IRISHMAN FOR HIRE

A couple of weeks ago, I closed the final page on the sixth book of my life. I know people call each significant segment of our lives a chapter but I believe a “year in the life” equates to a chapter in our personal history. Three hundred sixty-five days covers a lot of love, drama, highs, lows, laughs and memorable moments to fill out one whole chapter. Significant periods of time lumped together is the equivalent of a good book.

My latest book encompassed a period of fourteen years; almost to the day! The impact of the past fourteen years won’t truly be known for years to come but I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to reflect upon the time I spent in Bean Town. I don’t believe in goodbyes because we will see each other again, but I do want to take a moment to pay tribute to the people I met and the accomplishments I have attained over the past fourteen years.

I married my wife in Chapter One and to be completely honest, Stephanie is more amazing today than she was fourteen years ago. And every day I know her, I love her more than the day before. I am blessed to call her my wife. And although I don’t know how many more books our life will encompass, I eagerly look forward to many more amazing stories, laughs and blessings over the next fifty (or more) years.

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As the house lights came down and darkened the theater before the second act began, a hush washed across the audience. As we sat in the silence, we heard delicate fingers dancing on the ivory keys as the hallowed white spotlight framed the cast of RENT against the backdrop of a darkened stage. As I visually grasped the context of the scene, the angelic choral began, “525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear, 525,600 minutes – how do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes – how do you measure a year in the life?”

The poignantly painted imagery enveloped me in the moment and the lyric sent chills down my spine. It was a provocative, rousing, infectious and yet, an eerily ironic moment in the annals of my life. As I was winding down the final minutes of another year of my existence and preparing to embark on yet another 525,600 minutes of my own, I had recently been deliberating the same question; how do I measure success?

Later on in the evening as I sat in my family room and counted down the minutes to midnight, I thought about the past year and again I found myself contemplating how I measured my own achievements. Is it my career? Is my bank account big enough? Do I have the perfect house? The perfect car? The perfect life? Have I finally become one of the “Joneses?” And whether or not I have, is that enough? Or is there more?

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There is a moment just before I fall asleep when I conjure up the most powerful prose I can ever imagine. Exquisite paragraphs that paint a powerful picture that would make Picasso proud and yet, these sentences have never graced the printed page. They exist at the moment my conscious and subconscious mind intersect and tantalize me with influential images and expressions that I am unable to replicate when I arise to write them down.

I have heard a lot about “living in the moment” on television, radio and in the newspapers lately and I am thoroughly perplexed at the vacuous meaning of the statement “to live in the moment.” I took a breath. That was a moment. I took another breath. There was another moment. And so on and so on. I live in the moment every minute of every day. And even if I try to escape the moment, I am living the escapism which is in fact a moment unto itself.

I believe what these gurus are trying to tell me is “that I must understand the importance of the quintessential moments of my life.” And that is a statement I completely agree with. Of course, that isn’t a sentence one can easily sell in a ten second sound bite. It isn’t flashy. It doesn’t have pizzazz and it isn’t chic. But worst of all, it is filled with big words that make being in touch with my life sound boring and dreadfully tedious. So I guess I am left with being told “to live in the moment.”

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Last Friday, I went to see my doctor because I had been suffering from an earache for over a week and I was concerned about the tinnitus that was ringing loudly in the affected ear. I had been swallowing Sudafed every five hours over the course of the week and felt it was time to see the doctor for two reasons; (a) my ear still hurt and (b) I was concerned with the possibility of hearing loss which has normally been associated with tinnitus.

Upon my arrival, the nurse decided to check my height, weight and vital statistics because I hadn’t been to the doctor in a while. I thought it was odd that my height, weight and blood pressure would be involved in an ear examine but I didn’t bother to argue because it was the equivalent of having my mechanic check my tire pressure while he changed my oil.

When the examination was over, there was bad news and good news to report. The Bad News? It was an ear infection and required antibiotics. The Good News? I lost another eight pounds and I have apparently grown another half an inch. I was as perplexed as you probably are about the height gain but the weight loss was not that much of a surprise to me.

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This morning I rifled through my old emails and started to delete them when I came across an old one from my aunt after she attended the final game played at Yankee Stadium last September:

Dear Douglas,

Wanted to know your thoughts about the ’stadium’ closing? I went to the final game. It would have been better if this was October and the last game, but it was still a very special night. Unfortunately I was delusional to think that I was going to walk on the field. I got there early, but not early enough. So after three hours, and walking the whole stadium three times from top to bottom, and still on the top level I said ‘uncle’. Settled into my seat and just enjoyed the entire day/evening/night. It was great, talking to different people hearing their memories, and recanting my own. Here’s to the next chapter, and hopefully #27.

I was so involved in other projects at the time that I never had the opportunity to reply. But, in retrospect, I didn’t respond because I never had a chance to sit down and think about what the old Yankee Stadium had meant to me throughout the course of my life. I had been to so many games, spent so much of my life there and even when I moved away, I made the time and effort to take my children to Yankee Stadium annually to see a game.

