Day 90: Saturday you're pretty cool.

Mowed the lawn for the first time this year.

My daughter played int the sprinkler for the first time this year. (It was 92 degrees in Lincoln, NE.)

I hit golf balls for the first time this year.

I played guitar.

I watched my little cousin play soccer.

I talked with my uncle Gene.

I'm watching the Final Four.

Saturday, you're not so bad.

Day 89: Wrestlemania Weekend Is Here!

This is Wrestlemania weekend, people. This Sunday, arguably the greatest sporting event of all will take place. No. 29 to be exact. Live from Miami, under the stars with God as its witness. Ring the bell.

Here’s a deep, dark secret that I’ve managed to keep hidden away from pretty much everyone other than my family and closest friends (a secret I’m quite positive they didn’t have knowledge of): I’m a major, major, major pro wrestling geek. I’m mean major. Unbridled. Unequivocal. Undisputed. Unadulterated. Undeniable. I am a pro wrestling fanatic. Let the jeers, jibes, and jokes begin.

From five years old on to today, I’m a fan. More than a fan. A zealot. From the days of AWA wrestling airing on my television screen at 10:30 p.m. on Sunday nights to the Monday Night Wars of the 1990s broadcast on Monday Night Nitro and Monday Night Raw on TBS and the USA Network, respectively on to today, I am a fan. From Georgia Championship Wrestling aired each and every Saturday on the SuperStation promptly at 5:05 to Extreme Championship Wrestling beamed on The Nashville Network on Friday nights, I am a fan.

I don’t feel I’m boasting in the least when I say I’m somewhat of an idiot savant where pro wrestling trivia, facts, history, etc. are concerned. I’m not saying that I’m necessarily proud of this. I’d just as soon harbor all kinds of mathematical or musical knowledge in my skull, but it is what it is. And let me state emphatically, I’m not some fly-by-night, Johnny Come Lately, either. This is a lifelong passion (some would say curse) we’re talking about here. From the moment I witnessed Andre The Giant at the Omaha Civic Auditorium while sitting next to my dad and my sister, I was hooked. The day I saw Rufus “Railroad” Jones at The Pershing Auditorium with my boys Brian and Daryl was one my greatest. (Those two losers have since grown up I assume and moved on to better things, like getting a life.) The day The Fabulous Freebirds “broke” Ted Diabiase’s neck (before he became The Million Dollar Man) early one Saturday morning in the Atlanta studios made my year. The first time I saw The Legion Of Doom enter the arena to “Iron Man” I “marked out.” The day The American Dream Dusty Rhodes (my all-time favorite wrestler) beat Harley Race for the NWA world championship was better than my birthday. The day Dusty and The Russian Nightmare Nikita Koloff formed the Super Powers to battle The Four Horseman was my own personal global summit. Peace has formed. The day I learned Magnum TA had legit broke his neck in a motorcycle accident, I felt my own personal loss. The morning after Owen Hart plummeted to his death in Kansas City I was numb. The instant after I saw Cactus Jack lay down his “Cane Dewey” promo I was forever changed.

Early on, of course, I believed pro wrestling was 100% legit. Try to tell me different and I’d put you in an arm bar and make you take it back. I believed Nick Bowkwinkel was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I believed Bruiser Brody was from “Parts Unknown.” I believed The Crusher really was the man “Who Made Milwaukee Famous.” If I’d seen Super Destroyer I or II walking down the street with their masks on, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. That goes for Mr. Wrestling, too. I’m proud to have witnessed the early Wrestlemanias from The Stable Bar in Ashland. I’m proud to have owned Road Warriors action figures for nearly 30 years. I’m proud to have read scads of wrestlers’ biographies and that I can claim some of my dearest possessions are Nature Boy Ric Flair DVD sets.

