The Old Truck

I enjoyed driving around in my father-in-law's little, beat-up pickup truck today as I waited for the brakes to be fixed on my newer, bigger, higher-rising, more-adorned Tacoma.

That little truck was my first vehicle out of college in 1997 and carried me to work at my first "real" job at a newspaper along the South Carolina coast.

It was an "old" 1993 Toyota pickup with a stick-shift and a cassette player.

I remember driving that truck that first day at work -- when I first realized that when I went home, I didn't then have to do any homework.

I remember being on the cusp of being married and being a renter and being excited about the place we could get with a joint income.

I carried a few drunk folks around in the back of it, and I managed to carry in my truck bed a bucket full of crabs from the marshes that somehow managed to stumble into being caught.

I drove it back in a haze to Columbia when I found out my uncle had died under a bridge. The seat didn't lean back. When my herniated disk flared up, it meant I couldn't turn to see the traffic when I changed lanes.

Four years went by, we moved to the Upstate, and along came my first son.

For the first year of his life, my wife drove the truck to work so that I could take the little baby in a car with a back seat.

As bad of a driver as she seems to (unsubstantially) think I am, she managed to dent the crap out of the rear side and all but crush the bumper. That warms my heart.

Then, we made the decision to take on some debt and buy a truck with some seats behind.

For the baby.

And for me. I always wanted a big truck. And with a CD player.

My father-in-law -- smart and successful and business savvy -- bought that thing off me and drives it regularly still. He managed to paint it himself, with a healthy dose of yoeman experimentation that adds to its charm.

I drove it around town today.

I could feel the gears moving in my hand. I had to make sure I didn't pop it into 1st when I meant for it to be in 3rd down a hill. I balanced downshifting with using the brakes in neutral -- (save brake pads or save gas?). I hated the guy who pulled so close behind me on a hill.

My back sat upright. It took me a while to realize that it wouldn't fall apart going 75 mph on the interstate.

No cassettes ... but no need ... because the radio doesn't work anymore.

As I approached a traffic light today, I thought,"This is cool. This was me when I was 23 -- simple, unencumbered, unassuming."

Driving the old truck was nice.

By the end of the day, I decided to take it to my son's soccer practice before picking up my truck. We would ride together. I could tell him a few stories.

He enjoyed hearing them.

But as I continued en route to pick up my truck -- the one I love in its own way -- I found myself ready to return to it.

As simple and unencumbered as everything was -- without the responsibilities that I now realize have come to define me in ways that I would have never known -- I missed my life as I know it now.

Would I want to go back?

Yes. To the freedom. And to the young legs.

But not.

Not to the loneliness and lack of purpose. Not to asking the questions that didn't matter.

It's nice to know:

I could go back to driving my old truck, and I would be happy.

I could go back to being 23, and I would be happy (and better looking).

Or I can be where I am now -- driving around with a nostalgic look less steeped in history. To the empty backseat where both of my boys have spoken and done things that will be enshrined forever in my heart.

I realize I like it where I am, too.

And I like enjoying automatic shift.

Especially now that they have cell phones.

"... That Means It Ain't Stepped On, Dig Me?"

"Oops, I did it again..."


I mean, right?

Doesn't Sarah Palin in her '80s college days -- wearing a shirt that reads, "I may be broke but I'm not flat busted" -- look like a brunette, pre-psycho Britney?

I know it's offensive to objectify a former Alaskan beauty pageant queen wearing a t-shirt extolling the virtues of having large breasts in favor of a less-desirable state of personal economics ...

... especially when she's the Republican running for vice president ...

But, oops, it is what it is.

London's Going To Be Cool -- Like, Really, Is It Going To Be Hot There?

"Go home. Your dad wouldn't even break my skateboard for me."

How often do you hear a kid in the neighborhood tell that to your kid?

Well, it happened this week. Seriously.

Anyway ...




* I know the Olympics are done, and they did whatever overblown ceremony to signal it, but I can't help but go out again on the porch and watch the men's volleyball team (the last event) win gold on the primetime replay.

