“Let me tell you, I know you don’t want to listen to your father, I didn’t listen to mine, and I am telling you you gotta pay attention this time. When life reaches out with a woman like this it’s a sin if you don’t reach back, I’m telling you its a sin if you don’t reach back! It’ll haunt you the rest of your days like a curse. You’re facing a big challenge in your life right now at this very moment, right here. That girl loves you she really really loves you. I don’t know if Nicky ever did, but she sure as shit doesn’t right now. So don’t fuck this up.”

That’s from Silver Linings Playbook. I saw it yesterday. I loved it. Not just for what it was about – but how it hits me at this unique stage in my life. And that’s ultimately what this post will be about, so don’t worry – no spoilers ahead. First though, I need to set the table.

I’m a huge movie fan. I’ve been that way my entire life. When I was a kid, my awesome Uncle Ron and Aunt Sharon slapped the nickname Movie Man on me because NOT only could I give full play-by-play of my favorite movies but also recite entire scenes, chapter and verse. I was the only kid I knew who could rattle off a Director’s filmography like someone quoting Fred Lynn’s career On Base Percentage.

There was just something about the form that sucked me in. And I have total recall over so many of my favorites. Not just what the movie was about – BUT – who I was with and where I saw it and what the weather was spitting outside that grey May afternoon, when I settled my butt down in a seat, alongside my older next door neighbor, Jay, and watched Raiders of the Lost Ark flicker and light on that screen – completely oblivious to what was to come. Those were glorious days when every little element of a film was largely left unearthed until you got your ass in a theater. No Internet meant no Spoiler Alert unless some jerk exited The Empire Strikes Back babbling on-and-on about Luke’s Daddy issues.

So, there you have it. A long, rambling preamble designed to illustrate my life-long love affair with film. As I mentioned above, that’s not REALLY what this post is about. By the end of this thing, I aim to mine some very real emotional depths. Hang on!!!

So, you see enough films and they start to lose their luster. It takes something special to come along and really grab your attention beyond simply entertaining you for a couple of hours. For me, I could probably count 20-30 movies a decade that I have strong affection for, filter that down to about 10 movies every 10 years that I truly love and then really sift through that 10 spot to get down to 1 maybe 2 in the same time period that I absolutely adore with every ounce of my heart.

I loved Pulp Fiction. Seven. Aliens. The Empire Strikes Back. Up in the Air. Fargo. Wall-E. I carry a good-sized list that is certainly much longer than that handful of films. There are so many I love.

But I adore The Shawshank Redemption.

It works on me on some base primal level. When I initially saw it, I had to coerce my buddy Sean to go see it with me. He thought it looked like some hackneyed prison escape story. The first time I caught the trailer – which excised author Stephen King’s name from the promotion in a bid to keep people from thinking it was another horror yarn – and they backed it with Carter Burwell’s haunting score from Miller’s Crossing – I knew this movie was just going to meld to my marrow.

So I went in with great expectations which is usually the quickest way down.

Instead, The Shawshank Redemption surpassed my hype and wrung my every emotion. It’s a great platonic love story among two friends who defy all odds. There is such beauty to it!!! Any time it’s on – no matter what point – if I’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go, it sucks me right back in. When Andy Dufresne escapes Shawshank and Red offers up the following tribute to his friend, I feel the old ‘allergies’ coming on. Or maybe there’s just something in my eye.

“Sometimes it makes me sad, though… Andy being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”

Yesterday afternoon, I caught a screening of Silver Linings Playbook - which instantly tattooed itself to my heart. It hit me at just the right time.

By now, most of you know the news. I am divorced. That process began over a full year ago. By the time it became public, I had grieved it greatly. One day, I’ll write something that gets a little closer to my heart during that event – which remains my greatest failing to date. Not a tell all, per se – and certainly not something meant to throw anyone under the bus – AT ALL!!! But something that gets at my feelings through it all. I’m getting there. It just needs a little more time.

I’ll say this though – where I am now is exactly where I need to be. I wish my former wife NOTHING BUT THE BEST in this life. I have said this mantra over and over.

You have one life to live. You owe it to yourself to make it the best one.

That doesn’t make the separation and divorce any less tragic. We have children – two beautiful individuals who humble me greatly, inspire me mightily and always make me want to strive to be better than I was the moment before.

There are two events in my life where I have been brought to my knees by the knowledge that I was about to make a decision that directly impacted another’s life.

The first was when our dog Chatham was suffering from cancer and we made the call to have the vet come out and put her to sleep. Knowing that I had to say those words and that the vet would come in – and as I cradled my poor, sweet black lab’s head in my lap – and she looked up at me with all the unconditional love a dog has for their family – and then seeing her drift off to eternal slumber – that just rocked me to my core. The only thing that brought me out was funneling my grief into writing The Monkeybar Mafia. From the bad came great good.

The second time was the entire divorce – especially when it became all so real and the wheels started moving – and this was REALLY happening – while our children went day-by-day assuming that life was exactly the same as what they had been born into; a stable, functioning, nurturing nuclear family unit. Knowing that we held a trump card that would soon be revealed – that would alter their lives forever – well, again – you harken back to that line from Spider-Man – “With great power comes great responsibility.” The night before I knew we were going to tell the kids, it was like anti-Christmas Eve. I couldn’t sleep a wink for fear of dawn coming.

You all know how that worked out. Seriously, the kids have done fine. They have responded so well. They have been so resilient. They take their cues from Andi and I – whose love for them has NEVER wavered, only strengthened. But I’m forever haunted by the fact that because of our failing, we did shift their orbit ever so slightly. We didn’t ruin their lives. Far from it. They’ll have wonderful days and years ahead and they’ll continue to make our lives those that are so well-worth living – but there is no doubt – we changed a course.

And still, it bears repeating. We were not as happy as the way you yearn to be happy in a marriage. And that’s ultimately what led to our rational, mature, amicable split. There’s so much more to it – but at its core essence – that’s what it’s all about.

I’m 40. I thought by this point I was to be set in my ways. This is supposed to be the time when you get a little bit sedentary. Yet, somehow, I have more energy and drive than I had 10 years prior. The last few years have seen me taking on so many new challenges – things I never would have attempted back in my supposed prime. Singing in musicals. Writing and staging plays. Dancing in recitals. Coaching basketball. Completing a triathlon. Writing over 600 articles in 6 short years. Losing a ton of weight. All that came from 35 on.

That makes me feel a little proud.

But there is a palpable loneliness in me… and beyond that – a real yearning. Something that I didn’t really know I was looking for. Not until my marriage came crumbling down, and the dust settled and I got busy rebuilding a life – and finally dared to peek ahead. It’s only then, when I returned home to an empty apartment one chilly Sunday afternoon and felt, for the first time in a long-time, a loneliness stir. Not just stir. It rattled me. That was just after the holidays had ended. A week after New Years.

