Oh Wow. Oh Wow. Oh Wow.

So there you have it, Steve Jobs’ last words.

Since Steve Jobs’ death several weeks ago, there has been a plethora of blogs, articles, what have you, about his life and death. There is a biography already published, that chronicles his entire life and all too untimely death, so I’m not going to pile on and do the same thing here. Well, maybe a little.

What intrigues me today, is after reading his sisters eulogy of Steve, his final words. I don’t know how anybody couldn’t be. We all live our lives with the specter of death hanging over our heads. Most of us deal with this by not thinking about it too much. When you’re younger, it’s something that is a total abstraction. It’s a reality for sure, but so far away that there is so much to do that it’s not worth thinking about too much.

As you get older though, you know it’s out there, and it’s getting closer. You start to  lose family, friends, you might even deal with  an illness and  come face to face with your own mortality. For me, it’s always been a question of how I will handle the news of my own, and how brave I will be as I march, or in my case lurch towards the inevitable.

My mom died from Cancer four years ago. I witnessed the stages of her passing. From the initial denial to the overwhelming sadness that there was nothing more that medical science could do for her. Gradually came acceptance and a readiness. In the grand scheme her illness took her quickly, but the reality is, the last month of her life was very painful, and for us, her family, her passing couldn’t come quick enough. All along though, she was brave. My mom was a woman of faith and knew she would go to Heaven, but still, there’s that great unknown of what’s ‘really’ going to happen.

Unless you die suddenly, this is what we all must face. Call it what you will, but as Jim Morrison so aptly put it, ‘no one here, get’s out alive.’ I guess I get some solace from the fact that we all are in the same boat. Time marches on, and our time here is but a blink of the eye in terms of time. Long after we’re gone, newer generations will fill the void, and on and on it will go.

So, ‘Oh Wow. Oh Wow, Oh Wow,’ what the hell? Jobs was in and out of consciousness when he uttered those soon to be famous last words. Did he see a new product in those last moments? Something he’d forgotten to do? Or did he see where he was about to go, and comment in amazement at what was waiting for him?

Steve’s sister said in her eulogy that ‘What he was, was how he died.’ I think that is true for all of us. I think that is what scares me so much. I question everything, I have to know, I need an answer. I’ve read books on what Heaven will be like. I’ve read bible passages looking for clues. I believe, but I fear the unknown. Hard as I try, I can’t get over that.

I’ve been ill several times. At certain moments you feel so bad that you don’t worry, or fear death, you just want the sickness to end. The thought of missing a birthday, or Christmas no longer matters. You just want it over with. I respect the circle of life. I can’t see wanting to live after all of your friends are gone, your spouse, your family. I don’t want to die first, but I also don’t want to be the last, but still, there’s the fear.

Jesus says in the Bible that he’s preparing a place for us and that he’ll be waiting for our arrival. I have to trust this to be true. I have to trust that my mom will be waiting there for me. As well as others I’ve loved that have passed. It’s that, and the hope that who I am and what I’ve accomplished won’t just vanish when I’ve left this earth. That Jesus really does have a place for me, and is waiting.

I hope that when it is my time, that I get a glimpse of that before I go. That when I get to see what awaits, that I have time to tell others what’s there, how beautiful it is, and that I’ll be waiting as well. Maybe then, we can all say ‘Oh Wow. Oh Wow. Oh Wow!’

I heard the news today oh boy.......

I received the phone call today, the kind of call you dread getting in the middle of the night. When I looked at the caller ID, I saw that the call was from an old friend of mine, Tony Kozar. We hadn't talked in awhile so I thought he'd finally called to catch up, not exactly.

I answered the call with my usual greeting when he calls "Hey man, what's going on?" After a short pause he cleared his throat and just said "We lost Pat Galvin yesterday." As my hearing isn't what it used to be and I didn't want to hear what I thought I just heard, I asked 'Excuse me, what did you say?" "We lost Pat Galvin."

For most of you, you're going "OK, who's Pat Galvin?" Well, Pat Galvin was a good friend of mine. I hadn't seen much of Pat the last 15 years or so, but he was and is a friend. I met him over 30 years ago while attending Portland Community College. Tony Kozar was also attending at that time and him and I got to be pretty tight friends. Through "Kozar" I met a litany of people from Pat, who was lovingly referred to as "Fats," why, I don't quite know, he was never very fat to me, but maybe when they were kids. Kozar gave him this moniker. Most of Kozars friends had nicknames, mostly just their last name, but some guys were called "Goofy" and a myriad of names that I can no longer recall. Me? I was just Jimmy.

Anyway, over the better part of 30 years there were Raider games at Kozars, Rolling Stones concerts in Seattle, and trips to Seattle to see the Yankees play the Mariners. In addition to the Oakland Raiders, the Yankees were one of our favorite professional teams to root for. None of us liked teams from Seattle, so it was great fun to go up there, drink way too much and boo the Mariners. Kozar and the boys went up there yearly. I went a couple of times and it was always a great time.

Fats it always seemed was the only one who could say anything to Kozar that he would listen too. Me? I was too young and never felt like I could say anything that he would listen to, but when Fats spoke, Kozar listened. On one trip, after the game, we were driving around some portion of Seattle when we came across an A-Frame ad outside of some restaurant or something. Well we just had to have it of course, so into the back of 'Dalby's' van it went. Later, Kozar wanted to do something else reasonably stupid and Fats, said "no." Kozar insisted on whatever it was and Pat in a stern voice said something to the effect of "Fuck Kozar we already got a sign, fucking knock it off." Kozar got this hurt puppy look on his face, looked at me and said, "Fats yelled at me." I thought he was going to cry. I about shit myself trying not to laugh.

That's the way it kind of went for a long time. Pool party's at the Dalby's, concerts in town; blues parties at my house, we always all had a great time. But alas, things change, we get older, get married, have kids, drift apart, it happens. I moved to Central Oregon and I didn't see anybody as much. I'd always go to Portland to visit and we'd hook up, and it was always fun to see everyone again. But none of us could believe though how the time had flown. We all had met as 20 something’s and now we were 50 somethings.

Fats and his wife Nancy came to my first wedding and came to Central Oregon for my second, (and last) about four years ago. He had mentioned not feeling great that weekend, but nobody thought much of it. During a trip to Portland some time after that he mentioned some pain in his kidneys but didn't think much of that either. I talked to him last year and he informed me that he'd had Kidney Cancer and had one of them removed. He said it was an early stage and that he didn't follow-up with chemo or radiation, which I thought a bit odd at the time, but it was his cancer and not mine this time. That was the last time I talked too him.

It's brutally ironic I guess, that Al Davis, owner and general managing partner of the Raiders passed away on Saturday. The Raiders dedicated their game yesterday to Al. In a close game that will go down in Raider lore, the Raiders held on to win the game with a last play interception in the end zone, at about the same time that Pat Galvin drew his last, how fitting.

