(This is unedited and I held back on the language, but it involves death so there is some profanity. If that offends you, stop reading here.)
Today is 9 years since I got that phone call. Its one of those calls that you know is bad when the phone rings. I was 29. I didn't know what to do or how I was supposed to react. So I cried. A lot. I can't think of too many things that rank up there with losing one's father for a man. Losing mom......losing a spouse......losing a child. Those all suck. Losing a father sucks a lot.
I know I am not the first to lose a dad in my 20s. I know I won't be the last. I get it. There are people who have dad die when they are 5, 8, 10, 12, whatever. I am sure it sucks then too. I don't know. I can only speak of my experiences and what I have learned.
We dropped off the kids and flew to San Diego. I got there and had to help out my mom pick out a casket. Talk about creepy. Casket "shopping" is absurd. Who the hell likes that crap? We had a funeral the next day. Somehow, some way, I made it through the funeral. I guess its an honor to be a pall bearer.............but I don't know. It sucks. You don't really want to be a pall bearer because it means someone close has died. After all, has a stranger's family ever asked you to be a pall bearer? I doubt it.
After the funeral, we went back to my mom's house. I had to answer the phone when someone called. They asked for my dad. It hurt so much to have to say he had died. Its one of those things that you always remember. People came and were nice. They wanted to share stories. I wanted nothing to do with it. Then I had to listen to my aunt, my mom's sister, talk about how this was a blessing, how he wasn't suffering anymore.
Don't ever fucking say that to anyone. There is someone, somewhere who doesn't think its a blessing. Maybe you do. Maybe someone else does. I swear there is someone who doesn't think its a blessing. And if you do say that, the person who doesn't find it a blessing has my permission to kick the living crap out of you.
How the fuck was this a blessing for me? I was 29. I had just graduated from law school. I had two kids - who knew two more were on the way? Worse of all, I didn't return my dad's last call to me. Yep, that's me, the fuck up who didn't pick up the phone to call my dad back when he left me a message from the hospital. Why not? Why the hell would I? My whole life, my dad had Parkinson's. He was in the hospital for all kinds of weird things, including hurting his back sleeping on a bed. Seriously. This was some stomach blockage. He was supposed to be discharged. It wasn't a big deal. Then he had a heart attack - and gone. Just like that. No chance to talk to him, no chance to say goodbye. Nothing.
We had a little service, I guess, at the retirement home. People came and talked more, hugged, and drank. It was a celebration of a guy who made friends everywhere he went. I can't think of one person who didn't like my dad.
So I think about that a lot. And this year, its my year to make September better. So maybe the guilt should be gone. Maybe its time to say it: I fucked up. I can never get that time back. Its my biggest regret in life. I own it. I did it. No one else made me. In my list of fuck ups in my life, and I have some doozies, there is none bigger than this one. I should have picked up the damn phone, dialed his number and talked to him. It doesn't matter if I had nothing to say. It doesn't matter if he wanted to ask me about his computer, which he usually did, or his fantasy football team or the fucking weather, 70 and sunny in San Diego 300 days out of the year. None of that matters. I should have picked up the fucking piece of crap phone and called him. I didn't. Its my fault. I get it.
So what have I learned? I don't know. I was out on the soccer field today. The weather was nice. Cool, a bit of sun. Green grass. White lines. And I was thinking what the hell am I doing out here? I am 38 years old. I have one screwed up knee and one on the way. I am old. I am out of shape since I can't exercise with my bad knee. I am way over matched by these 20 somethings who come out there, are faster, bigger, stronger, and younger.
But, its my connection to my dad. And its all I have left. As long as I am on the field, playing the way he taught me to play, I have some connection. At some point, it will end. I know. I can't play forever. 10 years? 12 years? Maybe less, maybe a few more.
But today we were out there playing. Last 5. I was tired. I was sore. I didn't feel so good. And it didn't matter. For 9 years, I have picked up a piece of grass, kissed it and thrown it into the air. (Yeah, make fun of it, I dare you. A guy did a few years ago in our pick up league. 10 yards I sent him on a clean shoulder charge.) Its my thing. We called last 5 and I did it again today. The other team didn't score. I could feel my dad there with me.
I know. Its crazy. He wasn't there. He isn't there anymore. He can't be. But he is. And not just on the soccer field.
I know he is there when I am with my kids. I know he is there when I am in court. Sometimes, when a debt collector is really pissing me off, he is there. He is there when I am up speaking in front of a group. He encouraged me in my speech and debate. He was there when the damn Toyota Lexus won my first extemporaneous speech tournament.
He also taught me a lot of things and he is there with me when I remember those. He taught me that each generation should try to do better than the prior. Its why he valued education so much. My grandparents weren't educated. My grandfather sold toilet fixtures then worked on bombs in WWII. Then back to selling toilets. My dad put himself through school - bachelor's, masters and a PhD in pharmaceutical chemistry. I think 3 people know what that is.
(As an aside, the guy knew more about chemistry than anyone else I know. He couldn't teach me freaking high school chemistry. I barely passed. Dang good thing the teacher was 25, cute and I wanted her to think I was smart. But he could calculate present value in his head but couldn't teach me how to make H20.)
He passed on the value of education to me. Bachelor's degree, CPCU, law school. He saw me graduate. He talked to me after I took the bar exam. He never saw me sworn in as an attorney. He never had the chance to watch me practice law. Of course, there is a negative side to this. I could never have gone into business. I didn't want to have to compete with his legacy. Stupid, yes. But that is how I saw it.
Now, pushing 40, I look back and I realize its not a competition in terms of who makes more money, who has more things. He wanted me to learn from his mistakes. He was gone a lot. He traveled for business and wasn't home for more than 2 weeks at a time until I was in high school. I realize that there is more to being successful than making money. You have to figure out how you define a success and then reach for that. So while I will never have a PhD in anything, while I will never invent anything or have any patents or buy any companies, I don't need to. I realized that doing better means being there for my kids. Being around for them when they need me. Spending time with them doing things that they like - acting class, dance class, boy scouts, whatever.
