“How far away do you think the airport will be?”

“I don’t know. Probably pretty close. Maybe like 20 minutes?”

Well, how about 30 seconds. Touching down at McCarran International Airport you’re forgiven for wondering (sweating) if you’ll land right on the casino floor of the Tropicana, or the Luxor, or Mandalay Bay, or the gargantuan MGM Grand. This kind of typifies my Las Vegas impression in a nutshell — I can’t get rid of an image of a 10 or 11 year old kid sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor (desert) building an ultra-modern right-from-the-box city out of legos and placing the airport terminals and landing strips right next to everything else. Why not? Hop on, hop off... Convenience equals money. More precisely, it’s like the kid is doing extreme legos while kicking some serious ass playing Monopoly and lining up massive hotel after massive hotel in a row (the so-called “Strip”).

I guess they call Vegas the “City of Sin” or “Sin City,” but they might as well call it the “City of Replicas.” Virtually everything is a replica of something else, and as truly impressive as the replicas are on the one hand, they seem very sad on the other... like your image of an old Western saloon town, on a movie-set, where everything is just a faux-front, with nothing substantial behind the stand-up cardboard.

This isn’t quite fair, because each establishment does have substance, at least a decadent superficial substance, with luxuriously appointed hotel suites, fine restaurants, upscale shopping, fancy pools, and some signature novelty like a real / fake “active” volcano (The Mirage). With virtually no physical separation between them, each “resort” has a faux-theme (signature novelty), compacted down to almost a mockery of its namesakes. (Let’s be honest... it is all a mockery, albeit a mockery that gushes money.) Paris, with a truncated but working Eiffel Tower... The Venetian, replete with water-filled canals, gondolas, and singing gondoliers... and New York, New York, with the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, Empire State Building, other skyscrapers, hints of 5th and/or Madison Avenues and Broadway, and a roller coaster (Coney Island?) jammed into the middle of the caricature all clustered together without boundaries within a single city block.

There is a sense that the whole thing — meaning all of Vegas (or at least the Strip, including the airport) — could be rolled up and packed into a few tractor-trailers and create a new standard for the traveling carnival. In other words, my strong impression is that there is no rhyme or reason for Las Vegas to be in Las Vegas. The kid could be building and plopping down his little model city / carnival ANYWHERE... unless of course the key factor is the 110 degree heat, that dry heat you hear about, in which case Vegas could be plopped down anywhere along the equator as long as it doesn’t rain. Or maybe the remoteness is also a critical placement factor, critical in the “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” sense.

As I think some more, I am sure the remoteness is key. There is a flavor of the few blocks around 42 Street in NYC being transported to the desert, with the differences being that the decibels are turned down a couple of notches, you’re not quite as frenetically panicked about being mugged or having $500 taken off you blind (that’s saved for the casinos), and most importantly you’re not so worried that a plainclothes Federal agent wearing a wire is about to take you into custody. Compared to NYC, there is a sense in Vegas that you just might get way with anything. My favorite Vegas slogan is attached to The Cosmopolitan — “Just the right amount of wrong.” And how can you not at least think a little wrong when you’re bludgeoned with ultra-seductive nightclub advertisements on video screens and names like “Tryst” and “Tabu”?

Vegas seems to be all about comfort, dazzled comfort... mixing glitz and a ton of lights with the familiar, and convenience. Even in terms of the “sin” part, the goal is to make you as comfortable as possible to pull the trigger (and open your wallet) on sin. The heat is like a sedative, clouding your sensorium just enough to yield the amount of impulsivity necessary to gain your compliance with all that Vegas has to offer. And that “dry heat” thing. Let’s clear that up. It’s more like a baked heat, baking you into submission, making your entire body just rubbery and melty enough so that you’ll (at least unenthusiastically) half-consciously keep feeding those slot machines with dollar bills (and that’s before the alcohol!).

