Placeholding

OK, not really.  This isn't a placeholder.  This is an actual update.  But who knows when I'll update again?

It's been more than 4 and a half years since I suspended blogging.  (That's Springsteen shows 13-19, if you're scoring at home.)

I interrupt this blog hiatus to announce that Oldest Son has graduated from high school.  (He was in eighth grade when you last read about him here.)  He'll be attending St. Louis University in August.  We'll celebrate his epic new adventure with a Springsteen concert at Fenway (which will make 20 Boss shows for me and two for Oldest Son).

I think the late, great Nick Alicino would be happy to hear this.

The Saint, Middle Child and Daughter are all doing well, too, and I have a great deal to share about all of them.  Soon, I hope.

But back to Oldest Son, for a moment, if you'll continue to indulge a proud father.  I last wrote about him in detail here, on his 14th birthday.

Everything I said then remains true today, and truest of all is the punch line from that birthday card:

Thanks for being a son your parents can brag about.

Love you, Buddy.

Dad

News of the Day

For all those who've tried thousands of times to score tickets to Springsteen shows, only to (over)pay "ticket brokers" later, today's New York Times has a must-read article.

I had many of the same experiences in my recent attempts to purchase tickets for Hartford and Boston, so the story struck home. In fact, had it not been for the extraordinary generosity of friends during the National Holiday, I wouldn't have landed tickets at all. Yes, I realize that I am very lucky to have such friends.

In other news, Oldest Son and Middle Child are on their way to Washington and Northern Virginia with their grandparents. Daughter and The Saint are having Girls' Night this evening. Though I possess a Y Chromosome, I'm also invited.

Before that, we're heading North to see my uncle, my aunt and my rock star grandmother. A year ago this same weekend, we were all together in San Diego for my cousin Matt's wedding. You might have read about that experience somewhere.

Finally, yesterday my agents asked me to send them ten copies of my manuscript and bio. For those of you who have yet to consume your Saturday morning coffee, that means that they've signed off on the manuscript, all systems are go, and we'll be submitting very, very soon.

Adam

Another Page Turns

I'm not sure where the past year has gone, but Oldest Son turned 14 this morning. The punchline in the card we got him says, "Thanks for being a son your parents can brag about."

I think that covers it.

The kid is growing up way too quickly. For years, people have said, "Pretty soon he'll be driving." Guess what? "Pretty soon" is only two years from now. We already know that The Saint will be teaching him the rules of the road.

Here's Oldest Son, in a nutshell: Straight As and murder in the low post. Plus a killer sense of humor and a raffish charm.

So, let me repeat: Thanks for being a son we can brag about.

Love you,
Dad

Jump Shots and Home Runs

Busy week this week. Friend Dave called Wednesday afternoon. He had four tickets to the Celtics game and wanted to bring Middle Child and me with his oldest. So, yeah, it was the Celtics game, and I haven't cared about the Celtics since 1988 or so. Not to mention that the Celts are in the middle of an epic losing streak.

But the nice parts:

• Good friends
• Good company
• Shaq returned to the Heat

Oh, yeah: We were sitting in the Pepsi luxury suite. So there was great food and beer, and it was all free. I confess, I was craving Diet Cokes all night. Is that a blasphemous admission? Friend Dave's Pepsi sales rep was spectacular with the kids. They both came home with mini Celtics basketballs.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my old office mates from my consulting days. They just changed offices. They're now in the old Celtics suite. (Do you sense a theme here?) Celtics logos everywhere, even in the private shower in the bathroom.

This morning was the weekly basketball ritual: Middle Child played at 8 a.m. I usually hit those games (Friend Dave is a coach, and his oldest is on the team with Middle Child), but this morning, Middle Child asked the Saint to go, so Daughter and I got to hang out with Dora the Explorer. Oldest Son plays at 2, and I'm going to his game.

Meanwhile, the Saint is grocery shopping and we've got laundry going... Ahh, domestic bliss.

But baseball season is right around the corner. How do I know this? Because this morning we also signed up Middle Child for his third season of Little League. I coached Oldest Son's team last year with two other guys (I was doing it for Oldest Son, but it also ended up being the best gift I ever gave myself). Middle Child asked me to coach his team this year. That's a no-brainer.

Allow me to elaborate, because as great as baseball is, this is not all about baseball.

There's our group of five couples. We became friends because our kids all went to Kindergarten together (Middle Child's class). But the clincher was that in the Spring of 2005, all five of those interconnected kids ended up on the same baseball team, and three of the five dads were coaches. We started having cookouts every Saturday, after the game. That led to Saturday cookouts, post-season cookouts, and blowouts... pretty much on demand these days.

Yes, we know how cool that is. And now another season starts.