He taught me that each generation also has it harder than the prior. My grandparents dealt with the great depression. My parents dealt with the cold war. My generation has Iraq, 9/11, drugs in school. My kids have issues that I haven't even figured out yet. But I could talk to my dad about these things. At first, we talked when he drove me to high school. Then we talked when I would come home from college for visits. Then over a game of pool at the retirement community. I know its my obligation to find that time with my kids.
He taught me to enjoy life. He always told me that if we got an inheritance it would be because he died before he could spend it all. I thought he was joking, but you never really knew. I remember he fired his first financial planner in San Diego. The guy was a jackass, but that isn't why he was fired. He was fired because he told my dad to stop buying diamonds. Yep. He thought my dad shouldn't buy my mom diamonds. My dad fired him. He had his toys. He went from his dream car, an 84 Corvette to a Chrysler LeBaron convertible with a 5.0 engine AND a turbo. Yeah, that thing went fast. Then a 72 Buick Skylark - that went faster. He liked his fast cars and his toys.
He passed that on to me. I don't know whether it was driving the LeBaron in high school and going way too fast, or driving that Skylark cross country with my dad and my brother. Somewhere along the way, he passed on his love of cars to me. He didn't work on them. He just admired them - and drove them. Delaware is still a blur when he and I were driving alone to a soccer tournament in the Corvette. I like my toys. I admit it. I got that from him. I realize, especially now, that life is too short. You should enjoy it. I don't buy into this idea that you should buy some $10,000 car if you really want, and can afford, the $20,000 car. Get it if you can afford it and enjoy it. I assure you my dad enjoyed everything he had and hasn't enjoyed anything in the last 9 years. He can't.
So here I am - 9 years almost to the hour when my dad passed away. I have learned that I have to go back to San Diego. I need to revisit some of those places that I enjoyed with my dad. I made some progress this year. In June, I took my kids to Nick's at the Beach, a place my dad loved, Del Mar beach, where I learned to boogie boards on Wednesday nights in the summer while he bbq'd with his friends. I visited the cemetery. I drove past my old house, past his retirement community.
And I sit and cry sometimes. Not often. I still miss him, but I have learned that its part of life. We live, we grow, we die. Those of us who live have to remember those of us who died and the lessons we learned. I am going to pass on those lessons to my kids and try to let the guilt go.
I miss you dad. I love you dad. I know someway, somehow, you are up there and looking out for me. I appreciate that and I hope I make you proud. I love you.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
On birthdays and aging
Am I better off dead?
Am I better off a quitter?
With apologies to The Script. Birthdays are odd. I recently had one. It was my first since my mom passed away. Odd that it got to me a bit. She hasn't called me on my birthday in 5 or 6 years. She just hasn't. We weren't that close. I loved her. She loved me. We didn't talk on birthdays. Heck, she didn't call me on Fathers Day. Why? Because I wasn't her father. Odd, but that is how we were.
So it felt odd on my birthday. She wasn't there. Not that it was different, but it was different. It felt odd. It felt strange. My wife did a great job making it a good day and I did my best to make it a good day. But it was off.
Getting older sucks. I am now pushing 40 - closely. 40 seems old. Not old like I need to go to a nursing home. But old like are my days on the pitch numbered? Am I going to be able to run anymore? I know I can, but it hits me as odd that time is passing me.
I have been more nostalgic lately. I have thought back about my childhood, about growing up. When I was getting frozen yogurt, or frogen yozurt as it was called at Penguins when I was in high school, I heard a song that my parents used to listen to. I was 14. We were driving to Las Vegas. It was my first trip there. Circus Circus.
And I have been thinking about the future. With apologies to Live: I don't need no one to tell me about heaven/I look at my daughter, and I believe. I see my kids and I see a future. I see Brooklyn, my little miracle. I see Miles, he was born after my dad passed away, but he is my dad - or as close as possible. I see Kyle, my mini-me, who doesn't share my DNA, but I now know how I frustrated my parents so much.
And I see Tyler. He missed my birthday. For the first time since 2000, I didn't have my first born with me. I miss him. I love him. And he wasn't here. And it sucks. It sucks beyond words.
It was an interesting birthday. There was good - it was better than in the last several years. But it was sad, my mom was gone and Tyler wasn't with me. I think, though, that this sums it up best:
Every memory of walking out the front door
I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for
It's hard to say it
Time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye
Goodbye
Yeah, I have those photos, and even the ones that aren't on paper, aren't on the computer, they are in a place where they can't be destroyed by water, by fire, by a crashed computer. My mind. I still see my birthday party at McDonalds. I still see my first birthday with Tyler. Those are the memories I will remember as my 30s end, my 40s begin.
And despite what those sports guys say, my soccer days aren't over yet.
Am I better off a quitter?
With apologies to The Script. Birthdays are odd. I recently had one. It was my first since my mom passed away. Odd that it got to me a bit. She hasn't called me on my birthday in 5 or 6 years. She just hasn't. We weren't that close. I loved her. She loved me. We didn't talk on birthdays. Heck, she didn't call me on Fathers Day. Why? Because I wasn't her father. Odd, but that is how we were.
So it felt odd on my birthday. She wasn't there. Not that it was different, but it was different. It felt odd. It felt strange. My wife did a great job making it a good day and I did my best to make it a good day. But it was off.
Getting older sucks. I am now pushing 40 - closely. 40 seems old. Not old like I need to go to a nursing home. But old like are my days on the pitch numbered? Am I going to be able to run anymore? I know I can, but it hits me as odd that time is passing me.
I have been more nostalgic lately. I have thought back about my childhood, about growing up. When I was getting frozen yogurt, or frogen yozurt as it was called at Penguins when I was in high school, I heard a song that my parents used to listen to. I was 14. We were driving to Las Vegas. It was my first trip there. Circus Circus.
And I have been thinking about the future. With apologies to Live: I don't need no one to tell me about heaven/I look at my daughter, and I believe. I see my kids and I see a future. I see Brooklyn, my little miracle. I see Miles, he was born after my dad passed away, but he is my dad - or as close as possible. I see Kyle, my mini-me, who doesn't share my DNA, but I now know how I frustrated my parents so much.
