I’ve been out of sorts all week.  I’ve been sick with a head cold.  I put my best friend down on Tuesday night.  I haven’t worked out.  I haven’t written.  I haven’t wanted to do anything but sit around and sulk.  I miss my Hazel, but I’ve already written a blog about her and I really have nothing more to say about my best pal.  I miss her and that’s that.  It’s time for me to write but I’m out of words.  So, I give you all that’s on my mind right now.  Forgive the interruption.

It’s not like me to feel sorry for myself and deep down I really don’t feel sorry for myself.  I’m pretty damn proud of what I’ve accomplished so far.  I just get into this funk sometimes when the reality of life punches me in the gut.  I’ll snap out of it, but it’s probably just a sign I need to rest, recharge and attack life.  I know I’ll be all right.  We will be all right.  It was time for my Hazel girl.  We had to do the one last act of kindness in her life.  She could no longer stand up.  She was losing control of her bowels.  Blind and deaf and unable to walk without assistance.  It was no life for a dog.  She needed to go and we said goodbye with heartfelt tears, kisses, and prayers.

It isn’t just Hazel that’s got me down.  I haven’t felt like my old, affable, self.  Why do we human beings go through these ups and downs?  Is it simply part of our DNA?  The weird part in all of this is, in time, I know I’ll return to my nutty self.  I’ll soon be full of wit and wine and looking to kick the living shit out of my competition.  Will my friends be ready or will they have gone on to more important things in their lives?

I jump started my writing based on feedback from friends they found my Facebook posts hilarious.  They wanted more.  Am I still making you laugh?  I just don’t know anymore.  I’m feeling underwhelming and I don’t like it.  Do you?

I’m usually the guy who talks a lot of smack about himself.  The guy with self-confidence.  The card.  THAT Guy.  But, I am aloof right now.  I’ve lost focus.  I’m not sure what it’s going to take to get me back on track but I ask you to bear with me.  I’ll get it back together. I simply need to believe there is a purpose to all this.  Sickness, disease, death.  Why God?  Why?  What’s the point of making people or animals suffer?  Is there a purpose to this life that I simply don’t understand?  Is it so hard to make ’em laugh, make ’em laugh, make ’em laugh?  Or live forever?

I guess, yes, yes it is.

 The bane of every businessperson is the business trip.  It is the sole reason I haven’t written a new post this week.  It seems so glamourous to leave the office for a few days and visit exotic places like Junction City, KS.  But, once you’ve done it a half dozen times or so you realize this is still work and you don’t get to sleep in your own bed and you’re away from your family and your daily routine is all screwed up.  Plus, you get to travel with colleagues – some who you like and others you can’t stand – and learn more about them then you ever really cared to know about.  Fun.

I flew out of Portland on Monday morning.  Changed planes in Minneapolis and arrived in Kansas City on Monday afternoon.  After a 3-hour drive West from the airport through farmland, the state capital, and Fort Riley, I quickly realized I had discovered a place where I will never live.  Remarkably, there was a winery along I-70, but I wasn’t about to ruin my Napa-influenced taste buds on Kansas’s finest swill.  Sorry, but the Agricultural Museum is not on my bucket list.  Even the one Adult Entertainment center just outside of Topeka looked like a converted barn.  I didn’t even want to imagine the Heifers inside.

We ate dinner at a surprisingly swanky downtown Manhattan, Kansas restaurant.  The only one in town and certain to pull in only out of town guests or the local rich.  The building was erected in 1914 and the architecture had all of the character of the last century especially the wood paneling, limestone staircase, and antiquated light fixtures.  The bathrooms had black and white photos above the urinals of Kansas State football players tackling each other with leather helmets and heavy wool uniforms. All white, they looked small and slow.  High top cleats and padless shoulders made me think of Johnny Unitas lookalikes playing Rugby.  After dinner, we did a quick drive bye of the Kansas State campus but made sure to visit the Football Stadium, which was undergoing a massive renovation on the West Side, and the baseball stadium.  Ironically, Oregon State was playing Kansas State that night back in Corvallis.  A game I would most certainly watch despite the 2-hour time difference.

The weather was hot 40 degrees hotter than what we left behind in Portland.  After checking in to our hotel and aligning on when to meet the next morning, there wasn’t much else to do but unpack, change clothes and go on a run.  The college baseball game wouldn’t start for another 30 minutes.  I ran 3 miles and sweated out the Rib Eye, mashed potatoes, and Maker’s Mark I had ingested just a few hours earlier.  Returning to my room, I watched college baseball and read, processed and replied to about 200 e-mail’s.  Sitting in my boxer shorts, sweat pouring out of my pores, drinking a $3.00 bottle of water, I was quite a sight.  Not one my team could even imagine…or want to.  It was 2:30 AM before I finally turned off the laptop and went to sleep.