Take away all my trappings. My big flat screen LED TV. My iPhone. My MacBook. My Blu-Ray player. I couldn’t care less about any of it. There are so many evenings when I am home alone and could just get lost in a movie or crack open a few beers, watch a game and play up the bachelor pad stereotype, or head out and coax a friend or two to join me for a drink as half my week now affords me such freedom  and I have no real want or need for it. For any of it. I like doing that stuff just fine BUT I feel like I have this hole that I need to fill. A yearning for someone I don’t have in my life. That special someone we all pine for that makes this whole life worth living. Where’s the fun in doing it alone?

It makes me dream this dream I harbor.

It’s something so simple that I desire. Something so attainable. A nice cozy house on a decent street – the type where you have great neighbors (maybe not perched on top of you but also not 30 acres away either). A true neighborhood. A back deck, overlooking a decent expanse of tree-lined back yard. Sitting outside, under a sea of blazing stars, watching the fireflies flicker and light while a cricket chorus heralds the night sky. Shooting stars whisk before my eyes every few minutes. And I’m sitting there, taking this all in alongside that amazing woman who HAS to be out there that I just truly connect with. Someone who you can spend all night chatting on and on and on about the most random of stuff or hunker down to deal with real world matters of the day or simply spend time in silence – not having to say a word but just knowing in a glance – in a stolen smile – that the grin is a glorious gift delivered for no other reason but that you exist in her world and she in yours.

It’s not a tall order. It seems complete plausible and possible. I mean, there are so many people on this planet. Someone for everyone and then some, supposedly. But so many times – so many of us end up missing our connection.

That’s where I am now. Seeking it. It’s what I want more than anything. I don’t want to drive this too desperately but I’ll be honest. This loneliness. It’s not for me. I don’t wear it well.

I got out of my marriage knowing more things about myself than I ever did – or admitted to – before. I know my strengths and my weaknesses better than ever. I’ve taken a long, hard look in the mirror and sized up just what I’ve done right in the last decade plus of my life – and where I could have been so much better. And I aim to do that. To be the better man.

I know what I want. I know what I deserve. And I know what I have to offer.

What I want is so simple. I just want someone to love me – and someone for me to love. We’re not talking fortune and glory here.

Which brings me back to Silver Linings Playbook.

I love love loved every second of that film. It is what inspired this piece – that rare movie that seems hard-wired just for me. David O’Russell’s highly personal flick (his son is bi-polar) is funny and sad and poignant and touching. It’s the type of movie where you just prefer to believe it wasn’t make-believe. This all really happened and somewhere out there, Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence are Pat and Tiffany and are PERFECT for each other.

This movie became wish-fulfillment fantasy for me. There are some big, bold romantic strokes that the film honestly earns. A friend of mine told me that when he saw it, he wanted to propose to the stranger sitting next to him. I wanted to find someone worthy of me learning how to ballroom dance for. But not just anybody. The perfect somebody. The girl who you just know your life is so much better with her in it – even if it’s just for a moment – just long enough for you to state your case.

A few weeks back, I was watching a Louie C.K. special and he had this routine where he went on about his appearance. He said, “I’ve never been the guy who got ANYTHING because of my looks. Take women. They take one look and they keep on moving but I’m like – just let me talk to you for FIVE MINUTES!!!”

That’s how I feel. If I find the right girl, “Just let me talk to you for five minutes”. Five minutes with the right person can make all the difference in the world. In five minutes, you can learn a lot about a person. In five minutes, you can spy hope or find nothing at all.

I don’t have an easy way to end this post. Like life, it’s a bit meandering. It’s how my brain has been of late. The past year threw me through the ringer. I’m sort of on an emotional see-saw; especially now when I know I’m 40 – not 30 – and hence the cards are stacked a little against me. I feel time bearing down a little bit. I feel a little impatient and a little scared that 40 years into this one life I get to live AND I have yet to encounter that girl that compels me to want to be a better person (to crib that great line from As Good As It Gets). Or, if I have, we didn’t connect at the right time.

As Robert DeNiro tells Bradley Cooper – “When life reaches out with a woman like this it’s a sin if you don’t reach back, I’m telling you its a sin if you don’t reach back! It’ll haunt you the rest of your days like a curse.”

I desperately want life to do the same for me. I’m at the point where I will reach back and hold on tight.

I just want my Silver Lining.

Timed right, a good old-fashioned batten-down-the-hatches blizzard can be just what the doctor ordered.

Midweek through last week, a perfect storm of elements was starting to come into play in my life. On Wednesday morning, I woke with a tell-tale nagging scratch in my throat that told me a winter cold was on fast approach. Raiding my medicine cabinet, I downed enough Phenylphrine to open up a meth lab somewhere in my sinuses. I chased that with all the Vitamin C I could squeeze from 6 or several oranges and started sucking on zinc tabs all afternoon.

A fool’s errand. I’d be sick by 6:00 p.m. Dead by dawn. I’m good for about one winter cold a season and a few days prior, when my friend’s precious little boy coughed directly in my face, I knew my visa was stamped.

That same Wednesday was the day the kids were due to arrive as their Mom was headed south to Sunny Florida for a little mid-winter siesta as a treat towards her impending 40th Birthday. By now, I think you all know that we are no longer together but just in case you were wondering – we are no longer together. But all is amicable and comfortable and I had no problem burning a few vacation days so I could be home to pick up the kids from school on Thursday and Friday. It would give me a little extra bonding time with them (we alternate the days they come to live with me – trading off Wednesdays and Thursdays every other week – so this was a bonus Wednesday). It would also give me ample time while they were off at school to get some errands done; provided my cold didn’t knock me down for the count.

On that same day – the local TV station started spouting doomsday propaganda that “The Storm of the Century” was upon us – warning of a major blizzard to hit the New England area from Friday through Sunday. We’re not that deep into this century and already we’ve had about 1,000 of these calamities. Anything more than dime-sized hail and you’re urged to stock up on milk, batteries and SHOVELS?!?!? People, shovels are not disposable. Stop throwing them away at the end of each year and then staging a run on them at Lowe’s whenever we get wind that a flurry may fall.

So – being of sound mind and smoking body (it’s my Blog, I can lie if I want to) – I had a sneaking suspicion that there was no way on Earth my kids would see a home room on Friday morning. Not when the Governor was already declaring his future intent to declare a State of Emergency. That guy – always the alarmist. So, I ended up squeezing as many errands as I could into Thursday and by that night – as I was shepherding the kids to their play rehearsal – I got the call from their school superintendent who chased his usual pre-recorded “No School” announcement with a sweet rider for us parent types.

“…and although children do not have school on Friday, that does not get them out of work scott free. They should spend a portion of the day helping their Mom or Dad by cleaning the room and shoveling the driveway.”

I had to play the message back to the kids 3 times before logic trumped their initial horror.

Colin immediately shot a hole in the supposedly fool-proof plan.