Pat had been feeling poorly the last year and got checked about six months ago. The doctors had found that the cancer had spread and that there was nothing they could do. He spent the last few weeks of his life in hospice and was comfortable at the end. I wish I had been able to talk to him. I wish I had picked up the phone the many times I wanted to, to see how things were going. I don't understand why friends can't put away differences and pick up the phone and let somebody know before somebody dies, that someone you care about is dying, fuck!

So Pat is gone. Gone like the others before him, and like the ones that are to follow. No one on this planet gets out of this predicament called life, without dying, it's just the way it is. That being said, I don't have to like it. I don't have to like that Pat suffered the fate of many other cancer sufferers in that he withered away before leaving us. I don't like that he's gone. I have faith that I will see him again someday, but I don't like the process we go through to see each other again. It's kind of funny that most of us want to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die to get there. Anybody find another way, I'm all ears.

Even though I hadn't seen Pat in a very long time, I will miss him. He was a good man, husband, father, and friend. Pat may be gone, but his impact on my life and the lives of his friends and family will live forever.

Free is a very good price

When I was a kid, there was this retailer in town named Tom Peterson. Early in his career, Tom would run late night commercials on Portland Wrestling. These were really poorly produced commercials, starring non other than Tom himself hawking his low priced merchandise.

He used to sell the cheapest brands on the planet, most I can't even remember except Xonix. They were an electronics manufacturer from nation unknown. You could get a stereo with everything for like $100 and a free gift. Tom's motto on those late nights was "free, is a very good price." Yeah it is, if you don't mind a free piece of shit. Hey, sign me up for some of that free shit, I'm on board.

The reason I mention this, and why this is the title of my blog, which will actually, kinda be, a photography post, is that it seems that most folks like my work, but they want it for, yeah, you guessed it, for free. Now when I was first starting out, I didn't mind giving up some of my work for free. When you first start any endeavor, especially one like photography, giving away your work at least gets your name out there. People who like your work will theoretically tell other people and therefor you may get some paying work.

Well, two years into this I'm getting paid gigs. Not frequently, but I'm starting to get some work. Unfortunately, for every one person or place that's willing to pay me, there is another who doesn't. Now I can appreciate not wanting to pay for something you place no value on, or something that is so ridiculously priced that you balk. Hey, I liked Napster too. But I'm trying to make a fucking living.

You don't need to sell me on the economy and how bad things are, I'm a byproduct of the thieves who ruined this country and should be in jail, but that's another blog and I don't have an answer anyway. And all the while I do my due diligence and send out three resumes a week so I can freeload off the government teat for $392 a week. Tell ya what, go make 60k a year, go on unemployment, and then tell me I'm on vacation.

Anyway, I know people are struggling, I know people are looking for a good deal. But I have to tell you all something. I will work for trade. If the trade interests me, and I can use it to feed my family, or put me up in a hotel, I'm down with that. But I'm not working for free. Let me type it slower, I'M NOT WORKING FOR FREE. I don't mind helping a struggling band, or sharing some shots on facebook for their use. But if anybody wants some shots to use professionally, than I would like to get paid.

I'm sure there are some hard working bands willing to work for free. I know photographers who will work for free. Well after awhile, all you end up doing is hurting the people who take this seriously, are trying to pay a mortgage or feed their kids. You working for free brings the price down for everybody. Whoever you are, do it for awhile, then put your foot down. This is your work, you own it. It's only fair that if somebody wants to use it, they should pay for it  in some way.

Look, I'm never going to get rich doing this. Everyone with a digital camera thinks they're a professional photographer. The appreciation for the art is at an all time low. People with iPhones take nice pictures, they don't take great pictures, sorry. Try one in a dark club sometime and get back to me if you think that's the case. All I'm trying to do, is provide something that I think I'm pretty good at, that you might find valuable. I'll never say I'm the greatest this, or the greatest that. Photography, writing, whatever, is a lifelong learning process and I  still have a long way to go.

There used to be a saying and maybe it's still used today, "cash, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free."
Please keep that in mind next time you ask me to just give you something I worked hard to produce.

Bikes, Cars, Bars, Guitars, and Cigars

What do they have in common? I don't know. It just sounded like a good title for a blog since I haven't written one since my birthday last month. I guess if I really had to think about it, the title of today's blog would have to do with things I've either done, ridden in or on, listened too, listened in, or smoked, in no particular order.

I ride my bike when the spirit moves me to do so. I got in good enough shape that when Katie and I went to Portland to do our yearly ride in the Providence Bridge Pedal, that I could do the 37 miles relatively easily and handle all the climbs. While the course is closed for the most part you do have to deal with cars on occasion. The worst part of the ride is the other 17,999 cyclists that are vying for the same piece of blacktop that you are. The Bridge Walk could be another name for this event as in places there is just no room to ride. When there is room you have to be careful for the liesurely riders who are out for a Sunday spin and are completely oblivious to you and could care less when they abruptly move in one direction or another messing up your line, and in turn the lines of the riders behind you. I'm surprised there aren't more 'domino' type crashes in this thing.

For a brief moment while riding across the Hawthorne Bridge I did for a moment think I was going down. They place 4 x 8 sheets of plywood across one lane of the brides to cover the metal grate that is the surface of the bridge. The stagger the panels and there is always a seam somewhere. I found one and my front tire went right into it. Fighting it get out the bike and I lurched to the right. I could feel it coming, and all I could think of is 'fuck this is going to hurt.' Not only did I think I was going down, I thought for sure I'd get run over by about seven bikes. For whatever reason, I pulled out of it and kept on going. Man, was I lucky.

The ride was on Sunday. Before that we had managed to see our friend Lloyd Jones play at a small bar in Northeast Portland called The Old Halibut. Small little place that had replicas of Dean, Frank, and Sammy, in the corner of the bar where the band plays. I thought they might break out into 'You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You,' but alas, they just sat there.

Lloyd is a longtime Portland bluesman whose history goes back to when I was just a kid and I heard his band 'Brown Sugar,' play at my grade school gym when I was 12 years old. This band had Lloyd, Jim Mesi, the late Paul DeLay, and a guy to be traded later. Sorry dude, to lazy to look up your name. Anyway, these guys were great. Lloyd I think played drums. A friend of mine challenged him to play 'Wipeout' which I think he declined.

No stop to Portland is complete until I've stopped in at Rich's Cigar shop on 8th and Alder in downtown. Best cigar shop in the city. Picked up a couple of Padron 5000's and I was good to go. Only problem is you can't smoke anywhere in communist Portland except Kell's Iris pub, also in downtown. Kell's has a smoking area downstairs which is part bar, part dungeon, but it works. Great place Kell's. Went there for an Irish breakfast after the Sunday ride.

So there you have it. I rode a bike. Drove in and negotiated not getting hit by a car, went to a bar and listened to some guitars, and later went to another bar and smoked a cigar. In between, we went and had sushi for dinner, but it didn't rhyme so it wasn't part of the title.

The view from the right side of the middle of the road.