And I see Tyler. He missed my birthday. For the first time since 2000, I didn't have my first born with me. I miss him. I love him. And he wasn't here. And it sucks. It sucks beyond words.
It was an interesting birthday. There was good - it was better than in the last several years. But it was sad, my mom was gone and Tyler wasn't with me. I think, though, that this sums it up best:
Every memory of walking out the front door
I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for
It's hard to say it
Time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye
Goodbye
Yeah, I have those photos, and even the ones that aren't on paper, aren't on the computer, they are in a place where they can't be destroyed by water, by fire, by a crashed computer. My mind. I still see my birthday party at McDonalds. I still see my first birthday with Tyler. Those are the memories I will remember as my 30s end, my 40s begin.
And despite what those sports guys say, my soccer days aren't over yet.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
On Soccer
I played my weekly soccer game today. Its nothing formal. Just a group of guys (sometimes women, but not often) who get together on Sunday afternoon and play soccer. It may be 3 on 3 or 4 or 4 or 10 on 10. We play with small goals and no goalies. Its a pretty diverse group ranging from late teens to over 50. I was thinking about soccer while we played.
Its such a simple game. You use any part of your body other than your hands (and arms) to get the ball into your opponent's goal. Each goal is 1 point. Its not like tennis with scoring that makes no sense (Love, 15, 30, 40 - apparently they can't count) or football (try explaining the scoring to someone who has never watched the game before - not rocket science, but you can score more times and still lose). Its easy. Anyone can play. Unlike baseball, you don't need special equipment. We have played with a ball and bags for goals. Its a simple game.
And it affects your life. I grew up playing soccer. I still email and correspond with some of those guys. We are friends on facebook and we share memories of growing up playing. Remember that time Dean dropped me on my head? We had the shortest team I think ever for our age. And, I am not sure I was the shortest - Adam may have been shorter. We had birthday parties together - I threw up on Jeff's dad's boat. We spent a lot of our childhood together. Those are some great memories.
And it stays with you. My "new" soccer friends are a diverse group. White, black, yellow. Some are old, some are young, some are tall, some aren't. Okay, I am the not tall one. Some of us are nice, well, most of us are nice, some are complete assholes. Really, just 1 guy. Most assholes play with us for a week or two and realize that they don't fit in so they stop coming. We like that. Some are Americans, some are from Ghana, South Africa, Mexico, Canada.
We have celebrated good times with each other. The birth of my baby. Engagements. Weddings, graduations. I have watched some guys grow up from high school kids who may have been a bit awkward to college guys who could run like the wind to married guys or engaged guys who are responsible, productive members of society.
We have shared tragedies. We lost a member of our group several years ago. In a touching moment, we had a moment of silence and then some folks said some prayers. We put up a bench in his memory and, once in a while, when the game is right, you can see something and think "There's Troy again."
Its a unique game. Its the beautiful game. When its played well, there is nothing like it. The sound of a clean, crisp pass. The ball whizzing past your head on a perfectly hit cross. The sounds of a team cheering a goal. People running up and down the field, looking like its chaos when, if done right, everyone knows exactly where he is supposed to be.
Then there is the bad side of soccer. Primarily youth soccer. Parents who yell constantly knowing nothing about the game. Coaches were insist on running drills from the 1970s. Leagues where politics are more important than the teaching of the game. Organizations trying to put other organizations out of business and not realizing that its about getting people to play the damn game. That is for another night.
Soccer brings people together like nothing else. Take a walk by a park where there is a soccer game. Bring some cleats and ask to play. They will let you play. Its who soccer players do it. We are a community. We accept others, even if they talk funny, look funny or just are funny. We teach the game to new people. We want to see everyone get better and enjoy the game.
The soccer community is a pretty special place. I want to thank my friends from my childhood for those memories of a lifetime. And my current soccer friends for memories that will continue on as we play the beautiful game.
Its such a simple game. You use any part of your body other than your hands (and arms) to get the ball into your opponent's goal. Each goal is 1 point. Its not like tennis with scoring that makes no sense (Love, 15, 30, 40 - apparently they can't count) or football (try explaining the scoring to someone who has never watched the game before - not rocket science, but you can score more times and still lose). Its easy. Anyone can play. Unlike baseball, you don't need special equipment. We have played with a ball and bags for goals. Its a simple game.
And it affects your life. I grew up playing soccer. I still email and correspond with some of those guys. We are friends on facebook and we share memories of growing up playing. Remember that time Dean dropped me on my head? We had the shortest team I think ever for our age. And, I am not sure I was the shortest - Adam may have been shorter. We had birthday parties together - I threw up on Jeff's dad's boat. We spent a lot of our childhood together. Those are some great memories.
And it stays with you. My "new" soccer friends are a diverse group. White, black, yellow. Some are old, some are young, some are tall, some aren't. Okay, I am the not tall one. Some of us are nice, well, most of us are nice, some are complete assholes. Really, just 1 guy. Most assholes play with us for a week or two and realize that they don't fit in so they stop coming. We like that. Some are Americans, some are from Ghana, South Africa, Mexico, Canada.
We have celebrated good times with each other. The birth of my baby. Engagements. Weddings, graduations. I have watched some guys grow up from high school kids who may have been a bit awkward to college guys who could run like the wind to married guys or engaged guys who are responsible, productive members of society.
We have shared tragedies. We lost a member of our group several years ago. In a touching moment, we had a moment of silence and then some folks said some prayers. We put up a bench in his memory and, once in a while, when the game is right, you can see something and think "There's Troy again."
Its a unique game. Its the beautiful game. When its played well, there is nothing like it. The sound of a clean, crisp pass. The ball whizzing past your head on a perfectly hit cross. The sounds of a team cheering a goal. People running up and down the field, looking like its chaos when, if done right, everyone knows exactly where he is supposed to be.