“How can he possibly go around and check everyone’s bedrooms. The governor said you have to be off the road by 12 pm.”

Damn you, Deval!!!

Friday rolled around with my cold continuing to thicken at a rate in line with the building clouds. It was OK though. I had the day off. The kids could sleep in. There was nothing to do but wait for the Snowpocalypse or ThunderBlizzard. (I’m trademarking both titles before the SyFy channel can grab ‘em and pit ‘em against Pirahnaconda.)

Around 11 am, just as forecast, the first flakes began to fall in our area – West of Boston/South of Worcester – right on the Connecticut border. They picked up in intensity throughout the afternoon and by evening the blizzard was in full effect – with whiteout conditions and a state-wide alert banning all vehicles from roadways. By the time I went to bed at 12 am – miraculously having maintained power the whole way through allowing me to complete the latest Bourne move (I forget the title… Bourne Again?) – anyway, we had easily a foot and change outside and you could barely see 40 feet in front of you.

Before turning the page to Saturday, there were two phone calls I had – in complete succession – one ended just as the other began, that couldn’t be more diametrically opposed but are united in the fact that I’ll always remember where I was when I had these conversations – smack dab in the middle of Snowpocalypse™. I’m keeping the details out of this post to preserve anonymity but both calls were important in their own right.

The first call was with someone I had been previously communicating with via e-mail; having been introduced by a mutual friend in hopes that she and I would spark some sort of connection and potentially step out on the town for a first date. We talked for a couple of hours – just one of those great, friendly, casual conversations that meander far and wide and tell you a good deal about someone you’ve known such a brief sliver of time. We inked a plan for a date (for later this coming weekend) and no sooner did I end that call, did I make another call to a completely unrelated person with a simple question I had and knew they could answer. (I’m being purposely obtuse because this is their life not mine and therefore I don’t aim to point a spotlight on their business).

All I can say is that this call which began so simply grew immediately complex when they confided in me a recent diagnosis of cancer. We’re talking, the gutt-punch you never see coming. We talked for about 25-minutes; running the full gamut of emotions and by the end of it – we actually closed it out on a hearty laugh, as improbable as that may seem. There was a positivity to everything he said – and we both knew – life will go on!!! Like most of these diagnoses, the news immediately alters the recipient’s life. Time is of the essence. So, a plan of attack had already been etched; due to begin this week.

A couple days ago, I reached out to this friend and related the following:

“Like all of the big moments in a life, it’s going to be very easy for me to recall exactly where I was when I first heard your news. It was in the middle of a raging Blizzard.

I also offered myself a little incentive. Although the storm and my cold had steered me off my normal gym routine, there was enough work ahead of me to not feel too guilty when I offered up “a beer for every 20 minutes of shoveling.” I figured I’d be done in an hour and 3 frosty ones might remedy my head much better than 400 additional milligrams of Sudafed.

When I finished 3 hours later, I realized I’d have to bank some of those brews. Never a good idea to stage a one-man keg party while on kid duty.

As Colin and I surveyed our kingdom, we found our good friends and next door neighbors, Stacey and Josh – out in front of their house. Their brood had taken advantage of the traveling ban and were racing sleds down the center of our street. So, Josh and I, being duty-bound Dads who have pledged to uphold the laws of our land – turned in our badges and grabbed two sleds so we could race each other. Little did I know, the course was rigged. Despite the best efforts of my pit crew to give me a great starting push, I lagged a full league behind Josh – obviously a victim of the shoddy plowing on my side of the street.

Those few runs down the road were mere appetizer for the main event the next day, when upon pulling into my driveway, midday – I got a text from Stacey looking to see if the kids and I wanted to join her fam and that of our other friends, Sarah and Bobby – at the local golf course for another several dozen runs on the slopes. The kids were in snow clothes before the words could exit my mouth and we spent a good couple of hours flying down, running back up, and soaring down all over again and again and again. Despite my cold, my energy returned. It’s days like that where I’m 40 going on 14.

It’s days like all of these that I’m thankful for this Blog – to let these memories stick.

And to share it all…

In January 2005, Andi took off on a trip for LA to visit our friend Jen. At the time, she was 4-months pregnant with Aria, and no sooner was she gone – 3 feet of snow was smacked upside our head.

Well, that’s not entirely the case. What happened was when she left – early on a Friday morning – the forecast called for 8 – 10 inches by Saturday night. A few hours later, as she was in the air somewhere over the Midwest, the totals were upped to 10″ – 15″. From there, every few hours, the predictions grew more dire.

At the time, Colin was a mere toddler, and I kept waking up – every couple of hours – to snowblow the driveway, in order to keep up with the onslaught. All the while, Colin snoozed in his crib. I had horrible, crippling fears that she was going to return home to find me frozen in a snow bank and he yelling for someone to turn on The Wiggles.

The news of a storm should have been music to my ears. But when you are a new Dad, everything seems like the Apocalypse.

After all, I’m a snow junkie!!! I’ve been that way ever since I was a little kid – growing up down on the South Shore – where for a good stretch of time, it seemed we got nailed with enough Nor’Easters for a pre-teen to really paint the town white. Some of my fondest memories of that great neighborhood I grew up on, are dominated with tales of snow – and even one of woe.

I’ve written about this street before. I grew up in Rockland, MA – a modest community of 15,000 strong situated off Route 3 on the way from Boston to the Cape. It was a tight-knit little burg and the neighborhood my family planted roots on was one of those mythic childhood havens that only grows larger than life the further the years stretch. Ours was an L-Shaped street full of young families who had ushered in their own baby boom sometime in the mid-to-early 70′s; meaning my sisters and I were never at a loss for people to play with.

My best buddies, the brothers Kyle and Steven, resided in a home situated at the very apex of the two streets that intersected to form that L – and they had this great expanse of backyard that yielded to a small patch of woods – the perfect plot of land to build our own private Ice Planet Hoth.

Cutting through their yard – we could make our way to the neighboring street – a dead-end avenue that ran directly into the woods. Once you got to its end, it was an easy hop over a meandering stream that brought us to the best sledding hill I’ve ever encountered. While the majority of that land was flat, forested grounds – there was one hill that rose from the ground – as if raised by Old Man Winter himself for our amusement. From the top of the hill, there were two paths you could sled down. One traveled a good distance, before a clutch of reeds slowed your acceleration. The other veered right and if you timed it just so, you could make a short leap over a ramp – grab some air – and fly over that babbling brook (which by that time of year usually held a thick coating of ice). Of course, there were numerous times we miscalculated and found ourself crashing on the ice and moments later – with a sled full of icy flow. Hey – go big or go home!!!