The middle of the road,
Is trying to find me.
I'm standing in the middle of life with my pains behind me.
But, I got a smile
For everyone I meet.
Long as you don't try dragging my bay,
Or dropping a bomb on my street.
Come on baby,
Get in the road.
Come on now,
In the middle of the road, yeah.
In the middle of the road,
You see the darnest things.
Like fat cats driving around in jeeps through the city,
Wearing big diamond rings and silk suits.
Past corrugated tin shacks holed up with kids and
Man I don't mean a Hampstead nursery.
But when you own a big chunk of the bloody third world,
The babies just come with the scenery.
Come on baby,
Get in the road.
Come on now,
In the middle of the road, yeah.
The middle of the road,
Is my private cul de sac.
I can't get from the cab to the curb,
Without some little jerk on my back,
Don't harass me kid,
Can't you tell I'm going home, I'm tired as hell,
I'm not the cat I used to be,
I've got a kid, I'm 54 baby.
Get in the road.
Come on now,
In the middle of the road.

Thanks Chrissie. The middle of the road isn't looking for me, it's found me. Actually, it probably found me when I was around 40. I don't know too many people who live to be 108, so the end is way closer than the beginning.

I'm not sure how I feel about this 54 thing. I'm old enough to remember a TV show about a 'Car 54,' dude, that's really old. I think if I were to golf, I might be able to shoot my age for nine holes, so that's cool, sort of. I would have preferred to shoot my age when I was 38.

All in all I can't complain. I've had cancer twice and am still here. Living to be this age, you lose your parents along the way.  I don't care for that much, but am comforted that I will see them both again some day.

I got my new drivers license yesterday. When I looked at it, it was like 'whoa, who the fuck is that guy?' It's amazing the mental image we still have of ourselves as the hair goes and the lines in your face get deeper and longer. Sometimes I think 54 is also my waist size, shit. I'm 6'0", and used to weigh around 170. Since my 30's it's been a 25 lb. a decade weight gain. I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Yep, here comes 'poppin fresh' waddling down the road, singin doo wah ditty.

Eh, it could be worse, a lot worse. I can still ride my bike a long way when I make myself do so. The words 'Viagra,' and 'Cialis,' are not in my vocabulary so that is good, real good. I can always go on a diet and lose some weight. The pisser is that it's hard to give up the Mirror Pond, pizza, and nachos. Well, it's one or the other, I'm not sure who will win this one to be honest. Check back next year and we'll see, maybe.

The Heart and Soul of the E Street Band

What can I say that hasn’t already been said? Last Saturday, Clarence the ‘Big Man’ Clemons died of complications from a stroke that he suffered the week before. Although initial reports were encouraging that Clarence was responding well to the surgeries he had, the Big Man just couldn’t overcome the damage the stroke inflicted upon him. He was 69 years old.

I first became acquainted with Clarence in the summer of 1978. I’d vaguely heard of this guy named Springsteen, but as he didn’t’ get a lot of airplay on Portland radio; I didn’t know much about him or his band. That was about to change.

On a trip to ‘Everybody’s Records’ I saw this poster of Bruce Springsteen promoting his new album ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town.’ I figured I better pick up this LP and hear for myself what the commotion was about. From the opening chords of ‘Badlands’ I thought ‘this is interesting.’ By the time ‘Adam Raised a Cain’ was over, I was hooked. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?” I said to myself. I went back and picked up ‘Born To Run’ and it was over. This was some of the best music I’d ever heard. It reached out to me, being a 21 year-old at the time, it was amazing. And the Big Man was blowing the dirtiest sax since Bobby Keyes on ‘Brown Sugar.’ The sax solo on ‘Jungleland’ was and is the most beautiful sax solo ever.

During that summer I was an avid reader of ‘Rolling Stone’ magazine, and they were talking about the amazing live shows that Bruce was doing that tour. I fell asleep at the wheel and missed Bruce’s’ first tour through Portland, but heard nothing but great reviews of the shows and the rapport he had with Clarence. It was like a little kid playing with his big brother when they were out there on stage.

As summer turned to fall, and then winter, Bruce and the band were back on tour. On a stop in San Francisco, they did a live broadcast of the show on KSAN-FM, which was broadcast on stations up and down the west coast, including Portland. I’ll never forget that night. I put the headphones on and lost myself for the next three and a half hours. It was the most amazing thing that I’d ever heard. The band was so tight, Bruce was so light and funny on stage, and his foil was always the Big Man. Clarence brought to life the songs that Bruce sang. The albums while good never captured what the E Street Band was all about. The live shows did.

In October of 1980, I finally got to see Bruce and the boys at Memorial Coliseum in Portland. I’d been sick all week, but there was no way I was going to miss this. Three and a half hours later, a friend of mine who was a big skeptic walked out of the coliseum and said ‘That Springsteen takes rock n roll…and fuckin rocks and rolls it.’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more accurate quote on Bruce and the band.

Now, 31 years later, Bruce and the band are still here, but not without some casualties.  Last year they lost keyboardist and original member Danny Federici to melanoma, and now Clarence. Danny’s’ loss was hard enough, losing the Big Man leaves a void that cannot be filled. I feel as though I’ve lost a friend. Of course I’ve never met Clarence, but through his music, his gift from God, I got to know him, very well.

So God, you have a new member of the band. If you haven’t heard of him, let me introduce you to the Minister of soul, the secretary of the brotherhood, the king of the world, the master of disaster, the Big Man, Clarence Clemons.

Time Waits For No One

'I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain 
I'm comin' on like a hurricane 
My lightning's flashing across the sky 
You're only young but you're gonna die'
Brian Johnson 'Hells Bells' AC/DC

Damn, aren't those some encouraging words. Jim Morrison of the Doors said something similar 45 years ago, 'no one here gets out alive.' That, ladies and gentlemen is an undeniable fact. How you live your life from that first glimpse of light, until your last waltz is something I think about daily.


At nearly 54 years of age, I know the sunset of my life can come before I finish this blog, later today, sometime tomorrow, next week, or next year. At anytime, usually when you least expect it, God will show up and say 'you're ass is mine now.' Sorry, no timeout's, no do-overs, no time to say good-bye, sometimes not even time to pack, just 'you're coming with me.'


If you have a belief system, as I do that shouldn't scare you. Heaven awaits you with relatives, friends, pets, and eternity where there is no pain, or sorrow; where everything is perfect. As good as that sounds, I don't know too many people who are ready to board that train and make that a one way ticket to ride, I'm sure not. The thing is, I know I don't have any control over that, only the Big Guy does.


Many people go through life, not worrying about that eventuality too much. Others don't believe, and don't worry for the same reason. To them, you get one crack at this life and when it's over it's time for the big sleep, back from where you came and all that. I, on the other hand, think about it a lot, too much.


When I was 41 years old, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. My family has a history of cancer, but like many with a family history, thought it would pass me by, not to be. Luckily it was an early stage cancer, and after surgery, radiation, and chemo, lovingly referred in the medical community as cut, burn, and poison, I was cancer free, woohoo!! Problem was, I came out of that experience a different person than the guy that went in. At 41, I was all about taking it slow, stopping and smelling the roses, basically waiting to die. I had a one year old child at the time, and all I wanted to do was enjoy my time with her. Things that were important to me previously, didn't seem so important anymore.