* It's depressing. They just flash backed to the Jason Lezak relay split.

* I guess China wins because we heard the Chinese national anthem more than ours. We had more Americans on the medal stand, though. Not bad considering they've got about 500 gazillion more people and teach their children how to flip on a balance beam at age 3.

* How is it that John Williams composes every bad-ass song for every bad-ass visual spectacle?

* The basketball team won gold against Spain, thank goodness. They did it right -- and with as much humility as you can expect from guys who can do what they do. And Kobe has finally turned the corner in the hearts and minds of old, crotchety white guys who think all NBA players are criminals.

* I heard the gold medal game was one of the best international basketball games ever. I wouldn't know, because it started at 2:30 a.m. over here and I could only last the first half.

* Jeremy Wariner got a gold medal. But he couldn't do it without his archrival who beat him individually. It's interesting to watch individuals in such an individualistic, egocentric sport work together as a team. Watching the 400m relay is kind of awkward while at the same time compelling.

* Remember when we were so scared of the Russians, at least those of us who were born before the internet? Whatever happened to those guys?

* Oh, that's right. Sonya Richards chased down the Russian in the last leg of the 400m relay. There's nothing like watching an American haul ass past a former superpower.

* The table tennis guys are sweating. And using the paddles as fans. Who knew?

* I got to see a pole-vaulter for about a minute. And a high-jumper for about two minutes. Somehow I managed to miss every second of the long jump. When I was 10, how was it that I saw Carl Lewis and every single spec of dust? Maybe because it was in Los Angeles.

* When I watch diving, all I can really judge is whether there was a little splash or a big splash. Greg Louganis kind of hooked me 20 years ago when he cracked his head open on one of the diving platforms in Seoul. I'm not rooting for it to happen, but I keep wondering if it will.

* Bob Costas did a great job, no matter how goofy he might seem to be. And I enjoyed the sardonic moments, with the subversive double entendre -- like when he had to segue from a featurette on China's "Temple of Heaven."

"They say no nail was used to build the temple ... and I'm in no place to argue with them."

* The Chinese had a real '70s kind of color and design thing going on in every venue. I'm sure it was supposed to symbolize something, but I kept having flashbacks to the old Houston Astros jerseys.

* It's been real, China. Hope you get your shit together.

I Still Haven't Seen A Pole Vaulter ...

The Olympics are nearing an end. Sad but true.

But they're not over yet:

* It looks like Michael Phelps winning that eighth gold medal to close the swimming competitions was like a summer solstice with the gradual decline that follows. It seems like just three days ago the kids were on summer vacation. That's because it was three days ago.

* The track and field competitions going on throughout the American daytime is screwing up the excitement live action like the swimming races. You can't escape the spoilers, but I don't get faulting NBC for airing it taped. What else are they supposed to do?

* Volleyball is live late at night. Two gold medals. Seeing it live really does make a difference. It's not like knowing already that the Americans dropped the baton in the relay. Or that Jeremy Wariner came in second in 400 meters.

* Bob Costas after both the men and the women dropped the baton in their relay events: "... And the Americans have laid a big egg in the Bird's Nest." Ouch.

* I love the woman (Mechelle Harris) who picked up the baton and refused not to finish the race -- like she did back in '04 when the same thing happened.

* The best part of the men's 400 meters -- or sprinting overall, for that matter -- was the American tonight who literally laid his body horizontal for the bronze (David Neville). He said, "Sometimes we have to sacrifice our body and mind and spirit for what we really want. In a split-second, I said 'I have to dive in order to get a medal.'''



* What are they chasing the Jamaicans with back in the Carribbean? Those folks look like they're running from something.

* They're saying some of the Chinese gymnasts might lose their gold medals because their ages were falsified by the government. Apparently you have to be 16. That means more hardware for us, but I have to say ... no matter how young those girls are, they were better.

* "Shawn Johnson" sounds a lot more Mary Lou Retton than "Nastia Liuken." But know this: You don't see Americans jumping over to the Russian or Chinese side to represent a country like the people who proudly adopt America as their new home.