No matter what happened, we always lingered a little too long before finally heading back home to warm up. I never had kick ass ski gloves; having to make do with the mittens my grandmother would knit and gift annually. By the time I decided a little too late that I’d had enough, I would get home just in the nick of time, peal that ice-choked fabric from my bone-chilled fingers and slide my pink piggies into a piping hot bath where for the next few minutes, every inch of my exposed flesh would scream bloody murder before a fine calm finally returned. I’d get myself all warm and toasty – toss on my PJs and robe – and head on down for some hot chocolate and marshmallows. Of course, if I was at Kyle’s house – it was hot chocolate and Fluff – which easily kicked the stale mini-marshmallows at my house to the curb.

It was rinse and repeat, year after year – making for some of the best times of an admittedly pretty sweet life. I loved those days. Loved staying out – freezing my ass off – and knowing that as warm as it may be back in our homes, we needed to stay out and survive the chill for surely someday – in the far-flung future – these memories would forever warm our heart.

And now for the tale of woe – ripped from that same era and not one of my prouder moments; but certainly a character builder.

Back then, my buddy Steven and I used to make a little extra scratch going door to door, offering up our mad shoveling skills whenever the skies threatened Snowmageddon!!! Most people sized us up quickly – taking one look at our combined slender frame and all that packed powder – and told us to hit the road. But, my next door neighbor – the great Mr. Ewell – always opened his doors to us. So storm after storm, Steven and I would get working on his driveway; knowing that at the end of it all, there was a crisp $20 waiting for us.

It took us an hour or two to finish the job; with me doing the grunt work (as I was older than he by a few years) and Steven would follow behind and gather up the scraps, getting the driveway nice and smooth. We had a sweet system in place.

Once we collected our earnings, it usually took us all of two hours to blow it all. First we’d head to McDonalds and order up all the McNuggets and fries we could eat, chasing that with a couple of apple pies. Then it was off to the neighboring 7-11 for a few hours of arcade games, followed by a Slurpee (nothing better on a cold winter’s day) and some Big League Chew. Maybe a comic book or two.

All great memories.

But there was this one time where greed got the better of me and sunk our enterprise. See, the Nintendo Entertainment System had just been released and I was one of the first people on the block to get it for Christmas. All that winter we played the Hell out of the two games I owned – Super Mario Brothers and Balloon Fight.

For a kid of modest means, more games were few and fleeting.

And yet – the local K-Mart, which was within walking distance – was beginning to get a steady influx of new software. One title in particular, Metroid, screamed at me.

It looked so new and different, with this mysterious galactic warrior staring out at me from the cover – a far cry from those heroic plumbers I’d been putting through the paces. I had to have it.

My precioussssssssssssss…

But where the Hell was I gonna’ find $39.95.

And then – as if a sign – we got whacked with back-to-back storms, pressing Steven and I back into service for Mr. Ewell.

Two storms. $20 a pop. $40 in total. (See that – that’s me doing Math. HOLLA!!!)

Only one problem. Steven needed his cut. That only left $20 for me – only bringing me half way to what I needed. Sure, I could have saved up. Done things the right way and earned that game. But I was a vain, petulant fool and for that – for my hubris – I would be brought down a few pegs.

But not before I briefly got my mitts on the most glorious game of them all.

My devious mind came up with a plan. Knowing the storms were coming (and during a work week when he would be away), I walked over to Mr. Ewell’s and told him Steven and I were ready to go the moment the storm did blow. And then I added, if it would make it easier on him, he could pre-pay and we would be there both days, the second the snow stopped flying. For some reason, he was sold and $40 was deposited in my greedy mitts.

A half hour later – Metroid was mine.

All mine!!! Mua-hah-hah-hah.. Ahem…

Of course, I called Steven and told him my good fortune, letting him know we had a new adventure to journey through and conveniently leaving out the part where I suckered him out of the equation.

The next day, Storm #1 hit. Once the snow ended, we showed up at Mr. Ewell’s and took care of the driveway in record time. Steven mentioned we should go grab the cash and I told him that we could wait until after Storm #2, thereby buying myself another day of deceit. To distract him, I suggested more Metroid. He took the ruse.

A day later, we were back on the job – cleaning the remnants of Storm #2. Before Steven could suggest finding Mr. Ewell, I dreamed up another lie. I told him Mr. Ewell said he was a little short and would have to pay us the next week. And then, I dangled the shiny bauble Metroid before him and with that, we were off.

My long con was so short-sighted. Only a matter of time before this house of cards came crumbling down.

Every few days, Steven would say we should go get the money from Mr. Ewell and I kept coming up with new and creative excuses for why he couldn’t pay. Something inside of me told me this couldn’t last forever but I was living in the moment. And we were getting so close to the horrors that lurked at the heart of Planet Zebes. The universe needed us more than we needed more McNuggets.

As long as I was of sound mind and body, I could deflect his inquiry with my advanced intellect. I was older. I had a few years of extra schooling lorded over him. There was nothing he could lob that I couldn’t deflect. Worse came to worse, I could always bust out some algebra on his ass and watch him squirm and solve y for x.

What I did not count on was a major cold knocking me flat; sequestering me to two days of couch rest.

On the second day of my ailment, Steven and his brother Kyle stopped by – saying they were going to go collect the money from Mr. Ewell and that they would be back with my rightful share. I offered up a weak protest but by that point – I didn’t have the energy nor the strength. I think part of that was by design. I couldn’t live this lie another moment longer.

Once they left, I knew my end was nigh. I prayed for death… or at least some toast.

With jelly.

20 minutes later, the phone rang. My sister Jenna answered and had a quick discussion. She then excitedly called for my mother and while leaving the room, looked at me – with a devilish glint in her eye – and said “You’re busted.” Minutes later, my single mom was throwing on her coat and heading out the door, grabbing for her purse. As she walked out, I could see her rifling through it, counting the meager bills that lay within.

It would be the stocks for me, for sure.

All these years later, I still look back upon that foolish gambit with nothing but shame. Sure, it was harmless kid’s stuff BUT I’m better than that. Or maybe – I needed that brief criminal act to remind me that crime never pays. And what little coin you might grab, you lose in the only currency that ever matters.

Trust.

Steven stopped hanging out with me but that was short-lived. We were buddy-buddy within a couple of weeks. His big bro Kyle – also my good friend – held the grudge a little longer but by the time winter thawed, his cold heart had melted too and we were back to playing Whiffle Ball in his back yard – like nothing had happened.

But we never EVER got hired by Mr. Ewell again. And though Mr. Ewell was always very courteous and friendly when he saw me, I always picked up a slight hint of disappointment. That was my penalty and it made its mark more than any amount of grounding or chores ever would. Every time I saw him, I felt that sting of disappointment.

So here we are. A snow day. And it seems on every major snow day, for one brief moment – I think back to my past. So many good memories. A few bone-chilling ones. All tiles in my ever-evolving life’s mosaic.

It’s February 2013 and once again – Andi is on vacation – this time down South. Lo and behold, 3 more feet have been tossed in our face. I have the kids at my apartment but this time around, it was me snoozing in my “crib” last night while Colin kept waking up every few hours to tell me “Daddy – It’s still snowing outside.”