Fast-forward seven years, I'm cancer free, divorced, in the middle of a career change, and guess what? Yep, a recurrance of the colon cancer. Once again I was lucky and it was an early stage tumor. Thing was, the doctors now determined my cancer to be a genetic problem and advised that I have my entire large colon removed. Well, I wasn't exactly ready for that, but considering the alternatives, out it came.


While in the hospital, they took a portion of my tumor and sent it to the Mayo Clinic for analysis. What came back was that I indeed had a genetic anamoly that made me susceptible to cancers of the colon, but at increased risk for a whole host of gastro-intestinal cancers, whoopee!! I initially took this as pretty much a death warrant, it was just a matter of time. The doctor told me that it wasn't, it just meant that based on the over-all population in general, I was at higher risk. To me, that was still like saying, that if you weren't out in the Nevada desert during A-Bomb testing you were probably fine, but if you did, you were pretty well fucked.


Now, here we are, another seven years later, and I appear to be fine. Problem is, every time I get a sore throat, a stomach ache, or just feel unwell, I can't help but wonder, if 'this is it.' I know I shouldn't live that way, but it is what it is. I don't sit and wait any more. If anything, having cancer a second time was a blessing. I stopped waiting to die and started to live, I still am. Thing is, it gets very tiring. I try to block it out and just live my life, but in the back of my mind, I can't help but wonder when the other shoe is going to drop, whatever the hell that means.


I know that I could die of anything so I shouldn't be overly worried about things I can't control. Even though my belief system is solid, I still can't help but wonder what's on the other side, what it will be like, how long before I go there. I keep asking God not to take me yet. I have a wife who needs me. I have a little girl who needs her daddy. I know there is no good time to go, but now would not be a good time. I know he's listening, I just hope he agrees with me.


My mom passed away nearly four years ago. She had a faith that was shaken many years previous. She never talked about it much, but I knew she believed. When it was her time, after the initial shock and mourning, she was very strong, and very brave. My mom handled her last days in a heroic fashion and a kind of peace at the end that I can only hope to have when it's my time.


Until that time, it's time to get at the work of living, living until I die.

Shafted Stone

In 1969, Mick Taylor was a fresh-faced 20-year-old guitar player. For the three years prior, Mick had played and recorded with the influential blues band John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers.

That same year, Brian Jones was sacked by his band, The Rolling Stones. Not long after Mick received a phone call from another Mick, Mick Jagger, asking if he wanted to jam with the Stones. Taylor at the time thought he was just going to do some sessions and overdub a couple of songs. In fact, the first two songs he played on was ‘Honky Tonk Women,’ and ‘Let It Bleed.’ Much to Taylor’s surprise, he got a phone call from Mick Jagger the next day asking if he wanted to join the band. Although he was much younger than the rest of the Stones, and much more musically accomplished, he signed on with the band.

Taylor’s’ first live appearance with the Stones came two days after the mysterious death of Brian Jones, who apparently had drowned in his pool. The concert, held at Hyde Park in London, drew an estimated 250,000 people. On his first US tour with the Stones, he played at Altamont Speedway outside of San Francisco. The free concert turned into a disaster after the stabbing death of Meredith Hunter, who was killed  by a member of the Hell’s Angels after allegedly pulling out a gun. So much for peace, love, and coming to San Francisco with flowers in your hair.

From 1969, through 1974 Mick played on some of the best Stones albums ever recorded, including Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile On Main Street, Goat’s Head Soup, and It’s Only Rock’n’Roll. In addition he played on the classic live album Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out, which is regarded by this blogger as one of the greatest live albums ever recorded.

This was probably one of, it not the most creative periods in the Stones long career, and Mick Taylor contributed significantly. With his jazz, blues, and country influences he blended seamlessly with Keith Richards playing. Some of the best solos of that era were Mick’s. His slide playing on songs such as All Down The Line, and Dead Flowers, were masterful. You can also hear his excellent solos on a host of songs including Moonlight Mile, Sway, Can You Hear Me Knocking, and many others.

Although not a songwriter, Mick contributed to the creation of both Moonlight Mile, and Sway from the Sticky Fingers album. Keith wasn’t around at the time, so Jagger worked on the songs with Taylor. The pisser here is that Taylor, for whatever reason, was not given songwriting credit. The Jagger/Richards songwriting team was pretty tight at the time, and I guess no outsiders were allowed. Mick did get credit for co-writing Ventilator Blues on Exile On Main Street.

Along with the songwriting slight, Taylor found it was increasingly hard to work with Richards, hell, who wouldn’t? Keith’s increasing drug usage, hangers on, etc, was making it increasingly hard for Taylor, as well as the rest of the band to record and tour. Keith had probably been kicked out of more countries than he could get into.

By 1974, the drugs, lack of recognition, the difficulty in recording and touring were starting to take its toll. Taylor was easily and equal to the late Brian Jones in musicianship, and in my estimation far better than the man who would eventually replace him Ronnie Wood. No knock on Ronnie, but to me, the creative period that was Mick Taylor’s era surpasses anything that came before or since.

Although a great player, he never really fit in with the Stones. Not to say they didn’t like him, he was younger, he was different than they were. I’d even go so far as to say the Richards had a problem with the fact that Taylor was a better guitar player than he was. Keith had the brilliant open G tuning he played in, but Taylor’s virtuosity far outmatched Keith’s playing. To me, it’s no surprise that the bands greatest period of music coincided with the arrival of Taylor, and declined after his departure. Get mad Stones fans, but it’s true. They have recorded some great music since, but nothing since 1974 stands up to Exile, Let It Bleed, or Sticky Fingers, nothing.

When he left, Taylor left a legacy of great guitar playing with the Stones. The reasons he left are many. Some have to do with his drug use at the time, and fear that it would only get worse if he stayed with the Stones. It actually got worse after he left, but hey, that’s rock’n’roll.

Taylor has said many times that he has no regrets in leaving the Stones. He was the first to leave and survive. Bill Wyman left much later and is doing well.

The thing that really rubs me the wrong way in all of this is after he left, Taylor was still paid royalties for his performances with the band on the albums he played on. Well, in 1982, after a change in record labels, the band’s management used a loophole in their contract to have Taylor excluded from getting paid his fair share of the performance royalties. I don’t understand how a band as successful and wealthy as the Stones are would do something to someone who so mightily contributed to their success. Hell, Brian was still on the payroll when he got sacked. I’m sure the boys would have cut him off eventually as well. Funny, how a band once feared on nearly every developed county in the world, now has homes in those same countries, yet they screw Mick out of the money he so deserves.

Taylor isn’t exactly living in poverty, but he’s not living the good life either. After leaving the Stones, the great anticipation of what he might do never materialized either. I was always one of those who asked ‘whatever happened to Mick Taylor?”

Well, Mick continued to play and still does. He doesn’t play in arenas and stadiums, but in small clubs with small bands. He’s been in demand as a session player with many including Jeff Beck, Mayall, and others.