All of this as I'm crawling closer to the finish line on this novel. If this book were a rock and roll song, we'd be listening to the guitar solo between the third and fourth verses. Speaking of rock and roll, go see Dave Guarino's spirited defense of U2. Dave's rant drew a loud "Amen" from me.

It reminded me of the time a rival political operative dissed Bruce to my face. The results: Not pretty, but poetic in their brutality.

I may tell you about it some day, but not until the book is finished. Now, however, I have to go watch a basketball game. Oldest Son has inherited the Saint's talents in the low post. The results for the other team: Not pretty, but poetic in their brutality.

Adam

Does This Look Harmful to You?

Click here.

Does that little bacteria seem like it could bring down a Saint?

Right. Not possible, is it?

But the Saint has strep. Again. She's getting a throat culture right now. The doctor on call has already ordered up the antibiotics, which I'll pick up as soon as the Saint gets home. I've dipped all the toothbrushes in Listerine.

Scary, how well-oiled this machine is.

Oldest Son, the new teenager, is playing PS2 with Daughter. Get this: Middle Child didn't want to miss Mass two weeks in a row, so he called one of his friends and asked if he could go with his mother.

So now, we wait.

Adam

And Now It's Official...

The Saint and I have a teenager.

He doesn't look any different. Doesn't sound any different (though his vocabulary is increasing exponentially, and sometimes, it's of the four-letter variety). He has the same voice he did yesterday, though that'll change soon.

He's still the same wonderful kid I first held thirteen years ago. Smarter than ever. Wonderful big brother. Spectacular son. We're lucky.

And he's 13 today.

I keep wondering whether I'm old enough to be the parent of a teenager, and I realize I'm the same age my mother was when I turned 13. I'm a year older than my father would have been.

So, yeah. I guess I'm old enough to be the parent of a teenager. I'm lucky enough to be the father of this teenager.

On another note, The Saint and I are off to San Diego tomorrow. My cousin Matt is getting married. I'm a groomsman. That's funny. I haven't been in a wedding in 8 years. I bought my new black suit, and two plane tickets, and three nights in San Diego... worth every penny. My cousin Matt is my daughter's Godfather, and he's fabulous. I'm Catholic. Never been to a wedding anywhere except in a church... Well, I take that back. Two of The Saint's friends got married in interfaith (Catholic-Jewish) ceremonies, inside hotels.

Why do I mention this? Because Matt is getting married on the beach. In a black suit. Nearly identical to the black suit I'll be wearing.

To add to the general delirium, The Saint and I just had an anniversary (and have I mentioned that The Saint is a Saint?)... so the Happy Thoughts are piling up right now. Kind of hard to write a dark thriller when I'm all bubbly and gushing, but I'll manage.

I'll be offline for a few days. Happy long weekend, everybody.

Adam

Nocturnal Stupidity

This time, the lawn got me.

Not quite the lawn. Let me explain.

Monday night, I took Middle Child to the park. We were trying to meet one of his friends after football practice. Middle Child entered second grade on Wednesday, so Monday night was his last real night of summer vacation.

What does that have to do with the blood on my hands? Not a hell of a lot. It was my fault, not his.

We took a shortcut home. You know, because Middle Child wanted to, and he hadn't seen his football-playing friend at the park after all, and he was dejected that his summer was over... and without even thinking about it (worse, actually, because I thought about it and overruled my parental "No" command), I said, "Sure, we can go that way." Straight down a hill pocked with uneven blacktop, dusted in gravel and broken glass. In the dark. The day after a rain storm.

We'd just warned Oldest Son not to go that way: There's poison ivy, and he's gotten it twice this summer on that hill.

So, hey, I was doing well. Broke my own rules. Started down the hill. Slowly. Scraped my way down the blacktop. It's almost vertical at the top of the hill. Got all the way to a safer area, about two thirds of the way down. Middle Child was right behind me, scooting on his butt.

You know, when people tell you to listen to your children, you should pay attention. Their way down the hill is less glamorous... lower center of gravity and all that. And since I'd walked in front of him, no broken glass, either. But maybe I should have done it his way.

I smiled when we cleared the steepest part. And stepped on a huge clump of wet weeds. I was like a cartoon character on a banana peel. Bang! Right onto the blacktop and gravel and broken glass. Bloodied one hand (the one that holds pens, utensils and baseballs) and both arms.

Middle Child was fine. We got to the bottom of the hill and I realized I was no longer wearing my watch. I sent Middle Child home for a flashlight and went back up the hill. The Saint, Oldest child, Middle Child, a neighbor (with flashlight!) and neighbor's friend came back. Neighbor (with flashlight!) dug my watch out of the weeds. Bonus. We started back down the hill.