Then there is the bad side of soccer. Primarily youth soccer. Parents who yell constantly knowing nothing about the game. Coaches were insist on running drills from the 1970s. Leagues where politics are more important than the teaching of the game. Organizations trying to put other organizations out of business and not realizing that its about getting people to play the damn game. That is for another night.
Soccer brings people together like nothing else. Take a walk by a park where there is a soccer game. Bring some cleats and ask to play. They will let you play. Its who soccer players do it. We are a community. We accept others, even if they talk funny, look funny or just are funny. We teach the game to new people. We want to see everyone get better and enjoy the game.
The soccer community is a pretty special place. I want to thank my friends from my childhood for those memories of a lifetime. And my current soccer friends for memories that will continue on as we play the beautiful game.
Friday, September 2, 2011
September
I was driving today when Green Day came on the radio. It was "Wake me up when September ends." It was my theme song for September. Was being the operative word.
You see, September sucks. When I was little, I always looked forward to September. It was the month school started and despite me being a crappy student, I liked going to school. At least, I think I remember liking going to school. I enjoyed my classmates. I think I enjoyed my teachers - or some of them. September was the start of the regular season of soccer. We had practices and tournaments in the summer, but the season kicked off in September.
As I got older, September took on new meaning. September is the month that we had a baby reclaimed from us. We met the birth parents just a few days before the baby was born. A few days after, we brought the baby home. Then, the worst phone call I have had in my life, and I have had two phones that my parents have died. I still remember that day. Vividly. Its one of the three worst days of my life.
Then, a few years later, my dad passed away in September. He was in the hospital for something minor and left me a voice mail. I didn't call back because he said he would be home in a few days. He never made it out of the hospital. I got the call from my mom that he had passed away. We had his funeral a few days later.
Oh, and these were back to back days on the calendar, even though they happened in different years.
Then, years later, my daughter was born. 09-09-09. Yep, my 9 baby. September got a little bit brighter. It still sucked at the end of the month, but at least the first 10 days were fun. (Lets not forget Sept 11.) What is better than your child being born? It ranks up there with the my wedding, the days I met my boys (who were all adopted [not are, as in its something still going on, but were as in it IS done]). So who can hate a month with a child's birthday, especially a child who, at least according to the doctors, was a one in a billion?
Today I had court. I had a rough night sleeping last night. Court went well. But I knew I was putting on a face for everyone. For today would have been my mom's 71st birthday. This day in 1940 she was born. And like my daughter was medically impossible, or so we were told, my mom wasn't supposed to get pregnant and yet here I am. She passed away less than 6 months ago. And I was doing fine. Or at least faking it well enough that no one knew. Then a commercial came on the radio for hospice. My mom died while in hospice. (Does anyone not die in hospice?)
So it made me think more. September sucks. I miss my mom. We were never the closest mother and son. But we were mother and son. We didn't talk much, or enough, especially in the last few years. But we talked when it mattered. That last conversation is something I will never forget and anyone who wants to tell me that it doesn't matter has never had that conversation. You know, the one where you know its the last time you are going to see someone alive and you say those things that you have thought but never said. Those might be the most honest conversations we ever have in life.
And as I sat and thought, and as I sit and write, I realize that my mom wouldn't want me to sit and mope for a month - or half a month. Sure, I can miss her today. I can miss my dad on the anniversary of his passing. But that's it. Two days. September should be good. The fall is coming. Soccer gets started. School is in full swing. Its a reminder of the cycle of life. Its a reminder of the good things in life. Fall colors.........pumpkins.......apples...........the smell of fresh cut grass.........rain.........
So for me, its not Wake me up when September ends. Its wake me up when September comes. Here is to a new month, a new attitude and a new approach. And thanks Mom. There are always lessons you can teach.
You see, September sucks. When I was little, I always looked forward to September. It was the month school started and despite me being a crappy student, I liked going to school. At least, I think I remember liking going to school. I enjoyed my classmates. I think I enjoyed my teachers - or some of them. September was the start of the regular season of soccer. We had practices and tournaments in the summer, but the season kicked off in September.
As I got older, September took on new meaning. September is the month that we had a baby reclaimed from us. We met the birth parents just a few days before the baby was born. A few days after, we brought the baby home. Then, the worst phone call I have had in my life, and I have had two phones that my parents have died. I still remember that day. Vividly. Its one of the three worst days of my life.
Then, a few years later, my dad passed away in September. He was in the hospital for something minor and left me a voice mail. I didn't call back because he said he would be home in a few days. He never made it out of the hospital. I got the call from my mom that he had passed away. We had his funeral a few days later.
Oh, and these were back to back days on the calendar, even though they happened in different years.
Then, years later, my daughter was born. 09-09-09. Yep, my 9 baby. September got a little bit brighter. It still sucked at the end of the month, but at least the first 10 days were fun. (Lets not forget Sept 11.) What is better than your child being born? It ranks up there with the my wedding, the days I met my boys (who were all adopted [not are, as in its something still going on, but were as in it IS done]). So who can hate a month with a child's birthday, especially a child who, at least according to the doctors, was a one in a billion?
Today I had court. I had a rough night sleeping last night. Court went well. But I knew I was putting on a face for everyone. For today would have been my mom's 71st birthday. This day in 1940 she was born. And like my daughter was medically impossible, or so we were told, my mom wasn't supposed to get pregnant and yet here I am. She passed away less than 6 months ago. And I was doing fine. Or at least faking it well enough that no one knew. Then a commercial came on the radio for hospice. My mom died while in hospice. (Does anyone not die in hospice?)
So it made me think more. September sucks. I miss my mom. We were never the closest mother and son. But we were mother and son. We didn't talk much, or enough, especially in the last few years. But we talked when it mattered. That last conversation is something I will never forget and anyone who wants to tell me that it doesn't matter has never had that conversation. You know, the one where you know its the last time you are going to see someone alive and you say those things that you have thought but never said. Those might be the most honest conversations we ever have in life.