The more things change… the more they stay the same.

On the plus side, that kid and a shovel are totally on the clock later on. And I’ve learned my lesson.

I ain’t paying him a dime!!!

“It’s something unpredictable
But in the end it’s right.
I hope you had the time of your life.”

Those lyrics – and that song, Green Day’s (Good Riddance) Time of Your Life, was on heavy rotation in my head the entire year it took me to gather my thoughts before cobbling together ‘The Monkeybar Mafia’. While I wrote the play in one week – stealing a few hours each night after work after the house had been turned down for the day – I truly “wrote” it throughout the entire year before.

I “wrote” it while mowing the lawn – stopping every few minutes to dash in the house and scribble down the next plot point.

I “wrote” it on my early morning 50-minute trek along the Mass Pike to work – whipping into the parking lot and flying to my desk as fast as possible to jot down the next piece of dialogue that popped into place. I used to run through the door so furiously and so often, it’s still a wonder to me that I wasn’t fast-tracked on the executive track. I easily beat the personal best of any young go-getters.

And I “wrote” it when my head hit the pillow each night, and the concerns of the day silenced, and all I could imagine was Ryan and his stable of Moms – and that one Mom in particular, the great Kate, who just through her mere existence coaxed Ryan to look a little closer at his life (the good and the bad).

And through it all – I had that Green Day tune spinning round and round again.

When I sat down to actually write the play – to get it all down as quickly as possible – with all my notes in front of me and the story beats crudely mapped out on a piece of yellow legal paper – I began with the end. I always knew Ryan would make his way to that playground – in that suit – with the great unknown stretched before him. For an instant, the briefest of moments, he would hear that song – sung finally with all the aching feeling in the world and in a girl’s breaking heart. And he would take pause.

It’s a truly haunting, melancholy tune – as surprising as it is to have come from the then alt-punk rockers Green Day as it was to later be featured as every Prom and Graduation Theme from 1998 – 2001. That preface at the beginning, (Good Riddance) sort of says it all. The song tells of heart-piercing breakup. An end dripping with melancholia. A relationship beyond repair – one with scars “like tattoos of dead skin and memories on trial”.

And the second I heard that song – really heard it – as it was played as soundtrack to that clip show that aired before the final episode of Seinfeld, it just melded to my marrow. It stuck to the ribs.

Those of you who know me, know the type of guy I am. I love to be social. I live to laugh. I’m a goofball. I’m a fool. I’m an average American Idiot.

But that’s not all there is to me. I am so fascinated by the concept of unrequited love. It just slays me. There is nothing that pierces my heart more than two people who should be together being denied that. That whole motif just grabs me. That’s why I hate most rom-coms. Between the elaborate ‘meet cute’ and then all the ensuing misunderstandings – they all end up just fine in the end. Where’s the true struggle that makes the love all worth it in the end? Where’s the real connection that makes it all make sense?

Romance done right should suck the air out of the room. Romance should be the height of drama. You should be on the edge of your seat – so wholly invested not in the fate of the world – but in two people simply clicking and connecting and coming together just right. It’s what gives us all hope. It’s what makes us all yearn for good tidings.

I think I hold getting the happy ending and being denied it on equal ground. If you can nail that true Hollywood Happy Ending – and prime me to jump out of my seat and cheer it on – bring it. I’ll applaud every single time it’s done right. Look at the end of The Shawshank Redemption. It’s not a true romance in any way, but that friendship between Andy and Red is as close as any real love so that when we find Red making that long trek Southwest to the big blue Pacific to see for his very eyes that Andy Dufresne “crawled through 500 yards of shit-smelling foulness” and escaped – that’s gonna’ coax real tears from me every time.

The same goes for unrequited love. When two people are destined to be together and forces conspire to keep them apart, something chemical clicks and I am all in. I think therein lies the appeal. That type of doomed romance just hits me at a core emotional level. If I care, I want for them to get together so badly yet at the same time, I am pleasantly haunted when things don’t go according to plan.

It probably harkens back to my early dating days. I fell hard for one girl in particular. It was a High School romance and it lasted all of a few months. It ended in that usual teenage wishy-washy way. One day she was into me. The next – not. One of those moments where you spend the next few months re-evaluating every move you made trying to pinpoint exactly where you went astray, hoping you can pull a Quantum Leap and pop back in time to set right what once went wrong.

Where I stand now, over 20 years removed from those silly, sloppy days of early dating – I look at how young and naive I was. How fully vested I got so quick. How unsure I was in just being me. How much of myself I kept under wraps for fear of chasing the girl to the exit.

It took YEARS before I finally figured out you can only truly be happy – and find happiness – in being yourself. A lesson learned too late? Never! The only lesson learned too late is the one you don’t pay any attention to. Thankfully, my almost complete photographic memory for the pivotal encounters in my life has steered me along the later I’ve gone. Of course, I am newly divorced so feel free to kick that sentence to the curb. What the Hell does this guy know?

So, you get the point. I am obsessed with unrequited love because in my heart I want to hope harder than I ever have for everything to work out all right in the end. Like Quantum Leap or its spiritual successor, the underrated Source Code, I want to explore the predicament and change its fate. I want that love to take on all challengers and win the day. This has nothing to do with my real world situation. I’m purely talking about fictional works. I’m not looking to change any of that. I’m where I want to be right now, or somewhat. I want to find someone I truly connect with so no regrets – AT ALL. Onward and upward. Think positive, and all that. But the next time out? Yeah, I want to find THE girl. My girl! And I think that yearning colors some of what I write.

I closed out Monkeybar with that song because I wanted the audience to leave wondering just what happened to Ryan. Not so much along the job front but what happened when he came back? Did he go to Paige, having learned his life’s lesson? Did he hunt down Kate at the playground and sweep her off her feet, so high she never saw her worries come crashing down?

I know exactly where I wanted him to go but I love the fact that you might have sent him elsewhere. But I couldn’t get either of us there – nor would their story have come to life – if it weren’t for Green Day saying Good Riddance to all that.

It was a song that fertilized the seeds for my second play - The Lost World. I completed that one last year and as I write this now, I’m looking to get it set up somewhere for production.

The Lost World was born from my experiences with High School reunions. For my 10 Year, we had something like 50 people attend. For the 20, close to 120. The increase can be attributed fairly easily. At the 10 Year, those who hated High School still HATED High School. By the 20 Year, those flames have dampened, our lives have grown increasingly stressed and for one night – for a few measly hours – we can return to a time when everything seemed so innocent.

The other reason for the increase in attendance? The rise of social networking. It’s so much easier to reach out and touch someone. So, if you need to track down every member of the Cross Country team, let Facebook guide you.

I had an amazing time at my reunion but fairly soon after I was struck with a thought. What if you threw a 20-Year High School Reunion – in this day and age where everyone is connected to everything – and only 6 people showed up? And not just any 6 people. 6 people who HATED High School the most. 6 people still baring the scars of those days; haunted two decades later. And what would happen if you got them all in one room?