My love affair with pro wrestling ran so deep in my early teenage years, my dream was to someday work for a wrestling magazine, of which I had accumulated dozens and dozens of copies by then thanks to parents who indulged my oddball fascination. One day I planned to own my own magazine. I often dreamt of living in the south, going to matches every night with my camera and notebook, and scribing great pieces on why The Great Kabuki’s green mist was the most underrated “foreign object” in all of pro wrestling. I often daydreamed about the day I’d land an interview with Gordon Solie, “The Dean of Pro Wrestling Announcers,” and pick his brain for hours and hours. I longed to travel to Mid-South Wrestling and meet Dr. Death Steve Williams or World Class Wrestling and give my condolences to the Von Erich family directly for the many tragedies that befell their family. I still long to take in a Lucha Libre card in Mexico and wear my coveted purple luchador mask all the while.

My love affair of pro wrestling survived countless eye rolls from my mother growing up, and her countless inquiries of “Why do you watch this crap?” My love affair has survived the same treatment from my wife and an assortment of girlfriends before her. It’s survived a seemingly endless stream of “you know this is fake, right?” questions from concerned family members and friends. My own kids have often questioned their old man as to “what exactly do you see in this?”

That’s a good question. What do I see in pro wrestling? What exactly have I continued to see for pretty near four decades now? Early on it was all about escapism. Some kids read comic books or played with G.I. Joes. I watched wrestling. It was all about diving into a different world that looked and felt a whole lot different from the one I saw when staring out my bedroom window every day. A world with grown men busting each other in the face. A world where bad guys got to break the rules and nobody could do anything about it. A world where Bobby “The Brain” Heenan could use his razor-sharp wit to insult anyone and everyone and brag and boast and tell it like it was. I loved the power of the Texas brainbuster and the claw and the figure four and DDT. I loved the cage match. The bullrope match. The Texas death match. The lights out match. The last man standing match. I love the loser leave town match and the loser shaves his head match and the your valet becomes my property if I win match. I  loved that world.

Later on, wrestling became my ongoing saga, only except of unfolding in book form I watched it unfold on the tube. Sometimes the sage emanated from Minneapolis, other times it took place in Madison Square Garden. Most often it came from Atlanta, Georgia. In high school, when my girlfriend introduced me to her friend who was visiting for the summer and I learned that she was Atlanta, I flipped out. Eventually, I made her promise she would visit The Omni when she got back during the next big card and get me autographs. An eye roll ensued.

Today, pro wrestling has been exposed and altered, and any suspension of belief that was once possible has long been absent for me and pretty much any other fan. The Internet took care of that. What is still left for me is the backstage business and the behind the scenes happenings. It fascinates me. I’m endlessly enthralled why so and so was fired. Why a guy decided to “shoot” on another during a match and intentional hurt him. Why a guy goes off the script and “shoots” on “the mic,” breaking kayfabe and exposing the business by bringing reality into fantasy. I’m fascinated as to why certain guys are demoted to the middle of the card. Why someone is catching “heat” from management. Why someone won’t “do the honors” and “put another guy over” in the ring by letting him beat him. I love this secret world, one that can be sordid and sleazy but also honorable and united. I love that wrestling is like a secret society that only a few are allowed to enter and participate in. A society that only a few can rise to the top of. I love the “business” and that certain guys can “draw money” and others become “jobbers.” I’m hooked to this world that functions separately from the normal world, where men and women travel 300-plus days a year, hopping from town to town, sometimes wrestling in front of tens of thousands but sometimes wrestling in front of 50 people in a high school gym. I love the ecosystem it forms. It’s like early Hollywood or Wall Street or Skulls and Bones.

Am I embarrassed by pro wrestling? Yeah, sometimes. It doesn’t take a genius to understand a 44-year-old man probably has better things to do with his time than watch hours of faked sporting contests or read biographies of wrestlers or seek out videos from Japanese organizations to get a glimpse of The Giant Baba. Sometimes when my kids pass through the room with one of their friends and wrestling is on the television, I truly feel badly for them. I truly feel I’m putting them in the awkward position of having to answer, “Why the hell does your dad watch that?” I truly feel bad for putting my wife through countless dissertations about why Vern Gagne being inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame is so remarkable given that Vince McMahon ran Gagne out of business, took his lifeblood away from him, and left him an old, broken man with no future. I do truly feel bad and sometimes embarrassed.

