March 17, 2012: Happy 80th, Pops

Since this blog sometimes transcends the bounds of unemployment and touches on all things life, I figure my toast from my dad’s 80th-birthday party on March 17 more or less fits in. Thus, I’ve decided to send it out into the blogosphere.

My toast:

My dad means different things to different people at this gathering, but since I’m the one toasting and I can only speak for myself, I’ll ruminate a bit on what he means to me.

Simply put, he has been a rock of stability in my life, a reassuring constant. And for that, I am eternally grateful, particularly because I haven’t always made it easy for him. Lord knows I haven’t.

• It’s a Saturday night in 1982, my junior year in high school. I’m on my way to the babysitting job of a girl interest, but I can’t find the blasted place. Trouble rears its head when I back our good old Plymouth Valiant into a lamppost as I’m turning around. My first instinct is to get the hell out of there, but I can’t because the Valiant is impaled on the stump of the lamppost.

Who helps me out of this pickle? My dad. He kindly buys a new lamppost for the Village of Wilmette and tidies up any lingering unpleasantness with law-enforcement officials. Soon enough, I’m back on the streets of the North Shore.

• It’s a Friday afternoon in 1983, my senior year in high school, and two friends and I are sitting in the parking lot of a local liquor store. An older guy with whom one of my friends works is inside buying us beer. (Cole: Don’t get any ideas.) Just as the older guy walks out and gives us our beer, a squad car screeches into the parking lot, its lights a-flash’. Before long, we're all in that squad car, and handcuffed.

Who helps me out of this latest bind? My dad, of course. After setting me up with his lawyer friend, my dad accompanies me to court as the legal process plays out. Yes, my dad—perhaps a bit tired and worn by this point—is there for me. However, his lawyer friend isn’t. Much to everyone’s dismay, he has forgotten about the court date. But that’s another story for another occasion, maybe my dad’s 90th-birthday celebration.

* * *

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here—it hasn’t been all flashing red lights and ill-fated court dates. In addition to protecting me from myself, my dad has served as my teacher, my mentor. More than anyone else in this world, he has showed me the way.

• It’s the mid-1970s, my preadolescence. Baseball is my life—I want to play the game 24/7. My dad on, the other hand, can take or leave America’s pastime. He didn’t really play it growing up, and now he only follows it casually.

Nevertheless, who’s out there throwing me hours of batting practice so that I can get better? You guessed it—my dad. It’s something of a sacrifice for him. I know this because I see the grimaces on his face as the pitches mount and his arm wears down. It’s also something of a sacrifice for me. I know this because, frankly, he isn’t much of a pitcher, and his many errant throws force me to duck or hit the deck. Still, these are my Field of Dreams memories, and I cherish them.

• It’s 1982, my junior year in high school, and my English class at New Trier is beginning the dreaded junior theme. This is the biggest, most daunting project of the New Trier experience, a months-long undertaking. I’m paralyzed by its enormity.

Who’s there with a pen, some paper and a helping hand? Two words: my dad. He suggests that I write my junior theme on Edgar Allan Poe, assuring me that Poe’s haunting works will capture my imagination. We sit together night after night sorting out my thoughts. Something eventually clicks inside me—my imagination is indeed captured—and I dig into my junior theme as I’ve never dug into an academic project. In the end, I blow the doors off the thing: I get the highest grade in the class and, more importantly, realize I have a degree of talent as a writer. This starts me down the path to a career in publishing. On second thought, Dad, I’m not sure whether to praise you or curse you for that one.

* * *

Yes, my dad did everything he could to provide me with a solid foundation. Unfortunately for him, the job didn’t end when I became an adult.

• It’s June 2001. Cassie and I have purchased a house, and we’re scheduled to close on it in less than 24 hours. In sifting through our paperwork, we realize that we have to bring $7,000 to the closing. We have the money, but it’s in a fund that we can’t access in less than 24 hours. The horror, the horror.

Who do we call for help out of this jam? That’s right: my dad. See, the beauty of my dad is that he’s always prepared for everything, even stuff he doesn’t know he needs to be prepared for. He lends us the $7,000, and we close on the house without any further hitches.

• It’s September 2011, and I’ve just been laid off from my job. I don’t know if any of you have ever been laid off, but it’s a dispiriting and scary experience.

Who do I call for help in this time of momentous need? Nope, it’s not my dad. For crying out loud, the man has paid his dues. He’s 80 years old, and he deserves some peace and quiet. Thanks in no small part to my dad’s guidance, I’ve grown into a relatively solid middle-aged man. I had the good sense to marry a helluva woman, and we had the good fortune to have two kids who are capable of going with the flow. My dad’s work is done—we’re handling this predicament ourselves.

Nevertheless, it’s reassuring to know that he’d have all the right answers if I ever did call upon him. That’s the way it’s always been. My dad never gave up on me, even at times when he probably should have. Instead, he simply nudged me in the right direction, sometimes with such deft subtlety that I didn’t even know I was being nudged. My dad has been my rock, my teacher and my friend. I don’t know where I’d be without him.

* * *

Thanks for everything, Dad. You’re a standup guy—I think that’s something everyone in this room will agree on.

March 5, 2012: The World Is My Oyster

As I sit hunched over my laptop at the dining room table, it occurs to me that I’ve needlessly bound myself to this setting. I could be hunched anywhere.

Consider: Cassie telecommutes for her job, which means she’s able to set up shop anywhere. I, too, work remotely doing whatever it is I do, so as Lynyrd Skynyrd once so profoundly said, I’m as free as a bird.

What’s holding us back? Hmmmm. Well, I guess the kids are to an extent. They’ve settled into an idyllic groove in our middle-America suburb where nothing ever really happens. On the other hand, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe a change of scenery would do them good—maybe it would teach them that there’s a big, interesting world out there beyond the strip malls.

I guess there’s Fluffy, too. This house is his kingdom, one he rules with an iron paw. On the other hand, his health is poor, and he doesn’t seem destined to make old bones anyway. Among his many issues, he has a chronic respiratory ailment that makes him sound like Darth Vader when he breathes. Fluffy’s days are most certainly numbered. Besides, who puts his life on hold for a cat?

The possibilities are endless:

• I imagine spending a year in Paris. I could sit in sidewalk cafés with my laptop, typing to the hustle and bustle of Parisian life.

• I imagine moving to the Pacific Northwest. I’ve always been a hippie at heart, and I’d take right to the earthy lifestyle. My laptop typing would have an easy flow.

• I imagine typing away in any number of other awesome locales: Australia, Alaska, Maine, Sante Fe, London.

The takeaway here isn’t that I’m traveling—it’s that I’m working. And that hasn’t turned out to be a fantasy. Life after Crushed Soul hasn’t gone exactly the way I would have drawn it up—instead of winding up as a 9-to-5er, I’m doing my own thing as an independent contractor—but that’s okay. The point is, I’m busy and, for the most part, productive.

And this leads to my next point: It’s becoming difficult to ruminate on the travails of unemployment when, increasingly, I don’t feel unemployed. My wife would claim that I’ve never written much about unemployment in this space anyway—that my blog has instead centered on matters concerning Fluffy and such. She has a point, but regardless, time is at a premium these days.

You’ve probably gathered as much, given that my blog has been appearing only intermittently lately. The foreseeable future will probably bring more of the same, but fear not—I have no intention of disappearing from the blogosphere. If Fluffy finally kicks the bucket, you’ll know; if I land a particularly cool gig (or lose all my current gigs), you’ll know; if I blow out my groin again, you’ll know. And maybe—just maybe—one of these posts will originate from a café in Paris.