The road hasn’t been a smooth one for Taylor. He’s been divorced, had his drug and alcohol problems, been screwed by the band he helped make an even bigger success than they were, but he’s still out there. If he makes it to your town, go out and support what he’s doing. The guy can still play. He’s 62 now, and not the skinny, youthful guy that he once was, but he’s still a brilliant player.

Wish him well the rest of the way, he deserves it.

She's not the little girl I once knew

Tomorrow night, my little girl graduates from the eighth grade. Some may say she’s not so little now, but she always will be to me. On Saturday, June 4^th she’ll turn 14, and in the fall be a freshman in high school. How fast the years have gone by, ‘like a warm summer breeze,’ as the song goes.

This ‘little girl’ I’m talking about has a name. Angela Christine Williams to be exact. She was born 14 years ago in Portland, Oregon, at St. Vincent Hospital. She came to us a little early, and a little small, five pounds, 11 ounces as I recall. She was little, she was small, she was ‘dinky,’ which gave her, her first nickname, ‘Pinky Dink.’ The ‘Pinky’ came from all of the baby shower gifts we received upon notice of Angela’s soon to be arrival. Everything was pink. Eventually that nickname would just become ‘Pink.’

Initially we were led to believe that this newly conceived child was to be a boy. An early ultrasound showed what looked to be a little ‘peepee.’ But as the doctor said, it was a bit early to determine that for sure. A few months later, in another exam it was quite clear that we were going to have a little girl. While I was completely down with the idea of having a boy, the idea of having my own little girl made me very happy. I can’t quite put it into words, but I just felt like, for the first time, I was going to have something that was mine and could never be taken away. And no matter what happened, I would always be her daddy.

To be honest, I was never very keen on being a father. My upbringing didn’t exactly entail having Ozzie and Harriet Nelson as my parents. It was closer to Fred and Ethel Mertz, but even that doesn’t describe it. Nope, it was pretty dysfunctional and jaded any view I may have had of being a dad someday. By the time I got married at 32 I was warming to the idea, but really not sold, not in the least.

Angela’s arrival on the scene took awhile. It turned out that I didn’t have a whole lot of little fishies, and the ones I had, weren’t very strong swimmers. So after many attempts, trips to the doctor, pills, implants, procedures, you name it, we couldn’t conceive. I was approaching 40 and thought ‘OK, I’m about done.’ My wife at the time agreed that after one more try with this latest new fangled procedure, that if it didn’t work, we’d just move on.

Well, needless to say it didn’t work, and after some mourning on my wife’s part, we went about our life thinking we’d be childless, so much for that idea. It wasn’t long afterwards, that after going about things in the traditional way it was announced that we were prego, I was stunned. After all of the procedures we’d been through to have a baby didn’t work, we went about it the old fashioned way and ‘BINGO,’ we were having a baby.

This was not one of my better moments. In fact, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever done. I was really upset that after all we’d done, we were finally going to have a baby. What should have been the happiest day of my wife’s life, I ruined, completely. It’s not that I didn’t want a baby at that point. It was just that after all of the work, yes work, to have a baby, I was of the belief we weren’t gong to have one and had moved on. I was looking forward to golf and tennis whenever I wanted. A trip to the beach with no concerns about a babysitter, woohoo, partay!! That all changed in a heartbeat, and forever fucked up my relationship with my future ex-wife because of it. I still look back on that as my biggest day as an asshole. I’ve had plenty of big ones since, but not like that.

I eventually warmed up of course, and the arrival of our child meant new plans. We made the spare bedroom into a nursery. And when we found out we were having a girl, of course it became pink. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I couldn’t totally grasp what was going on inside my wife. Her tummy was growing, and something was moving around in there. I knew it was a baby but it was an abstraction at the time, I just couldn’t get my head around it. That is until she hiccupped. Yep, one night were lying in bed and Cheryl starts to twitch. I asked what was up and she said the baby was hiccupping. I’d never heard of that. I put my hand on her tummy, and sure enough, Angela hiccupped. I left my hand on her tummy, and she did it again. I thought that was the funniest damn thing I’d ever experienced. There was really somebody inside there, and she had the hiccups!

It wasn’t too long after, that Angela joined our family. The doctors had to induce labor due to things I don’t’ quite remember, but Angela joined us the evening of June 4^th, 1997.

I remember after she slithered her way out, they cleaned her up and let me hold her, whoa! It was love at first site. This precious little bundle was mine. She was so small and fragile, and I vowed right there that no one would ever hurt my little girl. I also flashed back to the things I had done as a kid and in my mind, apologized to my mom for all the stupid things I had done in anticipation of what this little kid was probably going to do to me someday.

At soon to be 14, she really hasn’t done much, at least if she has, I don’t know about it.

She has been my treasure and my beacon of light in tough times. There were times during my divorce that I was really unhappy. The only thing that made my life worthwhile was Angela. She helped me keep my head on straight when there were times it was seriously sideways.

She has brought much joy to my life in these 14 years. Oh yeah, there have been some speed bumps along the way, she isn’t perfect and neither am I. We have both made our share of mistakes, but as a dad, I couldn’t be more proud. As she graduates eighth grade tomorrow, I realize that she isn’t that same little girl who would ride her trike and say ‘watch me daddy, watch me!’ She’s not the little girl who would run across the room and jump on me, knocking me over with both of us laughing, only to have her get up and do it a dozen more times.

I can’t help but wonder now if there were enough trips to the park? If there were enough pushes on the swing? Did we ride the bus and see the fountain enough? Were there enough bedtime stories? I can’t get those times back. I hope they were enough for her, as they weren’t enough for me.

Even at 14, she is still the girl who still calls me ‘daddy.’ She’s still the girl who let’s me come in and kiss her good night when she goes to bed. She’s still the girl who cries as my voice changes when I get angry.

I know that sometimes I drive her a bit crazy, and that she thinks I’m a bit strange. But I know she loves me all the same. She’s growing up on me now, and no, she’s not the little girl I once knew, but she’s still my little girl.

Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing

I don’t remember who said that, I think it might have been the legendary football coach, Vince Lombardi. With that in mind, does it come as any surprise that we hear about the accusations of Lance Armstrongs doping during his Tour de France wins, the resignation of Ohio State football coach Jim Tressel for cheating, and the many other, numerous allegations against colleges such as Auburn, Oregon, and many others?

Is it really any surprise that players use steroids to win, or hit more home runs, run faster, run farther, get bigger and stronger, or ride a bike faster than anyone else? If it is, it shouldn’t be. From the beginning we’ve been in love with winners. No, not the ones who came close, not the ones who got the moral victory. Nope, we love the ones who come in first place, who win the game. Oh sure, we give polite respect for the runners-up, those gritty second place finishers who gave their all. But for all that respect, it’s about the winners baby. Very simply put, winners win, losers lose.

With that mentality, it shouldn’t come as any surprise when players see other players cheating, or otherwise performing feats that a few years ago were outside of their talents. These players are now setting records, and more importantly, making a whole lot more money. Big money.