But I can reconcile all that. Pro wrestling makes me happy. I like that I name all my fantasy sports teams after the Wild Samoans and that I can make my daughter laugh with embarrassment when I drop her off at school and let out a convincing Nature Boy-inspired “Whooooooo!” as she opens the door to get out. I like that I’ve wrestled with all my children when they were young, including these days with one Rockin’ Rubi June, otherwise known as Little Fists of Fury. I like it that Mick Foley is the “Hardcore Legend” and “King of The Death Matches” but also a college graduate and one of the most giving, charitable men walking the planet. I like that to this very day, I will actually stop what I’m doing at 5:05 p.m. on Saturday nights because the urge to turn the TV to Channel 11 and tune in Ted Turner’s old network for World Championship Wrestling for the next two hours overcomes me. I like that I’ve saw The Midnight Rockers before they were the Midnight Rockers and that Black Jack Lanza glared our way at the Civic Auditorium and that the Mulkey Brothers, Buck “Rock and Roll” Zumhofe, and George “Scrap Iron” Gadaski are my all-time favorite jobbers. I’m proud to still have copies of Pro Wrestling Illustrated from my youth. I’m proud that I still “pop” when I know something special is happening in the square circle before my eyes. I like that I like pro wrestling.

Roll your eyes. I don’t care.

Day 88: Hey, Squirt!

There’s a 7-UP pop machine where I work, only it doesn’t sell 7-UP. I’m perturbed by this. Not only is it false advertising, I’d actually like to buy the uncola once in a while and drink it. As it is, though, I’m stuck with a bevy of Coke and Coke-related options, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, and Mt. Dew and the various subgenres of that soda.

I gave up Coke months and months ago due to an incident that involved the Grand Canyon National Park and it's plan to ban disposal water bottles in the park, which represent the leading form of waste the park deals with. Coke, a major contributor to the park but also the distributor of Dasani water, which is sold in the park, objected naturally. The head of the Park Service subsequently vetoed the ban. I didn’t appreciate the way Coke seemingly threw around its corporate muscle and influence, so I set about on my own personal protest. 

(For more detail, click here.) 

Despite being an obsessed Coke addict for more years than I can count, I gave up that syrupy, beautiful nectar, and it wasn’t easy. Still, I haven’t tasted a drop since, even though the Park Service eventually decided to go through with the planned ban on disposable water bottles in the park. So, even though I could begin downing can after can of Coke now with a clean conscience, I’m choosing to still abstain. Even during my most intense and joyful Coke-drinking years, I knew it wasn’t good for me and that it was probably eroding my insides slowly little by little. Thus, I've been on the search for a new soda since to take Coke's place, with the intent of finding a winner that could offer a at least a few redeeming qualities.

I hate Pepsi, so that was out. Dr. Pepper tastes like a melted candy bar gone bad, and even thinking about taking a slurp makes me want to gag a little. A can of Mt. Dew might as well be a can of ecstasy for me, what with all the hallucinations and mind games it seems to play inside my skull. And I’d just as soon drink the sweat out of my socks than drink a diet soda. Sprite is OK, but guess who makes it? Right, Coke. The same with Dr. Pepper, Mello Yello, Mr. Pibb, Minute Maid, and god only knows what other liquids.

What doesn’t Coke, make? Squirt, that’s what. And surprisingly, the 7-UP machine in my building that doesn’t sell 7-UP does sell Squirt. As far as Squirt’s redeeming qualities go, it’s caffeine free. I don't really have anything against caffeine, though, so this isn’t a biggie for me. It contains natural citrus flavor, but I’m not sure exactly what constitutes “flavor,” so I guess I can’t count that either. Squirt has been canned and sold since 1938, so it has longevity on its side. There's only 140 calories awaiting. Plus, it’s the “Thirst Quencher,” and my thirst often needs quenching around 3 p.m. or so. We’re a good fit. Most of all, I like the way Squirt tastes, and I consider it the underdog of sodas. Unless I’m not aware of something, the makers of Squirt aren’t strong-arming anyone with their global might. As a bonus, Squirt comes in a bright flashy can, and it tastes damn fine with vodka or gin.