For having virtually nothing endemic to itself, other than miles and miles of hot dirt desert, Vegas does provide almost everything... again, usually in some replica form. There are the shopping outlets (North and South) on either side of the Strip, basically replicas of what you’ll find in Kittery, Maine and the Tangors in New Hampshire. There is a go-kart/raceway amusement park. There is a “Dig It” amusement park with real-life bulldozers and other heavy equipment where you can fulfill all of your pre-latency age fantasies digging up and moving dirt around... I’m not kidding. You can participate in favorite television show adventures where you enter and become part of a CSI plot, or a theme like the Las Vegas Mob Experience... “arrive innocent, leave guilty.” You can take in a taping and try to be a contestant on The Price is Right. You can do a flight simulator, skydive, or even “shoot a real machine gun” (i.e. “MP5, UZI... AK47, M16... M249 Saw”) at The Gun Store. You can go to the Stratosphere where you may skyjump or ride a tilt-a-whirl off the side near the top of its space needle design, or you can choose to have a nice meal in the rotating restaurant and watch other fools jumping in search of a perfect snapshot to send to buddies back home.

And then there are the shows... so many shows. There are the “specialty” shows like The Chippendales and one with topless vampire ladies, “Motown revues” with four Australian white guys, Celine, and Donny and Marie, and Penn and Teller, and imposter “Rat Pack” and Streisand and Sinatra ensembles, and of course plenty of Elvis impersonators. How Donny and Marie make sense in Vegas I don’t want to try to understand, and the same for why Celine would permanently station her worldclass self in such an odd place. The shows actually are very good, or so I hear, but you never get away from that replica-esque quality. There is the Cirque du Soleil... but in 12 different flavors. And I have to mention David Copperfield, partaken by my two kids. My first question was how David Copperfield could still be performing, thinking he had to be at least 80, but it turns out he is really 463 (which sort of explains his whole deal).

One bit of advice to those planning vacations. Do the Grand Canyon separately! Otherwise, you just get the Grand Canyon Experience — a day trip so grueling that you’re reduced to wistfully looking forward to when you’ll finally arrive back at your hotel. Doing the Grand Canyon as part of your Vegas experience ends up falling into the same replica-esque motif, very souvenir-esque, and soft-serve, and don’t forget your family picture taken with your personal pilot outside the puddlejumper that will make you sicker than a dog... and don’t forget the Canyon DvD to sear those once-in-a-lifetime memories into your brain forever. The Grand Canyon is magnificent (and I liked the helicopter ride), but one of the “seven wonders of the world” simply deserves better than being just another Vegas “show.”

The gambling... sorry, but I mostly avoided it, so I have little to say beyond commenting that every resort hotel seems to have a sea of slot machines with plenty of customers cozied up to one with drink in tow and cigarette dangling from an ash tray. I spent maybe a $100 total, and most of that on the airport slots. And I strongly preferred machines for poker that I sort of thought I understood, rather than the theme/fruit-based slots where I still can’t figure out if 3 lemons are good or bad. I like the slots that require at least one decision, as opposed to complete, arbitrary luck. Except for the fact that you couldn’t walk through any area free from casino territory, I found the gambling easy enough to ignore, which is perhaps the surprise (a good one) of Vegas. You can enjoy all of the other resort-y aspects, including superb restaurants, without feeling required to gamble at all.

I enjoyed my time in Vegas... a good family trip celebrating my mother’s 3/4 of a century mark. I like replicas and a replica-esque world. Although I feigned disgust, I was comforted by finding a “food court” right on the Strip with a Wendys, Subway, Nathans, and the obligatory Chinese outlet (in this case Panda Express). Do you know how good a Coke with just the right amount of ice tastes when it’s 110 F on the street? I doubt I’ll return, which is unfortunate because I’d know how to do Vegas better on a second go ‘round. I imagine folks either go to Vegas one time or more than 10 times.