Money is at the root of all of this. Coaches need to win to keep alumni happy, which means they get to keep their jobs. Keeping asses in seats is like a bank deposit for the school and a steady paycheck for a coach. Nowadays, a coach who ‘does it the right way’ probably won’t be coaching for long. The deck is now stacked against that guy because he knows that right or wrong, most of his contemporaries are doing whatever they can to win.

I could go on and on about this, but won’t bore you or myself with continued examples of what people will do to win. We’ve helped to create this environment. We want winners. We associate with winners, because who wants to be associated with a loser? Think about that next time. Players don’t have to cheat. Coaches don’t have to cheat. It’s a choice they make. You might think that’s not much of a choice all things considered, and you’re probably right, but we own much of this.

Next time you see or hear of an opposing player or coach accused of cheating, and you get some sort of satisfaction from this revelation, just wait.

What goes around, comes around, and nobody is innocent. Your team, your player is next, it’s just a matter of time.

The ability of your glass house to withstand a stone thrown at it, is only as good as the glass.

So, it's Memorial Day

As I understand it, today is the day to stop and remember the brave souls who have in the defense of this nation and it’s freedoms, given their lives in the ultimate sacrifice so that you and I may enjoy those freedoms.

For many, this weekend has meant backyard barbeques, baseball games, picnics in the park, boating, and of course, the Indianapolis 500 car race. It’s the official kick-off to the summer season, where we look ahead to the warmth and good times and try to forget about the cold, and the doom and gloom of the winter months.

I would hope that most of us stop and think about the sacrifices that young men and women have made over the course of the past 200 plus years. And while we watch the war movies that portray the famous battles fought, and hear Tom Brokaw tell us about the ‘Greatest Generation,’ that saved us from defeat at the hands of Germany and Japan, I would hope that we also think about the past generations who were also great, and who molded this country into what it is today.

To single out a generation as being the greatest, to me, does disservice to those whose sacrifice was no less brave. Was the generation of ‘GI’s’ really any more great than the generation of ‘dough boys’ of World War I? Were the veterans of the Vietnam era any less great than the generations that came before? Or was it that their war was less popular than the wars that came before?

Throughout the course of this country’s history there has been wars. All who have served in harms way have sacrificed. All who have died have given the ultimate sacrifice. To say that one-generation of sacrifice was greater than another belittles the bravery and sacrifice of the ones who passed before.

America’s involvement in wars is as long as our country’s history, but in only one war did brother fight against brother, brother against uncle. The American Civil War pitted American against American in what is still America’s bloodiest, most costly war. In terms of killed and wounded, it dwarfs the casualty figures of any other American war. Talk about a great generation.

For me though, it’s not just about the veterans, that there is a Veteran’s Day. No, this is also about remembering the loved ones who are no longer with us. These departed souls, our moms, dads, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, dogs, cats; we should all take a moment to remember them. To remember how much they loved us, and we, them. Wherever you may be, take a moment and say a prayer. Visit a passed loved on if you can. Let them know that they haven’t been forgotten, and that on this Memorial Day, we remember. We will always remember.

Goodbye, I’d Really Like To Stay

The title of this long overdue blog is a take-off on the autobiography of Groucho Marx, and the theme song for his character Dr. Spaulding in the classic Marx Brothers film ‘Animal Crackers,’ titled, ‘Hello, I Must Be Going.’

At the time Groucho wrote the book, he was much older and was taking a look back at his life and career in only a way he could, with much humor. While not quite ready to check out, like all of us, he knew it was coming, thus the title.

For me, I couldn’t think of anything else to call this blog. After starting my blogging career with little fanfare and reasonably regular blogs, I went dry. Not that I had anything to say in the first place, but at least it was a creative outlet for whatever was on my mind. I’ve had plenty on my mind since, but not the inclination to write about it.

I’m also supposed to be contributing articles to my local paper, but that hasn’t amounted to much output either. It’s not that I haven’t sat down and tried to write something, but everything of late has, well, pretty much sucked. This will probably suck also, but at least I’m giving it a go.

There is so much that I should probably be doing. Actually, there is no probably about it. I’m trying my damndest, in spite of myself, to become a photographer. I’ve gotten some work, some accolades, and I pretty much know what I should do, but for whatever reason, I  have not made the final push.

I’m very conservative by nature, and very practical. I try to make sure that my family and the household is taken care of before I can even think about the investment needed to do what I need to do. I’m not going into all of the gory details of what that is, but it will require a major investment in time, money, and belief in myself.

So what in the hell does this have to do with the title of the blog? Well, I’m not dying, at least not in the near future, so I guess it’s about sticking around awhile longer, and accomplishing what I think God wants me to do. I look around at the world and what it is I’m good at, and what’s available for me to do, (less sorting mail or stocking groceries,) and all I can see is photography and writing. Perhaps my former career as a building inspector will be an option when the housing inventory is finally in equilibrium and builders start to build. I’m not holding my breath for that option.

So here it is, time to ‘shit or get off the pot’ as my momma used to tell me. I got off the pot years ago, so it must be time to shit. Maybe that should have been the title of the blog?

Are you ready to rrrrrumble!?

The alarm clock is not supposed to go off at 5:30 on a Sunday morning, but I had a job to do. The job was to go cover the 'Peterson Ridge Rumble' a local long distance trail run.

I covered the 'rumble' last year as one of my first freelance assignments. I really wouldn't call it an 'assignment' per se, it was more like volunteering to spend your day taking pictures for name recognition, and just the fun of shooting masochistic people who choose to run 20 and 40 mile distance along mostly muddy trails in our beautiful national forestland.

This year I contacted the event organizer, Sean Meissner, asking him if he had anybody shooting the event this year. He replied that he hadn't and would love have me come out and shoot it. Last year one of my shots ended up in 'Trail Runner Magazine,' my first publication in a national magazine.

Most events like this are run on a shoestring, so getting paid is not much of an option. The hope is that you can hand out enough business cards, or the event organizer lets the runners know there will be a photographer out on the course taking pictures of smiling runners, grunting their way through another leisurely 40 miles.


After spending the better part of five hours on the course and taking over 300 shots, I am now in the process of uploading the shots to my web page, where hopefully a few of the over 400 runners will venture over, look for their mugs, and plunk down a few bucks for a picture of themselves sweating, spitting, and picking their noses, all to help feed a photographer in need of an income.

Whether they do or not, really doesn't matter. This is what I do now, and I love doing it. I got some very nice shots and I hope some of the runners appreciate the effort put forth to drive from location to location on the course, trying my best to get as many of the over 400 runners as I could.

Congratulations to the participants yesterday. To run those distances are amazing to me. Some of the runners remind me of the Eveready Bunny, just chugging along, pounding their drum, in a world all of their own. I couldn't do it, nor do I want to. What drives these  people is admirable and I hope to see them next year.

For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge!

Man that felt good. Sometimes when you feel as though you've had enough, there is only one word that will do, or should I say one acronym that will do.

There is much debate to the origin of the word 'fuck', or for those of you not paying attention, 'For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.' The debate begins with the word itself. Where the hell did it come from, and what does it really mean?