What I’d really like to be able to partake in is a nice, cold bottle of orange Nehi like the machine at my dad’s work used to sell years ago for only a quarter. Nothing could beat that, but those days are gone. Instead, I'm left with a 7-UP that doesn't sell what it promotes but does sell Squirt. I'm good with that.

Day 87: Making Sense Of Trayvon Martin's Death

Unless I’m missing something, only two people know what happened Feb. 26 in Sanford, Fla., when George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin crossed paths. That would be Zimmerman and Martin. What we do know is that a kid is dead and that a bullet that came from Zimmerman’s gun is the reason why. Why that bullet left Zimmerman’s gun, only Zimmerman knows. Martin can’t give us his opinion. Whether Zimmerman is telling the truth, only he knows. Martin can’t offer a contradicting account. Whether Zimmerman really was acting in self-defense, only he knows. Martin can’t dispute his story. Whether Zimmerman really did feel his life was at risk from Martin, only he knows. Why he didn’t heed the instructions of 911 dispatchers and stop following Martin, only he knows. But what Zimmerman and you and I and everyone else who has bothered to take the responsibility and follow this story know, no matter which side of the fence you stand on, is that if Zimmerman had ceased to follow Martin, his gun wouldn’t have fired, and Martin would be alive.

I’m certainly in no position to offer anything in the way of proclaiming Zimmerman’s guilt or innocence, and I’ll try not to. It would be irresponsible to do otherwise. I do believe the case has been bungled at just about every turn, and as with just about any case involving law enforcement I’m sure there are details we aren’t privy to for one reason or another. That’s not Zimmerman’s fault, however. I also feel comfortable stating that I hold a strong opinion that when a person goes looking for trouble, he will generally find it one way or the other. But again, that’s assuming Zimmerman was looking for trouble, and I don’t definitely know that. Only Zimmerman does. I don’t know the man. I don’t know his history. I don’t know his perceptions or the preconceived notions he may or may have not possessed. I don’t know what thoughts he conjured in his mind sitting in his automobile or what moved him to get out of it and actively engage in what he had to have known could be a dangerous situation. I don’t know what he felt was so at risk or who was so at risk that he deemed a confrontation with a stranger on a dark street was absolutely necessary immediately. Again, all I know is that a boy is dead, and the facts, as we know them currently, are that no property was stolen or damaged, and no one other than Zimmerman was put at risk by Martin. Further, Zimmerman’s risk was at his own choosing.

It’s so difficult to not want to draw immediate conclusions when cases like this surface. Most of us fall passionately on one side or the other where racism is concerned. We either hate it or we embrace it, if not overtly than subconsciously or even covertly. There has been so much racism and words and violence and injustices and lives lost tied to racism throughout man’s history, it’s nearly impossible not to draw immediate conclusions. Seemingly everyone walking the planet has seen, heard, experienced, or taken part in some type of racist action. The effects of racism have created such wide chasms, the resulting tension and fear and barriers between races seems as if they will never erode. It seems sometimes that the potential of man will always be held hostage by racism and, in at least my opinion, by short-sided thinking, ignorance, and the past. Sadly, although I see the positive in protests and marches and petitions and celebrities tweeting photos of themselves donning hoodies and U.S. senators doing the same on the congressional floor to send a bigger message, I’m left to wonder how much of a difference they will make. While I’m in favor of anything that shrinks the chasms, I wonder sometimes if the chasms can ever be completely sealed. For my kids, grandkids, and yours’, I hope so.  

I see racism or covert signs of it every day in Facebook posts. I hear it in the voices of those surrounding me. I hear about accounts from my children and their friends at school, including firsthand experiences. I’ve heard forms of racism from the time I was a little boy living in a small town via insensitive jokes, hateful imagery, and more. Hell, I live in Nebraska, as corn-breed white an atmosphere as there seemingly is. One only has to look to the op-ed section of the local paper on any given day to know racism thrives.