One lesson probably is that Vegas is not something to overthink. Don’t lapse into wondering where all the employees live (although they seem to have plenty of parking judging by the Wynn’s three huge garages just for staff ), or how much water it takes to keep the Strip golf course so green, or how water gets into Vegas from the Hoover Dam, or why the cab driver on arrival described Vegas as the “worst city in the world” and injected “that Bin Laden guy was more popular here than Obama.” Don’t worry yourself about the various ways that Las Vegas might not make sense.

Just enjoy the carnival in the middle of the desert without a thought about why the carnival would be there.

And of course make sure you are right about how much wrong... so you can still come home.

So what happened to Think 50?

Eight months without posting.

I can’t claim that I was on a well-deserved sabbatical with a straight face, because, for starters, I’d only been blogging for four months. Sure, I expended a good deal of effort and energy during that short period, but clearly four months is four months. No upstanding argument to take a break, a respite. And once the blog-hole digs deeper, getting back on the horse becomes even harder, partly because there is a feeling of already having ruined the project by having any kind of blog-hole at all. I seriously and humbly tip my cap to those, including someone close to me who has maintained a blog despite hardships, and illness, and curve balls, who manage to post every single day (or at least on a regular, identifiable schedule) month after month after month.

[Heading to Vegas in 20 minutes... Want to get this post out of the way...]

So what happened? Here are a few things that immediately jump to mind...

I thought I had just about said everything I had to say. After you tackle whether or not God exists, or rather why people think HE/SHE does, where do you go from there?

From September into November (2010), I was doing another blog—a blog chronicling my son’s senior year high school soccer season. Damn good blog but security reasons necessitate that its whereabouts remain closely guarded.

The college search took over in earnest—my son’s college search—and I already had blogged too much about him. I didn’t trust that others would trust me to get around to my daughter, which I would and will in due time and indeed she has exploded into an incredible young woman over the past six months (and of course she already was incredible). Plus, the college search was just too nerve-wracking (and personal) to blog about, at least at the time. I will return to the college search, as we begin anew with daughter, and because there is just so much rich material there.

I started a new job in October and my flexibility to blog took a dive.

I became more focused on my deteriorating health and desire to pursue surgery (the septal myectomy). In other words, I just didn’t feel like blogging.

Once I allowed a significant blog-hole to develop, I felt I had ruined the blog, and figuring out how to address the blog-hole and fix it seemed too daunting.

I’m trying a comeback because several of those close to me have urged me to, and the truth is that I want to write (blog) even if little fanfare beyond my more immediate circle materializes... like blogging for the simple joy of blogging even if no one’s listening... although my narcissism makes that a real challenge.

What happened during the interim?

The Green Bay Packers won the Super Bowl.

Bin Laden is gone.

Scotty McCreery won American Idol.

I’m sure I missed a couple.

And I discovered David Foster Wallace (and that’s a clue to the end result of the college search—and Amherst is not the correct answer). Unfortunately the most common comment I’ve gotten in response to my DFW fascination is why am I so interested in a guy who offed himself.

More to come. I promise.

Just over two years ago during the first week of August, I was enjoying some time alone as my family was visiting with the in-laws. A late night person, I usually stay up even later when they are away, watching the 24 hour soccer channel or surfing the internet. I’d had a couple of glasses of wine (or maybe three), and I headed upstairs for bed around 1:30 am. As I was about to make the left turn to the bedroom, something flew out of a hallway closet into the bedroom and then back out down the length of the hallway.

A BAT IN THE HOUSE.

I panicked. And then I made my first error, running into bed pulling the covers over my head and making sure I had no skin exposed. My first instinct was to avoid being bitten.

Did I think the bat wasn’t going to find me, or bite me, if I was hiding? What the hell was I going to do now? It was hot, and it was getting even hotter tucked tightly under a sheet and blanket. I was sweating, my face pressed into the mattress. I heard the bat come through the bedroom again, brushing against a wall, and I had a sensation, I think imagined, that the bat dive-bombed my makeshift installation.