Being a child of the Eighties – and knowing I only really know how to write what I know – I fixed on that decade and my generation. That time is truly ‘The Lost World‘  - a generation born without the technological advances we have today (none of us had cable until our teens) yet just on the cusp of the computer revolution meaning we could pick it up fairly quickly. We grew up in an age where if you wanted to see someone, you called them or drove to their house. You got some Vitamin-D and made that effort to socialize.

I wanted these six to pine for those days. Me – I love the time we live in. I’d be lost without my iPhone. But I see the poetry in yearning for a simpler era. I don’t want to go back to that but I am interested in the personalities that might look back fondly at a time that may not have been too nice to them. It’s a weird dichotomy – to reject the current age while looking back, a little wistful and a smidgen fearful, at an age when maybe you didn’t feel like you quite fit in.

So, I melded the whole thing into a Breakfast Club 2.0.

While the characters and plot points were beginning to coalesce in my brain, I found myself drifting to two songs in particular – relics of that age – and again, the whole time I was mowing the lawn or driving to work (thinking through the plot pieces) these songs played as soundtrack.

Guns & Roses ‘Paradise City’ is what I open the play with. The rock anthem plays under a wordless sequence that takes us back in time to the Fall of 1989 – to one fateful afternoon that touched each of the 6 principal characters. Most importantly, Axl wailing “Oh won’t you please. Oh won’t you please. Oh won’t you please take me home.” sort of reverberated in my head. This is their song.

Just as I KNEW I needed Kate to serenade Ryan on that playground, in The Lost World I had a vision of two characters, who shall remain nameless to avoid spoilers should I ever get this thing up in running, sharing a tender few fragile minutes slow-dancing to U2′s ‘All I Want is You‘. There is the unrequited love story and again, something in me – something in my subconscious – seemed hell-bent on making it as hard as possible on them.

And I think it’s because with every ounce of my being, I desperately want them together – no matter the odds.

That’s romance to me.

Oh, I hope I get this thing staged. My buddy Joe, upon reading the whole play, greeted me with a punch in the arm. “That’s for making me cry”. I’ll gladly take a full beating if I can ever do the same to the rest of you. Hell, it makes me cry thinking of that sequence – set to that great song – every single time.

And as with Monkeybar, a little of this is born from real life. I retain the same disclaimer. These stories ARE not my stories. But they are colored with little details and there is one true tale from my past that would bubble to the surface from time to time – scattershot and so unpredictable – as the years melted. One of those memories that at the time was so vital and important – and then faded – but never truly died. These things are tiles in your life’s mosaic. Treasure all the memories – good and bad, happy and sad. It’s a cliché but they are what we are.

Anyway, during my Senior Year in High School, I was crushing on another girl something fierce. This wasn’t an everyday occurrence. I probably had 3 crushes in all of High School and only 2 knew and only 1 lead anywhere. This memory was clearly from the unrequited camp. I’m pretty sure she never knew. Or merely had a hint. But it was just never meant to be. Another time. Another world. That sort of thing. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t treasure it any less.

This great girl (who shall remain nameless) and I grew close as friends during my Senior Year. And for me – my heart and thoughts grew even closer. Wishing on a star and all that. We were inseparable for a time BUT it cannot be said enough – always JUST FRIENDS no matter how hard that was to know. That’s how it was and always would be. But at that time – when a fella’ finds himself drunk in love – it’s hard to connect with reality. You wish and you hope and you pine. But if you are like me way back when, you never really work up the courage to say what you feel. Not when the time is right. Not until it’s a little too late.

We all have those missed opportunities in our rear-view.

So, I have this memory in my head – so vital – of a Christmas party amongst High School friends. The place was decked out with holiday gear and we were all swept up in good cheer. It was a day, maybe two, before Christmas. A Saturday night. The stereo was pumping but instead of the usual pop tarts – we got our groove on to assorted Christmas songs. I have no idea what song was playing when, only that it was slow, and that at some point the living room – where my buddy’s tree was parked – had cleared and she and I found ourselves completely alone. Just Me and Her. Dancing. Together. Forever. (Or so I hoped).

Slow dancing on a Saturday night bathed in Christmas light.

It was just one dance but it was one of those dances where the world quiets to a whisper. Where every single note drops from the soundtrack. Where for a few fleeting moments, that impossible dream seems like reality.

Or maybe she was just being nice to me.

Anyway – that experience sort of informed that ending sequence in The Lost World. It’s not my story being told in that play but I think I wanted to grant the characters in it a moment like what I had. My dance was a gift – my life forever colored for having experienced it. Like some gifts, it can be nice to share.

So now I sit before the blank page again. I have a story idea in my head but it’s still coming together. The familiar process has begun anew. I’ve got story elements starting to take shape. Characters are stepping from the fog. I don’t think this next thing will be a play. I think I may finally have a book in me.

And I think it’s going to take a little while to work it all out – meaning I probably have a year ahead of me of distracted driving and protracted house work as I stop every few moments to jot down another line.

And I have a title.

Ouroboros.

It’s Latin. Most of you have probably seen the symbol – that snake eating its own tail. Sure, it’s a pretty creepy image that runs counter to the story I think I’m going to tell. Again, I’ve got a romance at the heart. I’ve got a newly divorced guy as the lead. (Write what you know!!!) And I think he’s been unlucky in love, making all the same mistakes time and time again – the snake eating its tale going round and round and round. And now – a little older and wiser – he’s determined to break his routine.

As with the last two times, I have a soundtrack aiding the process. Mumford & Sons’ ‘I Will Wait’ and Phillip Phillips ‘Home‘ have been on heavy repeat. I know the latter is heard everywhere but it speaks to me. Each one of these pieces, from The Monkeybar Mafia to The Lost World to whatever Ouroboros becomes, was born from a personal place. They are works of fiction but a window unto my soul as well. As I enter my second chapter, this new piece of writing mirrors my personal mission. And this song is emblematic of it all.

“Settle down. It’ll all be clear.
Don’t pay no mind to the demons.
They fill you with fear.
The trouble it might drag you down.
If you get lost, you can always be found.

Just know you’re not alone.
Cause I’m going to make this place your home.”

Can’t wait to see what comes around this time.

“Hey, Coach – How many baskets do we have?”

I must get asked that question about 25 times a game. And each time, I always take pause. For starters, it’s an instructional elementary school basketball league made up of 2nd to 4th Graders so there’s no official scoring going on (even though the kids usually have a pretty good ballpark idea of the true tally).

Secondly, every time I hear “Hey Coach” it takes me a moment to realize – “Hey, that kid’s talking to me.”

I kinda’ like it. It fits nice and snug.