And still I come back to the notion that all these thoughts I’ve managed to ramble through are based on the assumption that Zimmerman’s motives and actions were racially driven. I don’t know that. I don’t know if the millions of people accusing him of such are wrong or right. I don’t know how to feel about my president making the assertion that a boy died because he was wearing a hoodie. I think I’m fine with it, but I’m not certain. The president is still just a man after all, complete with feelings and opinions of his own. The fact that he has seen his own image and name repeatedly used globally and in his own homeland (and yes, this is his homeland) in disgusting posters, bumper stickers, jokes, emails, etc., by fellow politicians, judges, and everyday citizens leads me to believe that if anyone has earned the right to express an opinion on the topic, it’s him. But still, I don’t know if it’s his place or anyone else’s to assume guilt. Seems the only thing I’m certain of is that racism exists. I’m not certain racism is at the center of this case, though. Viewing video of black men who claim to know Zimmerman and don’t consider him a racist has to carry weight, doesn’t it?

Ultimately, I’m left to feel that if there’s something positive to gain from a boy losing his life it’s that so many people are talking about it. It’s tempting to believe that as with so many things in American culture today, a good number of people are taking up the Trayvon Martin cause simply because it’s the hip thing to do. I know deep down, though, that a good many people do care sincerely and do want change. I don’t know Zimmerman’s intentions or lack thereof, and I don’t know if he is indeed a racist. Ultimately, what’s seems more important is that he was involved in a death, and we need to know what his role was. Moreover, I believe that there is good that come from this event. I don’t know what the justice is where this case is concerned or if it will come to pass, but I feel encouraged that a boy’s life will transcend the streets of Sanford, Fla., and take on a wider global relevance. I truly hope that entails a positive outcome. I wish I could better articulate how Trayvon Martin’s death has affected me and better sense of it. I guess in the end, his death leaves me hoping once again for a better reality.

  

Day 86: Making Friends With Coraline

As I suspect is the case with a lot of little boys and girls, my four-year-old daughter is fascinated by the “dark side.” You know, witches, wizards, monsters, vampires, ghosts, and the like. What’s not to like about these entities for a little kid? All these characters are so left of center from the humdrum, worker bee mentality that is normal everyday life, they can’t but leave a long-lasting influence. They act like a magnet on a child’s creative streak, pulling them in for a closer inspection. For the most part, people in the real world look alike, talk alike, dress alike, think alike, and move alike. They also tend to order little kids around just alike, too. To my daughter, even someone like, say, the little Korean girl who is our neighbor might not speak English or have the same facial structure, but she still walks upright and her mouth moves the same and she has two arms and two legs and she skips and runs pretty much the same. A witch, though, now she looks different. She talks differently. Her skin is different. Her eyes set upon you differently. She creates a presence. Wonderment. She entices and enthralls. She beckons a small child. A witch cooks up curiosity and intrigue in that black kettle of hers. The attraction is pretty obvious when you think about it.

From even before my daughter was two, she was fascinated by vampires. I’m not sure how she was introduced to them. It’s not exactly like we go out of our way to expose her to the dead walking earth. It probably happened around Halloween. At any rate, she was fascinated, to the point all the stories I told her at night had to feature a vampire. During the day, she often asked questions about vampires. Vampire this. Vampire that. Truthfully, it got tiresome after a few months. Still, her curiosity fascinated me. Around the same time she had a similar affinity to ghosts. “Where do they live?” “What do they look like?” “What do they eat?” “When can I see one?”

I tend to believe small children gravitate to the unexplainable because their imaginations’ haven’t been tainted yet. They haven’t been curbed or thwarted or beaten to a nub. Anything is possible, and when that’s the case, children will allow anything to transpire. My older daughter was much the same. She was much more apt, for example, to want to delve into “The Nightmare Before Christmas” than “Mary Poppins,” and I can’t say I blame her. Visually at least, there’s no comparison. Mentally, though, I think there’s an even better payoff. The what-ifs and the if-only’s and the I-wish-I-could’s tend to live on much longer after witnessing characters with unique voices and stylings and personalities than with characters who you seemingly come across hundreds of times a day, so much so they tend to blend into one another. (Next time you’re at a football or basketball with thousands of others, count the number of people who stand out visually.)