And as I sat and thought, and as I sit and write, I realize that my mom wouldn't want me to sit and mope for a month - or half a month. Sure, I can miss her today. I can miss my dad on the anniversary of his passing. But that's it. Two days. September should be good. The fall is coming. Soccer gets started. School is in full swing. Its a reminder of the cycle of life. Its a reminder of the good things in life. Fall colors.........pumpkins.......apples...........the smell of fresh cut grass.........rain.........
So for me, its not Wake me up when September ends. Its wake me up when September comes. Here is to a new month, a new attitude and a new approach. And thanks Mom. There are always lessons you can teach.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Idiot T-shirts
What the heck is up with t-shirt companies? I saw an actual t-shirt today that said "I'm adopted just look at my parents." Is that supposed to be funny? Apparently its made by a group of idiotic morons at a company called David & Goliath. Apparently, Not my cup of tea, Time is money and Sink or swim were all taken as company names because they douche bags couldn't come up with a better name that David & Goliath. I don't know if Immaculate Conception, Virgin Mary, Moses, and Adam and Eve were already taken. I will look into that.
I mean, there are some things you can make fun of. You can make fun of the girl who shakes her ass when she walks. You can make fun of almost any musician or actor who decides to do something dumb. I admit it, I have made fun of Pitbull (dude looks more like a rat terrier) among others. You can make fun of "reality" tv stars - Operation Loser, er, Repo, is always a good target. But as I have said before, there are some things you don't make fun of.
Skin color? Nope. You don't do it. Religion? Only if you want a fight. Sexual orientation? Um, only if you are an unfunny Tracy Morgan. Disabilities? I guess if you are a loser. And birth status? Nope.
Seriously, you think its funny to make adoption jokes? Are you going to make twin jokes too? Or maybe, a better question, are you going to make fun of foster kids? "I'm a foster kid...just look at the number of homes I have lived in." NOT FUNNY! Maybe you can make fun of kids with no parents too? "I have no parents and someone bought me this idiotic shirt." Wait, maybe we make fun of the kids put up for adoption who weren't actually adopted? "My biological mom tried to place me for adoption, but no one wanted a baby born addicted to heroin."
You see, there are some things that should be sacred. I guess in our culture they aren't. And I guess if you have to sell some piece of crap t-shirts that look like they were made by a douche who probably lives at home, then that is fine. By the way, Todd Goldman in Florida, your shirts SUCK ASS. You probably think Jewish jokes would be funny too. After all, its clear you have the sense of humor of a 4 year old who doesn't know right from wrong. I mean, that heat and humidity clearly have screwed up your brain so that you still find kindergarten humor funny. How about you grow up and come up with something funny?
By the way, all of the profits you made from this shirt, Douchebag and Greedy, you should donate to the Dave Thomas Foundation. Maybe do something positive for adoption, which you seem to think is funny. Its not. Its a great way for people who can't have kids to have a family. And its a great way for kids and babies to get a family. I guess you would rather see those kids end up in institutions or dead? Maybe you should think before you make some more idiotic piece of garbage t-shirts. These shirts are so bad you shouldn't even donate them to a 3rd world country. We should burn them all - in your piece of crap family room. Oops, in your parents piece of crap family room.
Now back to your regularly scheduled shows............
I mean, there are some things you can make fun of. You can make fun of the girl who shakes her ass when she walks. You can make fun of almost any musician or actor who decides to do something dumb. I admit it, I have made fun of Pitbull (dude looks more like a rat terrier) among others. You can make fun of "reality" tv stars - Operation Loser, er, Repo, is always a good target. But as I have said before, there are some things you don't make fun of.
Skin color? Nope. You don't do it. Religion? Only if you want a fight. Sexual orientation? Um, only if you are an unfunny Tracy Morgan. Disabilities? I guess if you are a loser. And birth status? Nope.
Seriously, you think its funny to make adoption jokes? Are you going to make twin jokes too? Or maybe, a better question, are you going to make fun of foster kids? "I'm a foster kid...just look at the number of homes I have lived in." NOT FUNNY! Maybe you can make fun of kids with no parents too? "I have no parents and someone bought me this idiotic shirt." Wait, maybe we make fun of the kids put up for adoption who weren't actually adopted? "My biological mom tried to place me for adoption, but no one wanted a baby born addicted to heroin."
You see, there are some things that should be sacred. I guess in our culture they aren't. And I guess if you have to sell some piece of crap t-shirts that look like they were made by a douche who probably lives at home, then that is fine. By the way, Todd Goldman in Florida, your shirts SUCK ASS. You probably think Jewish jokes would be funny too. After all, its clear you have the sense of humor of a 4 year old who doesn't know right from wrong. I mean, that heat and humidity clearly have screwed up your brain so that you still find kindergarten humor funny. How about you grow up and come up with something funny?
By the way, all of the profits you made from this shirt, Douchebag and Greedy, you should donate to the Dave Thomas Foundation. Maybe do something positive for adoption, which you seem to think is funny. Its not. Its a great way for people who can't have kids to have a family. And its a great way for kids and babies to get a family. I guess you would rather see those kids end up in institutions or dead? Maybe you should think before you make some more idiotic piece of garbage t-shirts. These shirts are so bad you shouldn't even donate them to a 3rd world country. We should burn them all - in your piece of crap family room. Oops, in your parents piece of crap family room.
Now back to your regularly scheduled shows............
Friday, August 19, 2011
On Being a Trial Lawyer
So today seems to be bash trial lawyer day. I don't know if its a national thing, but its happening in California. Summary of why: the California Supreme Court made a ruling that insurance companies say would cost them $3 billion per year. And suddenly folks have realized that trial attorneys work on a contingency fee so we would get 1/3 of that. Its a rough number. But lets say it is right. (I think all of the numbers are BS and made up, but I will work with it.)
So I am a trial lawyer. What does that mean? It means I sue people. Yep, that's right. I sue people. And I don't care if people think its a derogatory term.
First, lets just understand that trial lawyers are not all the same. We have short ones, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones, ugly ones, handsome (pretty?) ones, smart ones, dumb ones, idiotic ones, geniuses, good ones, bad ones. When you say "Oh, they are the trial lawyers" its not like you are talking about a tribe of headhunters from the Amazon who all do the same thing. Its not like we are all 6'2, blonde hair, green eyes. We aren't the freaking Nazis. It would be like saying teachers, professors, radio talk show hosts or ANY OTHER FREAKING JOB!