Up at 6:30 AM meant just a brief nap, shower, breakfast and visits to a customer and several vendors in Kansas and Missouri.  Returning to Kansas City yesterday afternoon, the highlight of the trip was going to Kaufmann Stadium to watch the Royals vs. the Tigers.  Dinner was all American – a hot dog, peanuts, Cracker Jack, and 3 beers.  Sweltering in the 98 degree heat, I sure wished I’d packed shorts.  I snapped pictures of MIguel Cabrera and imagined what it must be like to win the Triple Crown.  Returning to the hotel after the game at 11:30 PM, one would hope my body would crave rest and it did, but mentally I just couldn’t pull it off.  Sleep wouldn’t come.  I lay down on the bed overwhelmed with concern over what might await in my Inbox.  Back to the work.  Another 175 new messages read, processed, responded to.  Another night of 4 hours sleep.

More meetings today, then to the airport, BBQ ribs and french fries lunch.  Through Security and we pushed on to the gate for our 1st leg back to the Twin Cities.  In Minneapolis, we raced from B to G gates (about 1 mile) to barely catch our return flight to Portland.  Take off was uneventful and here I sit now 30,000 feet about the ground.  Writing.  Writing because I’m now a writer.  Writing because you, my fans, want another blog.  I can hear you chanting, clamouring for my attention, just like my work e-mail.

I’m an athlete first, a businessman second, and a writer third.  It sucks that I wasn’t able to work out but once on this trip.  The work, while necessary and good and had to be done, messed me all up for the rest of the week.  Can you say, catch up?

My writing is like therapy, the job pays the bills and the sports keeps me sexy.  The business trips aren’t really good for anything other than to meet new people, understand current processes, and to help solve problems now or in the future.  All in all, this wasn’t really a bad trip.  In fact, the colleagues I was traveling with weren’t bad companions at all.  The point is there is no glamour.  I’m away from home.  Away from family.  Away from routine exercise.  Away from sleep.  Away from writing.  I’m just away.  This is what global business, instantaneous communication, and air travel has done to our way of life.  I’m not complaining, mind you, I just need to not be away.  I need some sleep.

I can only stomach about 5 minutes of the TV show, “The Bachelorette” or “The Bachelor.”  I swear to God, if I watch only a little more than the previews, I get queasy.  It feels like my testicles are eroding away into the couch.  The producers select the most attractive, dysfunctional people to participate in this show, who I find it quite impossible that they can’t find themselves a nice man or a nice woman to settle down and have a nice life with.  I’m repulsed by the insincere words spoken and crazy selection process that takes place on national television.  It makes for great TV, but I would never, ever, go on this show except to be a total jackass.  Unless, I could go on , as a happily married man, with the complete and total understanding from my lovely, dear wife, this would be all in good fun and I could do whatever I wanted and she’d still love me in the end.  ABC would also have to keep my marital status secret until the last episode.  Pow!  So, what would I do?

Marriage really isn’t all about sex.  Dog women in, cat women out.  Women owning other pets would be given due consideration.  Acceptable animals include horses, white Tigers, non-lethal snakes.  Birds, Hamsters, and Gerbils are a definite no-no.  You need a canine to keep the wife company when you’re out with your buddies on the golf course.

She’d have to like sports and preferably my favorite sports teams.  Dodgers, Lakers, Rams, and Kings fans will be walking home.  Non-sports fans women will be sent home faster than a Matt Cain fastball.  If she doesn’t know who Matt Cain is, she should start packing her bags now.

Vegans out.  Meat lovers in.  Non-drinkers out.  Drinkers in.  Athletes in, non-athletes need not unpack.  Favorite foods must include chocolate, champagne, and sausages.

Intelligence earns you points, dumbassery loses you points.  A good sense of humor wins the day, while sour pusses are guaranteed an early exit.  Crying for anything but a family member or friend dying may result in immediate departures.

Cooking skills appreciated but not expected.  Living to eat must be more important than eating to live.  An appreciation of art is a minimum requirement.  Any woman who doesn’t know Monet, Diego Rivera, or Frida Kahlo may be asked to leave on the spot.

Dates would mostly be about attending sporting events, going out to eat, wine tasting, going to comedy clubs or working out.  Shopping will not be allowed.

But, the bombshell would drop on the finale, as I had but one rose to give and two, almost perfect, women to give it to.  When, BAM!  My wife would enter the room and I’d hand the rose to her.  OMG, am I genius or what?

I just hope ABC doesn’t steal my idea.

Here in the United States of America, this weekend we remember and honor the men and women who have served and are serving in the US Military.  I’m not about to talk politics here.  I learned long ago never to discuss politics with family or friends.  No one wins that argument.  What you can’t argue with, however, is the incredible bravery of these men and women.