Like most adults my age, we all wear different hats – slapping on the personas needed to get whatever job is needed done – and done right. There’s the Dad hat – or Mom bonnet – so sexist of me that we never retire nor do we want to. The work hat which we gladly toss off the second that clock hits Friday eve. The friend hat we throw on in a moment’s notice. The fearless knight cap when called upon to eradicate whatever errant animal has found its way into your home. The ghostbuster helmet if said home comes down with an unfortunate case of paranormal activity. And the fair princess tiara if your darling daughter demands your appearance at her Invite-Only tea party. Don’t you dare register as Plus One! Not when you might be stealing Hello Kitty’s seat.

You get the point. We’re all mad busy and somehow keep finding time to stretch a few more minutes into the moments that make a life by taking on more and more responsibility.

That’s half the reason I decided to jump aboard and co-coach Colin’s basketball team – after watching my boy give it his all last season.

If you remember way back then, it was a major highlight when Colin sunk a basket after a two-week carefully choreographed routine to get our star player (the coach’s son) the rock so he could hand deliver it to Colin. Of course, that was only half the job – albeit a Herculean and completely selfless act on the part of such a great kid. Once Colin got his mitts on the ball, he had to launch it in pursuit of ‘nothing but net’. That one was on him. That he nailed it made for one of those moments that I shall forever treasure. One that never fails to elicit a tear as I recall the stocked auditorium erupting into cheers the moment Colin’s ball found its way to the hoop. He’s come such a long way from his early beginnings – way back when we worried if he would EVER even speak – and then to be there – on the middle of a bustling court and enjoying the time and being his unique self – albeit an important member of his team – those are the moments we live to share. Those are the moments that I desire to be as close as possible to. To drink in every blessed second of it all and just enjoy the wonders of life.

Anyway, I decided right then and there – on that court last year – as Colin ran down to get in defensive position – sporting a grin two sizes too big – that I wanted to help out. His team last year had two awesome coaches – a husband and wife who introduced two great kids to this world – but there’s only so much they can do. There were other teams in need of a little volunteer guidance as well.

One of them was led by a friend of mine – a fellow Dad I had met way back when our kids were young and his wife and Andi were becoming friendly via the Mom’s Club. After one game, when our team played his, I casually asked him how he got involved – if he had played hoop before or coached or whatnot. Me – I got zero game!!! I mean, I’ve played pick-up half court basketball with friends dozens of times and in a game of H-O-R-S-E, I can usually get to H-O-R-S before some baller with mad skills devours me but never anything remotely close to organized basketball and certainly not coaching unless you count that one year I led Bill & Hillary Clinton to the 1994 Thatcher Dorm Championship in NBA Jam.

Turns out, this guy Todd was cut from the same cloth as me. No formal coaching on his resume. No formal training to speak of. No full-court heroics. No real hoop dreams. He’s just a good Dad who wanted to give his all to help out some kids as they’re building their skills and learning one of the most important life lessons – how to be good team players and how to be a good sport.

Right then and there, he asked me if I was interested in co-coaching with him this year and I immediately tossed my name in the hat.

That was about a year ago – early 2012 – and you all know, 2012 twisted and turned in directions I never saw coming. Not at that time. But that shows how resilient we all are. Life may toss you a curveball. The trick is not to panic. Square your shoulders. Keep your eye on the ball. Wait for it. And swing away.

Seize all new opportunities.

My year went in a new direction but it never went down. Well – maybe a little – but it’s all in taking the high road. That’s all the course correction you need. And as I write this now – things are looking up. Life is moving on. A new normal has become THE normal and that’s starting to feel pretty good. Very promising.

So a couple of months ago, I was happily reminded of my promise to lend a hand and coach some good, young boys as they learn about basketball and what it means to be a team. To support each other. To look for the open man and not just fire away every time they have the ball. To get open and help each other out. To cheer their fellow team on – EVERY SINGLE MEMBER – and respect their opponents.

We’re about halfway through the season and each week rewards us as we see these kids coming along. They’re learning so much from two coaches who may not have been baptized in basketball culture but know enough to lead them down the right path. It’s the least we can do.

And fortunately, the top item on my coach’s “Bucket” list was to insure each player got at least one basket this season – the same marching orders that saw Colin get the ball last year, time after time, until he finally drained his fateful shot.

So – a couple of weeks ago – once we were about 4 games into our 10 game season, I talked to Todd and compared notes on who we thought had not had a basket. We whittled the list down to 4 kids. Colin had actually just hit his shot the week prior, with no intervention on our part at all. He got it organically through the course of the game when one kid fired a pass at him, he pivoted, launched it and it dropped in. At the time, the crowd went wild – a raucous echo of last year’s applause. I’ll say this much about this community. They really GET IT! There are so many parent volunteers in our schools and one thing I’ve learned is Colin – for all of his social delays early on – has become quite the Big Man on Campus over the years… so they all know him and love him and embrace any little quirks. That type of communal spirit is hard to find on a town charter but is the best currency a good community trades in.

Anyway, I was enormously relieved that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting Colin the ball. I’m his Dad. I don’t need that kind of pressure.

But there were 4 boys who had not and that did haunt. Fortunately, we had plenty of time before us.

Last week, during our 5th game – one more boy got a basket bringing us to three with 4 games left on the schedule. So, this past Saturday, I started things off with a quick discussion with Todd as we solidified our game plan for practice. We knew we wanted to work on rebounding and getting the kids to follow their shots. So, that was a must. And we had 3 more boys who had yet to nail the net.

By our 3rd substitution that day – we were down to just one. Two kids, in the first five minutes, had got there first points. Each one, more elated than the last.

But still – there was one remaining.

Just before the final substitution of the day, as I was sitting on the bench with my squad of five boys and Todd was on the court with the other five, I spoke to this boy and told him not to worry. We had many games left and we were going to draw up some plays guaranteed to get him a basket. He seemed real hopeful. More importantly, he said the best thing you ever want to hear. “I just like to play. I’m having fun.”

That’s all that matters in the end. It doesn’t matter what happens so long as you have fun doing it. It’s not the destination but the journey.

Anyway – the final subs were called so I trooped out with my team – knowing we had 8 minutes before the growing throngs of parents and kids assembling at the doorway burst through and grabbed the court for the next session. So, we got out there and got into our defensive scheme as it was the other team’s ball at the moment. We had to defend our hoop.

Things changed very quickly as one of our top players stripped the ball and launched a fast break. The thing is – at this age – all of these kids are fast so within a moment, the “swarm D” that these kids all seem to play was surrounding our player. He looked right. Nothing. He looked left. Nothing. Right again. Nada. Left. And that’s when he saw an open teammate. So he fired a pass.

Right to the our last boy who had yet to score a point on the season.

He grabbed the pass and for a split second looked at it. That’s when I recalled this very moment was a rarity. Outside of practice, he had scarcely got his hands on the ball as he was often staying back along the perimeter, removed from the action. We had been encouraging the boys to play inward. To work rebounds. To help each other out.