Oh, and we aren't all liberal. Not every trial lawyer believes in social programs. Not every one is pro choice. Not every one wants to see communism take over. (Something we will get to in a minute.) At the same time, not all of us are pro-small business or tax cuts for the rich or anything like that. In fact, some of us (not me) are rich and want tax cuts for the rich while others of us are middle class and think the rich shouldn't get tax cuts. You can't lump us in as a group.
Second, we aren't bad. Suing people, in and of itself, is not bad. Yes, frivolous lawsuits are bad. You want to talk about frivolous lawsuits? How about suing individuals for $500 in court when you know that you served them improperly? How about one business suing another over a $1,000 contract dispute when the attorney fees are more than that to file the dang thing? How about suing an individual when you have been told of identity theft and there is an active police investigation? Yep, all of those things happen.
I sue people. I admit it. I sue businesses too. I send them a letter before I do it. No one has ever been sued by me and said "Damn, I had no idea this was coming." They may have said "Damn, I didn't know he was serious." But they all knew it was coming. I may not win every case, but I investigate it and make sure its got merit. Then I go at it. Its my job.
Oh yeah, its my job. Lets talk about that. Being a trial lawyer is not my identity. I am not "Jonathan Stein, trial lawyer." I am Jonathan Stein, dad, father, coach, person, human. As a matter of fact, if I had to give you 10 words that describe me, trial lawyer, lawyer, attorney, counselor at law (which is an idiotic name) or anything of the sort would be at the bottom of my list. You see, my job does not define me. It is part of me. So don't give me all this crap that I am a trial lawyer. I am a person. Sometimes I do good things, sometimes I do bad things. That applies to every aspect of my life. I am not perfect nor do I claim to be. And that goes for my career as well - I make mistakes, but I am a trial lawyer, not a perfect lawyer.
Third, trial lawyers are entrepenuers. Not all of us. Some work for big firms, but its probably less than 5%. Most of us work for ourselves or in small law firms. We are small business. We employ people. We provide jobs. We also only get paid when our clients get paid. Let's be clear: WE GET PAID WHEN OUR CLIENTS GET PAID. So I work for free until that time. Oh, and don't tell me when I am done I didn't earn it. I worked for free. You go to your boss and tell him not to pay you until you complete a job and he makes money on it. You don't want to do that? Yeah, well, that is what we do, every single freaking day.
Why does this matter? Two reasons. First, if I were to file frivolous lawsuits I wouldn't make any money. Think about it. If I spend $400 to file a lawsuit and work 100 hours on it, and there is no merit to it, how much money do I make? I lose $400 plus 100 hours of my life that I can never get back. Ever. Gone. Poof. Vanished. So why would I take a frivolous case? I wouldn't. DUH! Second, it means I better have some idea what I am doing. I have to evaluate a case and figure out if it makes financial sense. In other words, just like you guys out there selling, I have to take things where I can make money. Isn't that capitalism?
This, of course, is why trial lawyers are not pro-Communism. Under a communistic system, we wouldn't have jobs to make money. So don't call us commies, or whatever the hell idiot expression Michael Douchebag Savage uses. (And yes, he is a douchebag who makes money because he can yell. He hasn't had an original thought in 20 years.) So stop that nonsense.
There are people who are now ashamed to be called a trial lawyer. Years ago, the Association of Trial Lawyers of America changed their name to the American Association of Justice or some such nonsense. Look, I am not in the justice business. I don't make money on a justice. Justice scares me. I don't know what it is. Call me and tell me you want justice and I will tell you I can't take your case. Sorry. Maybe it sucks. But I can't use 1/3 of justice to pay my bills. Oh, and how do you know when you get justice? Is it an eye for an eye? Is it cutting off the hand of a thief? I don't know, but I don't want 1.65 fingers. Sorry.
I quit ATLA when it changed its name to AAJ. (By the way, say ATLA and then say AAJ. Like they are words. AAJ is not a word. It sounds like you are puking.) I quit because I don't want to run and hide from what I am. I am a trial lawyer.
I could have graduated from law school and done something else. Despite being told by a young associate at a big law firm that I wasn't smart enough to work in his firm, and despite being told by my high school guidance counselor not to apply for college because I wouldn't get in, I think I could hack it there. I could have gone to work for a big law firm and made six figures out of law school while working 100 hours per week. It was a possibility. Hell, I graduated top 10 from law school. Its not an issue.
But would representing millionaires and billionaires be enjoyable? No. I don't like it. I also don't want to sit in a library all day doing research or writing memos or things like that. I don't want to report to 5 people who never let me do anything. I am a trial lawyer. Its what I do. Its part of me. It is not me, but part of me.
And, quite frankly, I am good at it. I can stand in front of a jury and convince them, at least for a few hours, of my viewpoint. I can get them to see my client as a person, a person who has been injured or hurt. I can get them to understand why my client is entitled to what I am asking for. I have never seen any of my closing arguments. And I don't want to sound cocky, because goodness knows I need help and am still learning, but while the other attorney in my last trial was the managing partner of some fancy Orange County law firm, she had to read her closing argument and I stood up and spoke from the heart. Its what I do. Its what we do. We represent real people who have real problems and need real solutions. And those solutions come by filing lawsuits.
I am a trial lawyer and I am proud of it.
So I am a trial lawyer. What does that mean? It means I sue people. Yep, that's right. I sue people. And I don't care if people think its a derogatory term.
First, lets just understand that trial lawyers are not all the same. We have short ones, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones, ugly ones, handsome (pretty?) ones, smart ones, dumb ones, idiotic ones, geniuses, good ones, bad ones. When you say "Oh, they are the trial lawyers" its not like you are talking about a tribe of headhunters from the Amazon who all do the same thing. Its not like we are all 6'2, blonde hair, green eyes. We aren't the freaking Nazis. It would be like saying teachers, professors, radio talk show hosts or ANY OTHER FREAKING JOB!