Watching a documentary, I was captivated to discover the CIA’s decades long tracking of Osama bin Laden and the US Navy Seals who completed the ultimate mission to kill him.  The pain staking research that lead to the discovery of his location and the subsequent actions to take him out are more than just great planning and execution.  Heroic.  Success for the men and women on the ground was all about training, discipline, and doing a job well.  Anything could’ve gone wrong, but little did.

I enjoy playing a computer game or two mostly shoot ’em up World War II strategy games like “Battlefield.”  I imagine myself participating in these infamous battles at Utah Beach, Berlin, or Iwo Jima.  From my living room, it seems like it must have for so many Generals and Admirals far from the battlefield to position your troops, to lose some (or many) here and there along the way, only to change your strategy and add more men.  To do whatever it takes to win.

But, for the men who actually did fight in these battles, it was no game – their lives were scarred forever.  Seeing their friends and comrades blown to bits and die, there was no restart button to bring them back.  These men were killing or were killed.  This wasn’t time wasting activity.  This was a fight to the death so that knuckleheads like me could sit on their ass and work and play without tyranny.

When I was younger, my father scared me away from joining the military.  I was a child who enjoyed playing ball and his horror stories of boot camp kept me far away from even the thought of enlisting.  He was too young to serve in WWII, instead sailing for 2 years in the Navy during the Korean War conflict.  He never saw combat.  I simply couldn’t imagine my dad firing upon another human being.  He’s afraid of urinating in a public restroom.  But, does anyone ever really know what they would do unless they’re thrust into that situation?  This is why you train repeatedly for weeks on end before the actual event occurs.  In other documentaries, I’ve heard men say they prayed to God, not so much to live, but to have the guts to complete their missions.

Guts.  Are you kidding me?  The most dangerous thing I do each day is drive.  It saddens me to learn US fighting men and women are returning from battlefields and committing suicide at higher rates then ever.  I want to reach out to them and want them to know their lives are worth living.

When I see a man or woman in uniform, I want to salute.  I want to show my respect.  I sometimes thank them for their service to my country.  I know I haven’t said it every time, so today and every day, in my heart and in my mind, I pay my respects.  I’m not worthy of your protection, but you all are.

You have loved ones.  You have family and friends.  I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through.  But, whatever it is, it’s not worth taking your own life.  Get back here and as difficult as it is to resume a ‘normal’ life, you’ve fought tougher battles and won.  You can win this one too, back at home.  Get back and stick around.  Tell your stories.  Help us all learn about the horrors of war so that it’s not repeated again and again and again.

Thank you for your service.  I salute you.

It’s hard to believe a week has gone by since I was at Menlo College watching my nephew graduate with this Bachelor of Science degree in Business Management.  Last Saturday afternoon, as I sat in the sun soaking in the Vitamin D, just prior to the ceremony, the president of the college, Dr. James J. Kelly, walked by and offered up sunscreen to those of us pale-faces.  I covered the back of my neck and ears and seemed satisfied with the coverage only to find out a few hours later I had missed some vitals like my forehead, nose and cheeks.  So, as the day wore on my pure ivory soap face turned ever darker shades of red.  By the time I made it to my brother’s house that night for dinner, you couldn’t distinguish the color of my face from a lobster’s shell.

Later, after I said my congrats to my nephew and goodbyes to my brother and his wife, I returned to my hotel room exhausted and decided to take a shower before bed.  The hot water on my face hurt as if each drop of water was a pin and my face was a cushion.  The lotion I applied to my skin was absorbed almost as quickly as I applied it.

Sunday, Mother’s Day, was no better.  I took my lovely wife and her mother out to breakfast and my face looked liked I had spent too much time on the grill.  Face down.  It was a deeper shade of scarlet then the day before, neon-like, and I felt as if I could glow in the dark.  I was quite the contrast to the lovely  ladies who accompanied me.  I wondered how my face would look if it were brown.

By Monday, my co-workers were saying it looked like I had gotten some sun over the weekend.  No, I joked, I’m just embarrassed.

I looked like Goldmember by Tuesday.  Talking to a colleague I itched my scalp and a chuck of dead skin the size of a dime dropped to the carpet. I think she probably barfed a little in her mouth.  Oh, it was awesome.  I’m just glad I didn’t try to eat it.

On Wednesday, lotion was no longer an option.  I itched and scratched every dead patch I could put my nails on.  I looked like I had psoriasis.  It isn’t so fly to be a white guy when your face is peeling off on your clothes.

Toward the end of the week, my metamorphosis was complete.  White – red – scarlet – pink – dead – white.  Was this the face that could launch a thousand ships?  No, this was the face that should’ve used more sunscreen from Dr. Kelly.  D’oh!

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.