Periodically, my four-year-old goes through a “Coraline” phase and watches the movie for several days in a row. Such has been the case the past several days. I’m not one of those parents who objects to repeated viewings of a movie. It might be irritating, depending on the movie, but it’s understandable. After all, how many adults watch films and pick up every nuance the first time through? Not many, and adults presumably possess a more advanced mind (although creatively, I’m not so sure). I completely understand her fascination with Coraline the character, and I find myself in the same boat.

Coraline is a strong female. Bonus. Coraline is adventuresome and daring. Bonus. Coraline is willing to do battle for what she believes is right. Definite bonus. Coraline, at times, is lonely and disenfranchised having left her old friends behind to move to a new house and town. What little kid hasn’t been left to feel lonely or isolated after asking adult after adult or older sibling after older sibling to play, only to be told, “I can’t right now” or “I’m too busy.” Coraline feels ostracized by her parents, both who are too busy working to pay her the attention she needs. What child hasn’t felt that way at one time or another? But also, Coraline is silly and exuberant and full of life. She’s odd but endearing. Her friends are the same. Best of all, Coraline can enter and engage in other worlds and realities. She can exist in two places: the what is and the what could be. She can literally have the best of both worlds, and what’s not enthralling about that. Why wouldn’t a kid want to sit through repeated viewings and experience that sensation of ultimate freedom?  

  

Some might argue that “Coraline” isn’t appropriate viewing for a four-year-old. I’d argue they’re wrong. I’d also question if they’ve attempted to watch the movie through the eyes of a child or did they just arrive at their assumptions based on the movie’s visuals and deem it too creepy or uncomfortable just become it appears “different”—something so many people do with so many things, including skin color, clothes, hair styles, uniforms, etc. Little kids don’t see those barriers, and they don’t see “evil” unless they’re taught to. Left to make up their own minds, they’ll see options or exceptions or possibilities. Thank god, little kids don’t see black and white.

Odd as it might seem to be thankful and feel fortunate for a fictional character, I feel both for “Coraline.” Anything that can create an atmosphere and environment that visually, audibly, and mentally breaks free of the norm and that provokes thought rather than dictates how one should think is OK in my book, or in this case, on my screen. 

Day 85: Nicknames

I'm pretty fanatical about nicknames. I love giving them. Don't know why. Never really thought about it much until this weekend while I was playing basketball in a tournament. I had a guy named Mike on my team, but for some reason, without any forethought or provocation, I kept calling him Michael throughout the games. To my knowledge, no one else calls him that. (Not that "Michael" is exactly a huge leap from Mike, but you get the point.) I've just always liked calling people by something slightly different from the rest of the crowd. Or maybe light years different.

The earliest nickname I can remember gifting someone was my friend Tony. We grew up together, were in the same classroom from kindergarten on, and by the power of Facebook, I still keep up with him today. Must have been around second grade or so, I started calling him Wiener for some reason. It's been so long ago, I don't have clue one why I dubbed him as such, but I did. Ever since, whenever we cross paths, that's what I call him. If I were to see him right now, it would be "Wiener, how have you been? You look great," and so on. I'm guessing he wasn't exactly thrilled with the title then and probably isn't today, but once I've stuck a nickname to you, it's yours.

A lot of my nicknames aren't really all that creative. In a lot of instances, I just add a "y" or "ie to the person in question's name. So, Clark because Clarky. George becomes "Georgie."

I have been so bold as to make the leap from Mikah to Mike to Mikey. Other times, I actually put a little thought into it. Shayne became El Shayno, a mix of Shayne and El Nino, which is fitting if you know Shayne. Sometimes, though, I just get lazy and do the first letter of the person's name thing. So, Daryl becomes D. Della become D, too. Ella becomes E. Chris becomes C (or Chrissy, depending on the mood I'm in.) Elsewhere, I just rip off something that's already been created. Thus, Kevin becomes Special K.

I do really branch out once in a while, though, and go for a major leap. These are my favorites. Thus, Tim becomes G-money or G$ for short. Ella has always been Bean. Mikah has always been Boo. Maybe those last two aren't major leaps, but they're special to me.