I smiled again when I cleared the steepest part. And stepped again on that same huge clump of wet weeds.

Same cartoon character on a banana peel result. Lost my glasses. The Saint found them.

Took almost an hour for the Saint to get me cleaned up. Ripped open both arms. My back looked like I'd gone street luging without the luge.

Was I pissed about that?

No. I was angry that:

1. I did something stupid;
2. Then I did the same stupid thing again;
3. I worried my kids;
   
4. And I couldn't write.

Not my son's fault. I say this, not just because it's true, but because Middle Child blamed himself. He was more upset than I was. I spent more time calming him down than the Saint did cleaning cinders out of my back.

So, yeah, I was dumb. Thankfully, I got carved up, not the boy. And in the meantime, you read #4 correctly, I've been unable to write. I sliced up my left palm pretty well, and the cuts on my wrists... well, they're conveniently located exactly where I rest them on the keyboard. Work was a little rough this week, though I survived the keyboard, my hands were sore by the time I got home.

Tonight, I'm back in the saddle. But I never thought writers could have a disabled list.

Middle Child, in the meantime, is ecstatic because this year at school, he has his own locker.

Here's the lesson I learned from that: Exult in life's simple pleasures.

Adam

Oh, the Stories I'll tell

So many things to discuss, so little time... I'm just going to start the brain dump now.

Gettysburg is lovely. It's like Cooperstown, the tourist Mecca where I grew up. And if I were going to compare the residents of each town to those who elect our politicians, I'd call them single issue voters. In Cooperstown, Baseball is King. In Gettysburg, it's all about the Battle. Yes, my seven-year-old son came up with the prototype for this paragraph while eating an ice cream cone last week. Yes, I stole it from him. Yes, he called me on it.

Elizabeth Krecker had a great post about setting a little while ago. Setting is vital, but I here's what I noticed in Gettysburg: Mood. Not a literary mood. More like a collective mood... an emotion. Cooperstown is all about fun, shared memories with the kids.

Gettysburg is somber (as it should be). It's a historical treasure trove, and it's an amazing place in which to learn. And it's FUN learning there... But it's not a fun place.

A not so random aside: There are tourist traps in every tourist destination, and Gettysburg is full of them. Be careful if you visit there. You can easily leave town broke, without ever having seen the battlefield (which takes up most of the village).

If you go, you can take a bus and listen to a narrated tour on headphones. You can buy a CD of the same tour and drive the battlefield yourself.

Or you can hire a Licensed National Park Service Guide. Said guide will have more knowledge of the battle than an encyclopedia or any thirty random authors who've written about it (these guides take a test roughly akin to a bar exam, with which I am familiar, or a CPA exam, with which I am not familiar).

Said guide will have a sunny disposition.

Side guide will drive your vehicle so you, the Saint and the kids can relax. Actually, I wasn't relaxed. I was learning new things about the Civil War, one of my favorite topics, after reading dozens of books on Gettysburg alone. I was bouncing in my seat for most of the ride. At one point I wanted to sit on the hood.

Said guide will know more than you do about the battle, even when you think you know more.

Said guide will correct your misperceptions (and your know it all mentality) so gently that you won't even notice.

Said guide will instantly bond with your Saint and your children. Example: "General Lee went into this battle with a cocky attitude. He was 9-0 as a Commanding General. It's like the Patriots after they win nine Super Bowls in a row." Oldest son and middle son were hooked 15 seconds into the tour. Daughter wasn't hooked, but Daughter was mezmerized by the energetic woman driving the car and making Daddy laugh. The Saint... let's be honest... Gettysburg wasn't supposed to be the highlight of her trip... Well, the Saint was hooked, too.

Said guide will be an excellent teacher. Perhaps that's why The Saint liked said guide so much. The Saint, who is truly gifted when it comes to the English language, knows her way around a classroom.

Said guide will be a world class communicator. Does it surprise any of you that said guide has written at least two published works of non-fiction and just sold her first novel to Doubleday? And how's this for cosmic? Yes, the same Doubleday (Abner) who mythologically founded baseball in my hometown was a vital corps commander at Gettysburg who stepped in when General John Reynolds was killed on the first day of the battle. That same Doubleday's family founded a publishing house. Yes, I knew all of that and said guide didn't correct me. She even gave me a pat on the back I didn't really deserve, since I was showing off. Here's what I didn't know (and this is the cosmic part): That same publishing house purchased said guide's novel.

Said guide will have a growing corps of "regulars" who hire her every time they come to Gettysburg. There are legions of Civil War buffs who do this, just like there are legions of baseball fans who make an annual pilgrimage to Cooperstown.