Well, many would have you believe that the origin of the word began a long time ago in ancient England. It is said that during that time, a person could not have sex, or 'fornicate,' unless you had consent of the King. Of course if you were a member of the Royal Family, you could pretty much fornicate all you wanted, with whomever you wanted, wherever you wanted. Thus the world was introduced to, 'Fornication Under Consent of the King.' You would have to hang your permission to lawfully fornicate on your door while fornicating as to not have your head lopped off later for fornicating unlawfully.

Apparently, there is also a somewhat different take on the origin of this most unlawful act. The King, in all of his infinite wisdom could order one to fornicate. Depending upon the fornicators this could either be a good, or bad thing. This of course was called: 'Fornication Under Command of the King.'

For those who thought they could remove themselves from this rather archaic and midevil predicament by hoping on the Mayflower and creating their own set of rather strict rules, think again fornicator!

Once the Puritans had established themselves a beach head in Jamestown, they set about creating their own set of rules pertaining to unlawful fornication. We all know that prostitution is a very bad thing and that back in colonial times the prostitutes were punished for their wicked ways. Why their customers were not equally punished is for another blog, or not.

It appears that the evil doers were put into stocks for their fornicating ways. Unlawfully carnalling with knowledge of the for, or for the crime of, 'For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.' Now the cops got tired of writing this rather lengthy phrase on the stocks, so they abbreviated it to, 'F.U.C.K.'

So there you have it. The cops got smart, wrote 'fuck' and it stuck. How it ever evolved into the word we so lovingly embrace now would take far more time and space than I'm willing to give it.

Later though, a singer in a rock n roll band, who was tired of censorship by the likes of Tipper Gore, decided he and the band should call their next album 'FUCK' as a response to Tipper and her group of mad moms. Somebody later suggested that it might make more sense to title the album, 'For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.' The singer, Sammy Hagar, and the band, Van Halen agreed and went on to have quite a sizeable hit on their hands. Later, they hit the road with the 'F.U.C.K. n' Live Tour', to great success as I understand it.

Whoever created it, or however it evolved, I am eternally grateful. No other word that I can think of sums up the heat of passion, the heat of a disagreement, the disbelief of a last second shot, the indescribable feeling of stepping barefoot in your puppies doody, or the befuddlement of the human species than the word 'fuck.'

Now that we know the history of this most misunderstood word, I hope you have enjoyed this latest installment of the fucking blog. It was a fucking joy to write, and I hope you fucking learned something from it.

The more I know, the less I understand

Argh! I don't know what I want to write about today. I'm not convinced that I even want to write, but write I must. The books I've read recently, pound into your brain, that if you want to even consider being a writer, that you must write. Nowhere does it say anything about being a good writer, just a writer. You must also read a lot. Well, considering that I also try to make a living taking pictures, it's a lot for my fragile, little eggshell mind to get a grip on. Write, read, shoot, rinse, repeat.

I understand that this life, if you're lucky, is just one long journey with destination unknown. Until you get to the end of course, when you look back at how long this journey took you, and then you ask, "We're here already?" That's right bubba, the long strange trip you thought would never end is over, and you maybe  haven't even took the time to really enjoy it. Or if you have, you're trying to figure out a way to make a deal with someone for just a little more time. One more beer, on more breakfast in bed.

Either way, the trip seems to be over before it even got started. You wish you had done this, or done that. Maybe you think about the things you wish you hadn't said, or maybe more importantly, the things you wish you would have said.

I'm getting somewhere with this, really I am. What it means to me is that while I'm on this journey with a one way ticket to ride, the ride doesn't come with any instructions. You get dropped into this world with nothing, and leave pretty much the same way. Along the way you learn what it is to get along in this life, and hopefully the mistakes you make a long the way, make you smarter, and more importantly, a better person.

Life is complicated. It's also wonderful, but at times can be very painful. The longer you live, the more you are exposed to. It seems like there is always another mountain. Something else you have to learn, something else you have to master. The technological advances we witness can make a person's head spin. Yet, you better keep up or it will all pass you by.

I guess that's what I mean by today's blog title. I'm always on a quest it seems to learn the next thing. Figure out how my camera works. Try and decide what lens, or light system, or software to buy, and then have to try and figure out how it all works, or what direction to try and go with it all. Some days, I just don't want to deal with it, but deal with it I must.

Some days I don't want to do anything. Other days I just want to be left alone to shoot, or write something totally inane, just for the exercise. Some days like today, I have to deal with business, trying to explain to someone that I'm in business just like others, to make a living. I'm all about win/win situations, but I'm tired of giving my work away for 'considerations' or 'free publicity.' Woohoo! that's great to a point, but it ain't paying my bills.

So there you have it. Another hill climbed, another lesson learned....I think.

Hey, this is a photography blog!

The name of this site is 'Williams Photography.' It has dawned on me rather slowly, that I haven't blogged much about what this site is supposed to be about. I think calling the blog 'Williams Photography' limits a bit what it is I do. Yes, I'm a photographer, but I also write. Of late the emphasis has been on writing, but I'm always working on my craft as a photographer.

At the suggestion of my editor at The Nugget, I picked up some books to help me with my writing. I spent the better part of the last couple of weeks reading 'On Writing' by Stephen King, 'The War of Art' by Steven Pressfield, and 'The Elements of Style' by E.B. White. In addition to the reading I was also writing articles for the paper, and of course taking pictures.


Last week, to celebrate my anniversary and St. Patricks Day, my wife and I took a four day trip to Portland. As discussed previously I love Portland, and contemplate a move back there someday. I won't delve back into that today. What I will say about Portland, is that it has a lot going on, and it's a very interesting city to shoot. I wish that I had had more time but there were things to do and I couldn't make Katie follow me around town for four days while I took pictures of nearly everything that caught my eye.

Anyway, as I really have nothing much to say, other than that I must do this per the books I've read. If you want to write, you must write. You must also read, which I've been doing. But as I'm also a photographer, well, I have to shoot.

So, for your viewing pleasure here are just a few of the shots I took while up in Portland, and most recently at the Tom Grant show in Bend on Saturday. No, you won't see a shot of Tom Grant as I found the shot of the bass player far more interesting than anything I got of Tom.

The first shot you see was taken in downtown Portland during a brief five minutes when the sun came out. Taken with a fish-eye, it creates a circular effect of the high rises which makes me dizzy if I look at it too long.

The second is of Mister Bass Player in the Tom Grant Band. My apologies for not knowing his name. Typical of a bass player, he kind of stood in the wings motionless, other than to pluck the strings and move his hands up and down the neck. Bill Wyman would have been proud.

The shot to the left was taken at the Kells St. Patricks Day celebration. The band was a U2 tribute band called U277, and each member bore a resemblance to each member of U2. This shot of course would be of The Edge, also know as Adam.

Last, but not least, may be my favorite of the bunch. This was taken in The Pearl District. This is a hand held taken at 1/15 of a second. I caught the motion of the the light rail train as it made a sweeping turn past a Starbucks Coffee. If you notice a reflection of a guy leaning up against a light post, that would be me.