Yankee Stadium was a special place. Whenever I handed the gate attendant my ticket and cascaded through the turnstiles, I was immediately overcome with an aura of magic and greatness that emanated throughout the skeleton of the building. As I walked through the inner sanctum of the hallways that connected the outside world to the majestic palace that Ruth built, I could feel the history of the stadium rise up and envelope me. It was hallowed ground.

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Last weekend, we spent a leisurely Sunday afternoon at a friend’s house. They had invited a group of us over so the kids could play. It was a nice diversion on a cold and rainy day to be able to sit, relax and catch up with one another.

At one point in the afternoon, I was having a conversation with one of my friends and as I was trying to make a point, Stephanie loudly proclaimed to everybody in the room, “Come on, you know Doug; he has to make a big deal about it so he can turn it into a great big story!”

And with her declaration; the room burst into laughter. I tried to make a case for the fact that I was standing firm on the grounds of principle but no one accepted my explanation. They acknowledged Stephanie’s proclamation as a statement of fact and that was the end of the conversation. The stone had been cast; “Doug has to make a big deal about things so he can turn it into a great big story!” Stephanie had to know where this was going when she made that statement and if she didn’t, shame on her!

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As we got off the bus at Disney’s Hollywood Studios, I could feel the fatigue settling into my body. This was going to be a long day, I could feel it. We had been running around Disney World since Monday night and I was tired, a little grumpy and in need of a lot of caffeine. As we entered the gate to Hollywood Studios, Stephanie saw a Cast Member dressed in a blue pantsuit handing out little white placards as she stood next to a sign that read “American Idol Experience; Auditions today.”

“Doug, you have to do this,” Stephanie said.

“Yeah, Dad, you gotta do it,” Josh agreed.

“Doug, you would be so awesome at this,” Angie stated exuberantly.

“I don’t know guys. I don’t think so… not today.”

“Come on, Doug, you’ll have fun,” Stephanie responded.

“No Steph, not today.”

“Daaaaad,” Josh said coyly as he grabbed my hand.

“Yes, Josh?”

“Dad,” he said again with a twinkle in his eye. “You can’t say ‘no’ in Disney World!”

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I have a friend who has spent the past month telling me that her new favorite movie is P.S. I Love You. She told me that Stephanie and I had to watch it. When I asked her for a brief overview of the film, she told me that she cried throughout the movie; although she added that it was okay that she got emotional because it was “a feel good” cry. The words “a feel good” cry are not words I want to hear when someone is trying to get me to see a film.

A few weeks ago, HBO had a free preview weekend. As I perused the guide to see what movies were going to be shown, I came across P.S. I Love You and decided to record it. I figured it was free and by watching the film, I could tell my friend I saw it and I would never have to hear about how great a movie it is again. I would have drawn my own conclusions about the movie and that would be the end of the discussion. For those who have not seen the film, here is the synopsis of P.S. I Love You at imdb.com:

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Football is a way of life in our household! Well, for me it is. My wife and kids humor me but they all know that we are supposed to eat, drink and breathe the New York Giants around our home.

My obsession with the NFL started out when I was a young child. On Thanksgiving Day, while my mother was preparing a late day feast, she and her boyfriend would watch football. It was an annual tradition to watch the football games on Thanksgiving Day and while the games were being played, her boyfriend would tell us stories about the players, the history of the NFL and about the game of football itself. My love for the game got passed on to me because of our Thanksgiving Day ritual.

I understand tradition. Our family has created some great traditions that have been passed on to us by our parents and grandparents. Each holiday holds a special connection between our past, our present and, hopefully, our future. I hope that one day my children will be telling their kids about Thanksgiving Day and how I shared my vast wealth of knowledge and history of the NFL with them as a part of our Thanksgiving custom. But, alas, I think the Thanksgiving Day tradition of watching, enjoying and loving NFL football may end up being a distant memory of my childhood that loses significance in my kid’s ever changing world.

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I was enjoying my drive into work this morning. The weather had finally changed and it was the first nice morning we have had after a slew of rainy days, and the warmth of the sun was invigorating. I had my sunroof and windows open as I was being gently caressed by the cool air as I peacefully made my way into work. I had stopped at a red light and I was daydreaming a bit when the sound wafted into my ears, caught my attention, and brought me back to reality; “I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined/I’m just beginning, pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned…”

Let me digress for a moment and start at the beginning. In the summer of 2007, I was up late one night with a severe case of writer’s block. My mind was blank but my heart was racing like I had something to say; a surge of adrenalin and inspiration combined with the inexplicable inability to put down on paper what was so vivid in my imagination. I was frustrated. It was midnight and I was wide awake, yet unable to write.

So I threw myself down on the couch, grabbed the clicker and searched for anything that was worthwhile to watch in the middle of the night. As I perused the guide, I caught the title of a movie I hadn’t seen in years. It was Keenen Ivory Wayans I’m Gonna Git You Sucka and in one of the final scenes, Bernie Casey’s character, John Slade, is walking into a battle with the bad guys and as he prepares to face the villains, he is being followed around by a group of musicians. The appearance of the rappers during the preparation for battle scene prompted Keenen Ivory Wayans character, Jack Spade, to engage in the following conversation:

Jack Spade: [looks at musicians] who are these guys?
John Spade: They’re my theme music. Every hero’s got to have some.

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