Said guide will take a 2-hour tour and stretch it to 3 hours and fifteen minutes, just because... Said guide's regulars call her (at home) weeks and months in advance to plan tours... Not the 2-hour variety... "This year, let's do the second day, entirely from the Confederate perspective..." Or: "This year, let's trace the 20th Maine's involvement in the whole battle." The regulars hire said guide for days at a time.

Said guide will know how to call an audible. Said guide will actually listen to the conversation in the car and adapt the tour to fit the conversation. I was therefore able to stand at the monument where Gen. Lewis Armistead fell on Cemetery Ridge. I was able to stand at the monument to the 20th Maine (and to think of my buddy Gib, engaged in a hell of a battle himself). The boys and I were able to walk the last 200 yards of Pickett's Charge.

Said guide will instantly correlate relevant data from this exact second and apply it to the battle: "It's 2:50 in the afternoon. We're standing at the top of Cemetery Ridge. It's 93 degrees with 70 percent humidity. Pickett's Charge took place at 3 in the afternoon of a Friday (we toured the battlefield on Friday) under weather conditions virtually identical to this one."

And then said guide will rattle off:

1. The regulars in Pickett's division hadn't slept in 5 days.
2. They hadn't drunk any water all day.
3. They were wearing wool and carrying heavy packs.
4. They'd spent most of the previous two months marching.
5. This list really has about 51 items on it, but it's seamless.
   

Then she'll say something relatively simple like, "What if you'd given each of those men a glass of water?" And you realize that the whole battle could have turned out differently.

Said guide will say nice things about the other guides ("We all have our regulars.") We think anybody who can pass the licensing exam is worthy of praise, but we think said guide is the cream of the crop.

Said guide will stop for gas in the middle of the tour.

Said guide will be funny and kind and smarter than you, without letting on that she's smarter than you.

If you're ever headed to Gettysburg, give me a call or shoot me an e-mail. Forget about the bus ride or the CD. I know a guide you need to hire. If you like history, it'll be the best money you ever spent. If you don't agree with me, I'll reimburse you.

More on Gettysburg later (There was an entire dinner with Best Man and Godfather to Our Oldest Son, his wife and family, after the Battlefield Tour). And I'll have a few posts about Hershey also, but here's what I remember most about Chocolate Town, USA: Not the rides. Not the candy. The unmitigated joy I saw on the kids' faces; The Saint's smile; the fact that everybody called this THE BEST TRIP EVER. In bold. All caps.

So much more to discuss, but we're out of time.

Adam

Celebrate Today

My Dad would have loved my kids. They remind me of him, the disparate parts of his personality. All three share his love of life.

My oldest son is a thinker who analyzes everything. That was my Dad in quiet moments.

My younger son, the middle child, is the slapstick comedian. Both boys are popular with their friends, much more than I was at their ages. My father (and his outrageous sense of humor) was the life of every party.

My daughter is as smart as her brothers, maybe smarter. She's smarter than I am, and she knows it. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief. That smart, mischievous sparkle was my Dad every day of his life.

I wish the kids and the Saint could have met him.

I've outlived him. I'm going to be 36 in July, but 36 will be a piece of cake. 33 was the hardest birthday I ever experienced.

My Dad died at 32. My oldest is almost 3 years older than I was when my Dad died. That was more than 25 years ago.

Wherever he is, he's 58 today.

I can choose to brood, or I can choose to celebrate. I know what he would have chosen, so I'll celebrate, too.

I'll celebrate his love of the Yankees, even though, as a card-carrying member of Red Sox Nation, I'll hate the Yankees every minute of every day, forever. Loving the Red Sox taught me adversity and pushed me to root for the underdog. And yes, I cried when the Sox finally won the World Series. But beating the Yankees to get there was even better. Sorry, Dad.

I'll celebrate his love of Rock and Roll. He was a crazy dancer. I mean: Crazy Dancer. And the World's Worst Singer Ever. Unfortunately, I inherited only one of those titles.

I'll celebrate his wit and his intelligence and his love of History. I'll celebrate his making me a Democrat. (My mother helped.) In fact, one of my earliest memories is of sitting on his shoulders as I held a George McGovern sign over my head.

I'll celebrate his spontaneity. He'd see a friend. He'd start talking. They'd have a beer. Another friend would stop by and join them. Then another. Within an hour, they'd be cooking on the grill. Twenty or thirty people would end up in our back yard. The party would go all night. I'm glad I inherited this gene. The Saint is not.

I'll celebrate his love of reading and of great books, and I'll celebrate his other attributes privately.

Someday, I'll meet him Further On Up the Road.

And today?

And today....

Today, I'll be happy, Damn it, because that's what he would have wanted.

But I don't have to like it.

Adam