Well, so ends a rather mundane blog about what I did on my spring break. Portland as usual was very hospitable despite the mostly inclement weather.

I hope you enjoy the photos as after all, this is a photography blog.

When in doubt, take it out

Those six words of wisdom were given to me by a friend of mine we'll call "Bob," because, well, that's his name.

It was at my 50th birthday celebration that the topic of "road safety" came up. Bob, being a 25 year veteran of delivering packages for one our national overnight delivery services, was describing the many near misses he had had making his appointed rounds each day.

In addition to always driving with one's headlights always on, Bob said that anytime a deer, squirrel or any other misguided varmint decided to cross the road and endanger your safe passage to destinations unknown, to not try and worry about what to do. He said that when that deer is looking you straight in the eyes wondering if it's going to live to see another meal, do not swerve, do not brake; when in doubt, take it out.

Now, the logic behind this is rock solid. Swerving to avoid Bambi, or Rocket J. Squirrel could get you or some other unsuspecting driver killed, or worse, stuck in a ditch with no hope of extraction, only to find the cute little critter you just avoided hitting, merrily traipsing it's way through the woods, giving you that, "Dude, you shoulda took me out," look.

Why I'm blogging about this is because yesterday while sitting in the hot tub with my wife  Katie, enjoying a stogie and a cold beer, memory of my birthday and Bob's famous advice popped into my head. Initially it made me chuckle, and the more I thought about it, it made me laugh.

For some reason, all I could think about was Robert Stack's character from the movie "Airplane," Rex Kramer. Kramer, a retired Air Force officer, was summoned to the airport to see if he could help talk down a plane piloted by a former member of his squad, Ted Stryker. The crew had fallen ill, and Stryker was pressed into service. Only problem was, Ted had post traumatic stress and wasn't sure he could land the plane.

On the way to the airport, a stern faced Kramer was speeding down the highway when he apparently came across a bicyclist. We don't know for sure at first as all we see is the determined Kramer and then the horrified face of his passenger. In rapid succession we hear a loud "THUNK!", and a split second later in the back window the visual of a bicyclist either having been run over, or flipped over the top of the car. His mangled body and bike still somewhat intact he manages to "flip off" the speeding Kramer and shout "fuck you asshole," while Kramer seemingly unaware drives away.

I find that scene extremely hilarious even after seeing the film a million times. Kramer, in his effort to help save dozens of innocent lives, did the only thing he could when that poor bastard on the bike got in his way, he took it out. No flinching, no thought of braking, or swerving, never a doubt, he took it out.

Good thing too. Kramer of course, made it to the airport and helped Stryker land the plane safely. Everyone lived to see another day, and appear in "Airplane II."

So just remember. Whether it be a trip to the store, the restaurant, or the bowling alley, let nothing stand in your way. When in doubt, take it out.

Lookin Out My Back Door

I was turned on to a book recently, Steven Pressfield's  "The War of Art." The gist of the book is that in all of us, lurks something we were meant to be. It could be a writer, photographer, butcher, or baker. It examines why in our lives we perhaps end up doing things that are at heart, not our true talent; and once you face up to the fact that deep inside you lurks your talent, then you must fight the challenge of resistance. Yes, our partner resistance, and his buddy procrastination. Between these two, we face our biggest challenge to pursue everyday what it is we're supposed to be doing.

Why is it we find ourselves slogging away our lives in a factory, digging ditches, flipping burgers, or any number of worthy vocations that still leave us less than satisfied?

It seems that from a very early age we are told, "You must go to school and get good grades if you ever want to get a good job." That is true to some extent. It is especially true if you want to get a job doing something you don't want to do. In most households exploring or encouraging one to find out what ones true talent is suffers.

Most of us muddle through our early years asking the age old question, "What do I want to do when I grow up?" I've been asking myself that question most of my adult life, and I would guess most of you have too.

Doing what you want to do, or more importantly doing something that utilizes your God given talent is not always an easy thing. Figuring out what that talent could be is sometimes a long, arduous process. Often we find ourselves in a career doing things we may be good at, but not what would truly satisfy our inner selves.

I've had plenty of jobs in my lifetime that I actually enjoyed, and maybe thought that it was what I was supposed to be doing. Funny thing is, none of those jobs lasted very long and I always found myself asking, "OK what now?"

I've also had the reality, and in my opinion, the blessing of being a two-time cancer survivor. You tend to re-evaluate your life when you get a diagnosis of the "Big C" in your life. It's what you do with the diagnosis that counts. I had to get cancer twice to kind of figure things out. The first time I decided it was time to stop and smell the roses so to speak. I took things slow, wanted to savor everything. Problem was I stopped being me.

The second time there was much more a sense of urgency about it. I knew that I had to get off my ass and live the rest of my life and not wait for the Grim Reaper to show up at my door saying, "Next."

This is not to say that I somehow discovered my inner child at that point, but I did decide that I was going to live until I die, instead of hanging out waiting for it to happen. During this time I completed a certification program for a career that I thought would be long and fruitful. That didn't quite work out.

It's been almost two years since I lost that gig and I've had to do a lot of soul searching once again. As I've mentioned in other posts, sometimes having it all taken away leaves you with nothing but what you think your good at, really good at, and really want to do. Question is, does anybody else think you're good at it.

Resistance plants that seed in your head everyday. Procrastination tells you it's ok to go ride your bike, or hit a tennis ball, anything but doing what is your gift.

That being said, why is that when you're sitting in the doctors office and he gives you the 'long face' and says you only have six months to live, that on the spot, you re-evaluate everything in your life and question why you didn't do this or that. When time is short, that is when you decide to travel, volunteer, write your novel, ride your bike across the  country. All the things you thought you'd always have time to do but never did, come rushing into your being like water being released from a dams flood gates.

I don't want that to happen to me. I hope it doesn't happen to you.

I have a 13 year old daughter and I want to encourage her to do whatever she wants to do. To explore her talent to the fullest and never find herself looking back, asking "If only...." To not encourage her to explore her talents would make me a horrible dad. All I can do is guide her and help her make what ultimately will be her decision.

As for me, it's time to do something that has always been there, but I was never encouraged to explore. Being a shy kid it was assumed I was dumb. I never asked for help and pretended I understood something when I didn't. In the aptitude tests I took, it was apparent that I had a keen eye, and my strengths were in the arts. Trust me, I would like to be good at math, but I'm tired of trying to fit that square peg into the round hole.

Some would dismiss the arts as a relic of another time. Technology is where it's at baby. Crunching numbers, manipulating statistics, writing software programs, that's where the jobs are. Critical thinking and the ability to think outside the box now seem to be products of a by-gone era. Let's hope not.

Bob Dylan said a long time ago, "When you ain't got nothin, you got nothing to lose." That is true to a point, but I prefer what Robert McKee said in the foreword to Pressfield's book, "When inspiration touches talent, she gives birth to truth and beauty."

So yeah, maybe you have nothing to lose, but you sure have everything to gain.