And they had. They were progressing. They were getting the message.

And that’s exactly what he had done at this particular instant. I was close enough to him (as we act as the refs too) and I whispered (“Shoot it.“). He turned. He pivoted. His arms raised. He fired.

He drained it!!!

I was literally 3 feet away and when this little boy turned to head down to rejoin our team on defense, he had the widest smile – all aglow. A similar smile I had seen a year ago – from a quite a distance away – when Colin got his first basket.

That feeling of pure elation buoyed by a large cheer throughout the crowd. A crows that truly gets it.

And like that, this boy rejoined his team – getting set and waiting for his man to make his way down so he could deny him the basket that he had just rightfully claimed for himself.

“Hey, Coach – How many baskets do we have?”

Sometimes it’s only one that matters most.

Well this takes me back.

Earlier this week, Colin & Aria showed up at the apartment after school bearing a gift. As they were cleaning the basement back at their Mom’s house, they unearthed a rare glimpse of me way back when. I mean WAY BACK!!!

It was a slight baby book – just a handful of pages with a dozen or so pics detailing my first days on this Earth. A few posed baby pics and then some casual shots with baby Eddie (*groan*) lounging on the couch with my Dad, Big Ed. I don’t know how you can tell the couch from the wall paper from the clothes on our back – it seems like brown and beige upholstery was America’s hot fashion in the early 70′s. Until I saw these pictures, I’d never been more thankful for disco – at least it injected some color. All hail ABBA!!!

One thing these pics reminded me is sometimes dual perspectives arrive at the same destination.

I was instantly transported – not necessarily to those years which of course I cannot remember – but I have almost total recall over every major moment in my life starting around 5 – so things like this let me do the time warp again. The kids thought it was cool to see pics of their Dad – who I’m sure to them is this large, lumbering figure (don’t laugh) – suddenly brought way down to size.

All three of us arrived at the same conclusion. Time flies.

There are so few pictures of me from way back when still in existence. I don’t know where they went. I know when I was very young, living with my parents and at the time – only sister Jenna – in Malden, MA – we suffered an apartment fire and were forced to move. I assume some pics were lost in that calamity. Then – while in Everett, MA – we were struck by another inferno, and again – we may have lost some things in the flames. By the time Noelle arrived, five years after my birth, they were keeping better records hence a few pics like this one have survived.

And then, of course, technology is to blame. These days, you could probably print out every single picture we ever took of Colin and Aria – arrange them in a flip book and watch them age minute by minute before your eyes. Flip it fast enough and you might even be transported to the future so make sure you lay down some big money on the Cubs finally winning the World Series.

But back then – well, y’all know the drill. We had to drop mad coin on flash cubes and paying for film exposure which more often than not came out over-exposed and may explain that shadowy picture of Bigfoot that supposedly exists. Yeah – nobody’s buying that. We know it was just some Dad, heading off for a shower while camping and then one trick of the light and a stoned CVS Photoshop developer later – and voila – we now have the Mythic Man Beast of the Midwest.

I don’t want to go too far down this ‘Back in my Day’ road. Look, I know what the calendar says and the fashions in these pics certainly render me a relic of bygone age – BUT – I firmly believe you are only as old as you feel and honestly, these days, I feel pretty damn good. I gots my swerve on (hold on – let me hit up Urban Dictionary and make sure I didn’t just sexually harass all of you with that comment).

Seriously though, I like to think I’m a very young 40. It’s all in the mindset. And in keeping reasonably healthy. I mean – I don’t go crazy. Bring on the pizza and beer – I just gotta’ make sure I eat my asparagus and hit the gym a few times a week, too. I’m sure I’ll tumble off my cliff at some point but these days, I’m perfectly fine with where I stand. And having turned the page on a new chapter, and staying positive and upbeat all the way through – taking that proverbial high road – I have a feeling good tidings are in store. I firmly believe good guys finish first.

So I don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on the past. That’s a trap best avoided. You learn from it, sure, but as I’ve said so often – you need to live your life as free of regret as possible presuming you don’t do something that obviously devastates someone. If you are single-handedly responsible for global warming – then Yes – you should regret that. But past moves and digressions or just gazing back at the good old days – I think that’s a shame.

I crested 2013 after going through a CRAZY 2012 and resolved to make this year a good one.

When that year began, it was pregnant with possibility. I knew I was turning 40 and I was ready to embrace it. I mean, I wrote 40 articles about my life as a countdown to the big 4-0. It’s not like I was feverishly sweating over a ticking digital read-out screaming “Which wire do I cut? Is it the red one or the green?” I was ready for that thing to hit zero. No fear. But the prospect of people tossing back beer in my honor? BRING IT!!!

Also, I knew I had my play ‘The Monkeybar Mafia‘ coming down the pike and honestly – that is TO DATE, my creative highpoint. That I wrote a play and then got even one person to read it and then got it on the slate for production and saw people flock to audition, eager to grab roles I wrote and make it their own, and then saw it open before 6 full audiences and heard people come up and share personal tales of their own, of how it connected to them – anyway, run-on sentence be damned, that was an event for the ages. I couldn’t have known that’s the way it would work out when looking down the pike at the beginning of the year but I had high hopes.

Hopes that were eclipsed.

And some that were dashed.

That’s the big one. In 2012 I got divorced. I know you all know that but it really is officially in the books. The sad mission we started on early in 2012 (right around the end of Feb) and then announced to the world in late Spring felt very real when I moved out during the Summer and got imprinted in the books in October – just a few days before Monkeybar premiered. It becomes officially official in just a few short weeks as the way it all works – after 120 days from your court declaration of divorce, it’s all really real.

But as I’ve said before, it was really real for quite a time before we verbalized it to each other. No, it’s not what I set out to do way back when I said “I do” – but that’s the point – you never know where the road ambles. And the rhetoric I have repeated since announcing this last year remains the same. We are different people. We grew apart. We wish each other the absolute best. And we’re both good people. We’re both a good catch for whatever special someone comes along next. We both care deeply and treasure our friends and family above all. We harbor no ill feelings. We wish each other only the best. We’re not a freaking’ Adele song.

So, it’s not what I imagined was headed my way in 2012 but the truth is – it happened – and now, where I sit, it’s high time to turn the page. And if anything, living through everything grants you insight and perspective. I’m not 20 anymore. I know what I like and what I want and what I deserve. And I know what I can deliver. It’s not over-confidence; just a notion that I’m not going to dive in if something doesn’t feel completely right. You have one life. You owe it to yourself to make it the best one.

These pics reminded me how quickly time flies. I may not recall that exact moment sitting with my Dad on that couch in a 3-family apartment building a stone’s throw from the Mystic River but I do very distinctly remember my Dad looking like that. It doesn’t seem that long ago in my mind’s eye.

Every new day becomes a yesterday. Every memory a dream. Every picture an artifact.

These pics remind me how much living I’ve done and how much more is yet to come.