Oh, and we aren't all liberal. Not every trial lawyer believes in social programs. Not every one is pro choice. Not every one wants to see communism take over. (Something we will get to in a minute.) At the same time, not all of us are pro-small business or tax cuts for the rich or anything like that. In fact, some of us (not me) are rich and want tax cuts for the rich while others of us are middle class and think the rich shouldn't get tax cuts. You can't lump us in as a group.
Second, we aren't bad. Suing people, in and of itself, is not bad. Yes, frivolous lawsuits are bad. You want to talk about frivolous lawsuits? How about suing individuals for $500 in court when you know that you served them improperly? How about one business suing another over a $1,000 contract dispute when the attorney fees are more than that to file the dang thing? How about suing an individual when you have been told of identity theft and there is an active police investigation? Yep, all of those things happen.
I sue people. I admit it. I sue businesses too. I send them a letter before I do it. No one has ever been sued by me and said "Damn, I had no idea this was coming." They may have said "Damn, I didn't know he was serious." But they all knew it was coming. I may not win every case, but I investigate it and make sure its got merit. Then I go at it. Its my job.
Oh yeah, its my job. Lets talk about that. Being a trial lawyer is not my identity. I am not "Jonathan Stein, trial lawyer." I am Jonathan Stein, dad, father, coach, person, human. As a matter of fact, if I had to give you 10 words that describe me, trial lawyer, lawyer, attorney, counselor at law (which is an idiotic name) or anything of the sort would be at the bottom of my list. You see, my job does not define me. It is part of me. So don't give me all this crap that I am a trial lawyer. I am a person. Sometimes I do good things, sometimes I do bad things. That applies to every aspect of my life. I am not perfect nor do I claim to be. And that goes for my career as well - I make mistakes, but I am a trial lawyer, not a perfect lawyer.
Third, trial lawyers are entrepenuers. Not all of us. Some work for big firms, but its probably less than 5%. Most of us work for ourselves or in small law firms. We are small business. We employ people. We provide jobs. We also only get paid when our clients get paid. Let's be clear: WE GET PAID WHEN OUR CLIENTS GET PAID. So I work for free until that time. Oh, and don't tell me when I am done I didn't earn it. I worked for free. You go to your boss and tell him not to pay you until you complete a job and he makes money on it. You don't want to do that? Yeah, well, that is what we do, every single freaking day.
Why does this matter? Two reasons. First, if I were to file frivolous lawsuits I wouldn't make any money. Think about it. If I spend $400 to file a lawsuit and work 100 hours on it, and there is no merit to it, how much money do I make? I lose $400 plus 100 hours of my life that I can never get back. Ever. Gone. Poof. Vanished. So why would I take a frivolous case? I wouldn't. DUH! Second, it means I better have some idea what I am doing. I have to evaluate a case and figure out if it makes financial sense. In other words, just like you guys out there selling, I have to take things where I can make money. Isn't that capitalism?
This, of course, is why trial lawyers are not pro-Communism. Under a communistic system, we wouldn't have jobs to make money. So don't call us commies, or whatever the hell idiot expression Michael Douchebag Savage uses. (And yes, he is a douchebag who makes money because he can yell. He hasn't had an original thought in 20 years.) So stop that nonsense.
There are people who are now ashamed to be called a trial lawyer. Years ago, the Association of Trial Lawyers of America changed their name to the American Association of Justice or some such nonsense. Look, I am not in the justice business. I don't make money on a justice. Justice scares me. I don't know what it is. Call me and tell me you want justice and I will tell you I can't take your case. Sorry. Maybe it sucks. But I can't use 1/3 of justice to pay my bills. Oh, and how do you know when you get justice? Is it an eye for an eye? Is it cutting off the hand of a thief? I don't know, but I don't want 1.65 fingers. Sorry.
I quit ATLA when it changed its name to AAJ. (By the way, say ATLA and then say AAJ. Like they are words. AAJ is not a word. It sounds like you are puking.) I quit because I don't want to run and hide from what I am. I am a trial lawyer.
I could have graduated from law school and done something else. Despite being told by a young associate at a big law firm that I wasn't smart enough to work in his firm, and despite being told by my high school guidance counselor not to apply for college because I wouldn't get in, I think I could hack it there. I could have gone to work for a big law firm and made six figures out of law school while working 100 hours per week. It was a possibility. Hell, I graduated top 10 from law school. Its not an issue.
But would representing millionaires and billionaires be enjoyable? No. I don't like it. I also don't want to sit in a library all day doing research or writing memos or things like that. I don't want to report to 5 people who never let me do anything. I am a trial lawyer. Its what I do. Its part of me. It is not me, but part of me.
And, quite frankly, I am good at it. I can stand in front of a jury and convince them, at least for a few hours, of my viewpoint. I can get them to see my client as a person, a person who has been injured or hurt. I can get them to understand why my client is entitled to what I am asking for. I have never seen any of my closing arguments. And I don't want to sound cocky, because goodness knows I need help and am still learning, but while the other attorney in my last trial was the managing partner of some fancy Orange County law firm, she had to read her closing argument and I stood up and spoke from the heart. Its what I do. Its what we do. We represent real people who have real problems and need real solutions. And those solutions come by filing lawsuits.
I am a trial lawyer and I am proud of it.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Fathers and Sons
Let me preface this by saying I don't understand the relationship between mothers and daughters. I am neither mother nor daughter. So I can only talk about what I know. Yes, I know. Sometimes I just make crap up and some of its funny. Some of it is insulting. I get that. But this is about something I know - fathers and sons.
The relationship between a father and son is......................something. Special? Sounds too cliche? Different? Probably, but different than what? Unique? Probably. After all, mothers and daughters don't have all of that testosterone running through them. But there is something about that relationship.
