pakistan park .  The Taliban claimed responsibility for the suicide bomb attack on mostly women and children celebrating Easter with their families.  We Americans have seen stories like this seemingly forever but more so since the 9/11 attacks in New York, Washington, DC, and Pennsylvania nearly 15 years ago.  It got me to thinking what could be accomplished by these fanatical terrorists groups who plot and the people who carry out these heinous acts of senseless violence?

To blow up yourself and innocent people because you differ in their ideology makes no sense.  Besides, what could the Taliban possibly have against children?  Their lives were just getting started and probably hadn’t yet formed an opinion other than what their parents and teachers put into their pubescent brains.  The last I checked, all a suicide attack does is cut the number of people who support their flawed position and increases your enemies.  Throughout history this desperate strategy fails every time.  You would think these crazy fucks who lead these outrageous collection of fools would want their belief systems to endure, to win in the cities and the countries where they live but they are going about this all wrong and they’re too stupid to realize it.

The Taliban and other Terrorist groups are brainwashing people willing to die for their cause.  At some point, will all these people literally dying for their misguided principles one day stop to realize they aren’t accomplishing anything?  So many people will be against their way of life they will be further isolated against the rest of the world and they will slowly kill themselves off, be captured or executed until they and their mores no longer exist.

Wouldn’t it make more sense if the Taliban or other Terrorist groups stopped the violent acts to explain why their values are superior to the current way life in the societies to which they belong?  This is not a Christian vs. Muslim belief.  The idea of rational, peaceful, dialogue is the very foundation of human life no matter what your religious affiliation.  Peace has a greater chance of success than killing innocent women and children.  The killing strategy is not only morally reprehensible it has no possible chance of winning.  Ever.  So, why continue down this horrifying path?

Is it simply too hard to say no?  Is it so hard to lay down your arms, to stop making bombs, and instead focus on a war of philosophies?

The world is a big place.  There are literally billions of freedom loving people of all faiths.  The numbers are against the suicide bombers.  Their kind literally are dying faster than can possibly replace them.  Their strategy is flawed and they can never win.  Killing will never solve anything.  They can’t ever get their way.  Ever.

As John Lennon once wrote, “All I am saying.  Is give Peace a chance.”

I’ve always loved dancing.  Once I got over my shyness and fear of rejection that is.  I wasn’t the most confident of guys in high school, so putting myself out there and asking a young woman to dance was harder than hitting a curveball to right field.  As I’ve gotten older and more confident, it’s not such a big deal.  I can dance like everyone is watching.

Out on the dance floor I shake and jive to the rhythm of the beat in my head.  I never really received any formal training.  I tried to copy everyone else and moved my head and waved my arms and shook my ass like I knew what I was doing.  No one ever complained but no one ever complimented me either.

I really didn’t have a girlfriend in high school which meant when a slow dance came on and I was lucky enough to have a lass say, “yes”, I punished the poor girl with a raging hard on pressed into her stomach as if I was pushing my key into her ignition. The scent of a woman’s hair was enough to get me excited and as my hormones raced  I tried to remember to listen to the music and not the devilish thoughts inside my nymphomaniacal head.

In college, it was different.  I had a girlfriend (who eventually became my wife) and I really didn’t go out dancing.  Drinking, yes, dancing not really.  Mostly I went to baseball team parties (I didn’t belong to a fraternity), where girlfriends and wannabe’s would show up and blast music from a boom box.  Mostly the women would dance among themselves to Devo, Madonna, or Michael Jackson songs.  While the guys talked baseball games past and present, I would look to the dance floor to see if I could pop into a circle of girls pretending to breakdance by doing a somersault into the middle, cracking most of the people up, and then I’d moonwalk (badly) back to the guys conversation as if nothing happened.

After college, dancing at my friends and my wedding reception became the time to try out my more mature moves.  Alcohol was a reason to let go, to shake my ass a little harder, to jump a little higher but losing my inhibition on the dance floor became more of a realization that, good or bad, no one really cared about your moves.  The whole idea about shaking your ass was about having fun.  And what is wrong with that?  Absolutely nothing.  Say it again.

On a recent business trip, I think I shocked a few people.  On a particularly taxing 4 day adventure away from home, on our last night in town, the group decided to go out after dinner and hit a Blues bar on Beale Street.  Our merry band of a dozen co-workers mixed unevenly 4 men to 8 women seemed about as unlikely a group to go out dancing as a bunch of introverts at a public speaking seminar.

I knew of no better way to get this party started than to literally dive on the dance floor.  My colleagues fell on the floor laughing.  Alas, I was only getting started.  When my tee-shirt flew off during Nelly’s, “It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes,” I had them slapping their knees, wiping away tears and begging to understand why I wasn’t working in standup comedy.  Even the DJ told one of my colleagues, “Man, I need to invite that guy to my wedding.”  When the song ended, I put my shirt back on and we left soon after smiling and laughing like old friends.

Ah, the Boogie Nights.  They didn’t start as the best in town but they sure are now.   I’ve become somewhat of a legend with my co-workers who now want to join me on business trips if for nothing but a good, hearty, belly laugh.