Some nicknames I can't claim as having been the one who bestowed them, but I still love them. In other cases, I may have been the perpetrator, but I just can't remember. My dad's friends called him Catfish. Brett was Rambis (so fitting if you saw him play basketball). Brett was also Captain (which was somewhat fitting if you saw him leap from the top of the stairs to the bottom). Chris has always been E.C. to me, although he also goes by Rat to some. Gary was Erkel (a life-action impersonation that no one should witness). George has always been Jorge. Ray has been Ramon. Rubi is Rubicon or Rube-eye or RJ. Lauck was Lauckababy. Growing up, my cousin Roger was Rog (pronounced rouge; a personal favorite but one I can't claim). Scot is Snakulus (another favorite). Steve is Plug. Tami is Tamra (said with an air of pretension).

At some point, I just started calling everyone "kid,"and that works fine for me. I do it so much, it's become a habit. Probably drives some people batty. I have that affect on people.

The all-time favorite nickname that came from my mind is One With Trees. Think golf, a severe slice, and a man named Daryl and you get the picture. It's his Native American name, sort of like Dances With Wolves or Man Called Horse. Beyond being creative (if I say so myself) and unique, it's total appropriate. No matter the hole, no matter the course, no matter the conditions, Daryl is One With Trees. Or at least his ball is. Sometimes this works in his favor and his ball with take a fortuitous bounce back into the middle of the fairway. Other times his ball will bounce off of three trees, a bench, and branch before landing in the water. There is no predicting what will occur. He is just One With Trees.

My own nicknames, those that others have dubbed me, have include Slimfast Buddha (my all-time favorite nickname, period, and copyrighted by Randy Stoppel), Magic, Bulkster, B-dog, Flamer (not my favorite), Flamingo, Blame, Blainster, and Lord Humongous. To be accurate, Lord Humongous was self-dubbed and is my wrestler name when my kids and I enter the squared circle to face off. Most people, though, just call me B.

Everyone deserves a nickname (a good one that's positive, that is). If you don't have one, let me know. I'll be happy to oblige. Just ask, Wiener.

Day 84: Good People Leave Good Impressions

Good people don't have to be people in positions of authority or management or direction. They can just be people who live next to you, people you grew up with, people you meet randomly on the street. The thing I've noticed about good people is they inquire about you first They don't interject their opinion or dictate terms. They ask about your feelings. They ask how you've been. They want to know what you've been up to. They want details, and they want to know for genuine, sincere reasons. The other thing I've noticed about good people is I always feel good after our encounter. Even if the conversations aren't about pleasant circumstances, I feel good. Even if there moment are few or hectic or not nearly as many as I'd like, I feel good afterward.

One of my favorite "good" people had a surprise birthday party in his honor today. If anyone is deserving, it's him. I was a kid when he married my cousin and became a member of the family. Over the years, I've spent progressively more and more time in his presence. I saw him raise some kids, go through good times and bad, experience this thing or that. But always, no matter the day, no matter the time, no matter the situation, his demeanor has seemingly never changed. He's always been a good person. When we cross paths, he has always asked about me first before uttering a word about himself. Always greeted me with a smile. Always left me with a smile. He's seemingly always approached the next minute as he did the one before it.

It's so important to have good people in your life. People you can count on as beacons. People who can guide you through action. People who point the way through their purpose. It's important to have people who are steady. Good people don't have to be anything but themselves. I'm not sure how good people are created or shaped or change or don't change. I'm not sure why they are the way they are. I'm not sure why there aren't more good people, and why we can't stop long enough to bear witness to the way their live their lives day in and day out and learn from it. I'm not sure why more people aren't willing to pass the credit to others. To share the glory. To position themselves second instead of first. I include myself among this group. Thankfully, though, I feel I can at least recognize the good people I've been fortunate enough to have land in my life and sense their value and revel in it when I can. I've been blessed to know many such people, and although it might have taken me a while to realize there was much I could learn and mimic, I'm glad I'm doing so now.