So tonight I was at Rubio's to get dinner. There were two sets of fathers and sons that I saw. Father and Son A were there for dinner. As they walked in, the son was on his Crackberry. Dad held the door for the son. (Just so we are clear, dad was in his early 60s and the son was late 20s.) The son was standing in line in front of the father. The son walked up to the cash register to order. Dad stood in line. The son then ordered his dinner. Then he paid. Then he walked to a table. Then dad walked up and ordered. Paid. Sat down at the table. They called the son's name and he went to get his food. Then they called the dad's name and dad got his food.
WTF is wrong with this kid? Kid is probably not accurate. WTF is wrong with this mid 20s douche? He isn't even good enough to be a douche bag. Your dad is around for like 40 years of your life. Maybe. When he is gone, he is gone. That's it. Of your 40 years, maybe 20 are years when you can do something cool with him.
Those first few years are formative, or something like that. But you can't take dad to dinner. Then you go through that 10 to 18 range where you may not want to be seen with dad, you dont want to hang out with him, and even if you do, you can't afford to treat him. So dad spends his money on you. Great, its his "job" I guess. Then you are 18 to 24 and in college and poor, probably because you spent most of your money on alcohol - or worse. Then at about 25, you are finally working, have some money and can take dad to dinner.
Now you get the chance and YOU DON'T PAY? What is wrong with you? You had a Yves Saint Laurent wallet and you don't pay for dinner with pops? By the way, what man carries Yves Saint Laurent? Seriously? What's next? Are you going to wear UGG boots? Are you going to put on some lipstick? Sorry, off the point. You dropped $100 on a wallet and you don't buy dad dinner? Are you freaking serious?
Then, after I order, I sat down and waited for my food. I look up and there is a dad and his son in his late teens, early 20s. It was hard to tell and the kid was big. It looks normal and then I notice dad is feeding his kid. Yep, the kid was special, different, unique. Whatever you want to call it. Dad needed to help his kid eat. The kid needed dad. You can bet your butt that the kid would have loved the opportunity to do something for dad. But he can't and he won't. And that won't change.
It sucks. It sucks for dad. It sucks for the kid. Oh, don't give me this nonsense about how dad is doing something noble. Dad is being a dad. Trust me on that. And trust me - it sucks. I know my oldest son is never going to call me up and ask me to dinner. I know he isn't going to call me up and tell me about his new job. I understand that. I get it. And I deal with it, but it sucks. It sucks a lot. And those of us who are fathers of sons who are special know it. Some of us can admit it. Not everyone is that stage.
But you can bet that those of us who have been through this do appreciate our relationships with our fathers more. Well, as long as they are there. And when we don't have our dad to call anymore, we appreciate those relationships with our sons. I appreciate my two other sons more. I expect more from them as well. And fair or not, that is how it works.
But to all of you punks out there who carry Yves Saint Laurent murses or purses or whatever the hell it is - you sure as hell take your dad to dinner and pay for it. There are a lot of fathers and sons out there who will never experience that so man up and do it. Or turn in your man card you piece of crap.
The relationship between a father and son is......................something. Special? Sounds too cliche? Different? Probably, but different than what? Unique? Probably. After all, mothers and daughters don't have all of that testosterone running through them. But there is something about that relationship.
So tonight I was at Rubio's to get dinner. There were two sets of fathers and sons that I saw. Father and Son A were there for dinner. As they walked in, the son was on his Crackberry. Dad held the door for the son. (Just so we are clear, dad was in his early 60s and the son was late 20s.) The son was standing in line in front of the father. The son walked up to the cash register to order. Dad stood in line. The son then ordered his dinner. Then he paid. Then he walked to a table. Then dad walked up and ordered. Paid. Sat down at the table. They called the son's name and he went to get his food. Then they called the dad's name and dad got his food.
WTF is wrong with this kid? Kid is probably not accurate. WTF is wrong with this mid 20s douche? He isn't even good enough to be a douche bag. Your dad is around for like 40 years of your life. Maybe. When he is gone, he is gone. That's it. Of your 40 years, maybe 20 are years when you can do something cool with him.
Those first few years are formative, or something like that. But you can't take dad to dinner. Then you go through that 10 to 18 range where you may not want to be seen with dad, you dont want to hang out with him, and even if you do, you can't afford to treat him. So dad spends his money on you. Great, its his "job" I guess. Then you are 18 to 24 and in college and poor, probably because you spent most of your money on alcohol - or worse. Then at about 25, you are finally working, have some money and can take dad to dinner.
Now you get the chance and YOU DON'T PAY? What is wrong with you? You had a Yves Saint Laurent wallet and you don't pay for dinner with pops? By the way, what man carries Yves Saint Laurent? Seriously? What's next? Are you going to wear UGG boots? Are you going to put on some lipstick? Sorry, off the point. You dropped $100 on a wallet and you don't buy dad dinner? Are you freaking serious?
Then, after I order, I sat down and waited for my food. I look up and there is a dad and his son in his late teens, early 20s. It was hard to tell and the kid was big. It looks normal and then I notice dad is feeding his kid. Yep, the kid was special, different, unique. Whatever you want to call it. Dad needed to help his kid eat. The kid needed dad. You can bet your butt that the kid would have loved the opportunity to do something for dad. But he can't and he won't. And that won't change.
It sucks. It sucks for dad. It sucks for the kid. Oh, don't give me this nonsense about how dad is doing something noble. Dad is being a dad. Trust me on that. And trust me - it sucks. I know my oldest son is never going to call me up and ask me to dinner. I know he isn't going to call me up and tell me about his new job. I understand that. I get it. And I deal with it, but it sucks. It sucks a lot. And those of us who are fathers of sons who are special know it. Some of us can admit it. Not everyone is that stage.
But you can bet that those of us who have been through this do appreciate our relationships with our fathers more. Well, as long as they are there. And when we don't have our dad to call anymore, we appreciate those relationships with our sons. I appreciate my two other sons more. I expect more from them as well. And fair or not, that is how it works.
But to all of you punks out there who carry Yves Saint Laurent murses or purses or whatever the hell it is - you sure as hell take your dad to dinner and pay for it. There are a lot of fathers and sons out there who will never experience that so man up and do it. Or turn in your man card you piece of crap.
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