* What's up with the Chinese divers? It's like they've got some superpower to keep water from splashing. Or that they only weigh 50 pounds.

* Watching BMX racing with guys and girls furiously pedaling kids bicycles -- as entertaining as it might be -- makes me laugh.

* That commericial with Marvin Gay singing the national anthem at a Laker's game decades ago played in concert with modern images of our basketball players practicing for gold was well done.

* I think I understand why you can't have coaches help you during the game in beach volleyball. Would it really be in the spirit of the sport to have a fat, bald guy with a whistle yelling at you as you enjoyed your day at the beach?

* Misty May and Keri Walsh must be the last two people on Earth who support President Bush. They took the time after winning the gold medal to thank the president "for all that you do" and "for your inspiration." Haven't heard that associated with the guy in a while.

* The men won, too ... but "Dalhausser?" Everytime they said "Dalhausser," I felt like I needed to perform the Heinlich on somebody. How about "Rogers and ... Smith?" Or "Jones?" Or "Davis?" That would have helped me ... for reasons I can't quite explanin.

* Do those two really need their names on the back of their jerseys? There's only two of them. I like how the Brazilian guys had "BRA" on their chests and backs of their jerseys. And apparently one of them has a life-sized poster of Karch Kiraly and asked the volleyball legend, "How do you win the Olympics?"

* Overall, the Olympics in Beijing have been a breeze. At least Wikipedia (which I consulted to see exactly what sports remain through Sunday) thinks so:

A variety of concerns over the games have been expressed by various entities; including allegations that China violated its pledge to allow open media access,^[96] various alleged human rights violations,^[97][98][99] air pollution in both the city of Beijing and in neighbouring areas,^[100][101] proposed boycotts,^[102][103] warnings of the possibility that the Beijing Olympics could be targeted by terrorist groups,^[104] foiled sabotage attempt, potentially violent disruption from pro-Tibetan protesters,^[105] religious persecutions,^[106] the banning of ethnic Tibetans from working in Beijing for the duration of the games,^[107] criticisms of policies mandating the electronic surveillance of internationally owned hotels,^{[108][109][110]} displacement of residents,^[111] ticket adversities,^[112] manhandling of foreign journalists,^[113][114] dubious protest zones,^[115] as well as alleged harassment, house arrests, forced disappearances, imprisonment, and torture of dissidents and protest applicants.^{[116][117][118][119][120][121][122]}

You Feed Them, And They Grow

For the first time in my life since I was a 26-year-old, scared shitless father-to-be, I won't wake up and have at least one of my little boys with me in the morning.

I lost the first one three years ago when he went "on the grid" into kindergarten.

But, there was always the knowing that I still had my little guy, there to revel in sleeping in with me and making a fashionably late appearance to pre-school.

(The way it works is my boys go early with their mother to school, where she's employed as an assistant Minister of Truth).

I've been struggling to feel much of anything real lately. Who knows why that happens? No matter. It does. So be it.

But this morning, after I left my youngest son in the same kindergarten class his brother first entered three years ago, tears filled my eyes.

And they continued to well as I turned out of the school parking lot and merged into interstate traffic and prepared to struggle to find some justification for wearing a tie that feels right.

Real tears. Genuine tears. And, best of all, unexpected.

Each drop blended with a mix of melancholy and pride(the good kind).

There's sadness that they're both moving on -- one to K-5, the other to 3rd grade(where it's a stretch for me to take a walk by his class and offer a thumbs up in support).

There's the questioning whether you made the most of a time that will never exist again, but fulfilled because you know they're at least headed in the right direction and maybe, if you allow yourself, you'll begin to learn new things with them.

And you know something that helps me?

Something besides his big brother being there?



The little guy's a nerd. About the whole school thing. About everything.

A true believer in whatever he's into. No fear. No regrets. Owning the moment that presents itself.

We don't know where it comes from. Not from his mother or father or anybody else we know.

We didn't create it. It's from somewhere divine, unique to him.

And knowing he's bringing that to the world on the grid ...

It's good like the taste of salt on these world-weary cheeks.