I wasn’t loving my options. And I realized my glasses were downstairs. I needed them. I knew I had to re-position myself, but how? I decided I had to get downstairs, but what if the bat whizzed towards me while in the narrow confines of the stairwell? I tried to calm my nerves and took a few peeks from under the covers to test out if the coast might be clear. I manned up and tip-toed out of the bedroom and down the steps. I quickly retrieved my glasses and bolstered my defense by grabbing a couple of tennis rackets from the basement which I stationed strategically... placing one on the kitchen counter and bringing another to the computer room to fortify me while I conducted some internet research.

[Note to self: the worst possible idea is for someone with anxiety issues while in the midst of frank panic to do a google search. It was a popular topic, producing 40,800,000 results in .43 seconds.]

DON’T use a tennis racket... Don’t kill the bat... You can build some contraptions on your house to keep bats from getting in, but you can’t do that in August because thousands of baby bats were born in your attic a few weeks ago and you’ll be trapping them inside the house... The bat wants out so if you open some sliders and windows the bat may flee, but there’s a risk that instead bats outside will “hear” your bat and help themselves inside... Bats in the house are not uncommon, and there are entire companies devoted to bat extraction and prevention, but they still shouldn’t be flying around your house and that’s a sign a bat may be rabid... If you’ve had alcohol and/or other substances and/or possibly fallen asleep with the bat in the house, you should presume you’ve been bitten and seek immediate medical attention as untreated rabies results in death...

And my personal favorite... “Bats are your friend... critical to the bio-ecosystem, killing millions of mosquitoes.”

It’s also not easy to focus on a computer screen and keep your head on a swivel. And sure enough, Mr. Bat went on another reconnaissance mission, through every room on the main floor, including a pass back and forth past my head in the computer room. Second note to self: the bat’s quicker than me and I couldn’t pull the trigger on grabbing the tennis racket.

By now it’s 2:30 am and I adjusted my strategy. I pulled the slider to the computer room fully open in hopes the bat would eventually fly out, and I retreated to the adjacent outside deck where I figured I could monitor activities inside from a safer vantage point. I waited and waited. Nothing. I finally fell asleep on a deck lounger for a couple of hours, waiting for dawn when I figured I’d be safe in the house again until nightfall.

With the sun up and all vampires temporarily quarantined, I returned to the internet and waited for a proper hour to phone-a-friend. My friend, a real man who would walk through a den of bats like a Bat Whisperer, and who builds houses for a living, came over in the late morning and surveyed the scene. He found a few vulnerable areas, like the upstairs closet the bat initially had flown out of, and he duct-taped around some crevices. He figured I was good to go, but I got his assurance that I could call later if there was a return-of-the-bat.

I thought there was a decent chance the bat had flown out of the house during the night, but I was going to be prepared nonetheless. I had a room reserved at Hampton Inn & Suites just in case, and as night approached I perched myself in the family room near the front door, armed with a large-head tennis racket. Waiting for my foe.

8:55 pm… flight 666 right on schedule. In he (a ‘he’ right?) comes, cruising midway between floor and ceiling, looking like a giant darth vader condor, an evil-majestic-bat-airplane making the final approach for landing. Racket handle gripped so tightly my hand was cramping but again he was too quick and erratic to pull the trigger on a swing.

That’s it! I’m outta here!

I already had my car keys, my bag packed, and I was out the door. The bat could have the damn house for all I cared. I stood in my driveway pondering my next move. Yep, time to call in the Bat Patrol. I called my buddy and explained the scene, and he at first was like, “really, you want me to come over?” And I was like, “yeah, really, I want you to come over NOW.”

And a half-hour later, my storm troopers arrived — my buddy, and his 3 boys, ages 15, 13, and 11... the youngest wearing a fucking Batman mask. They all marched in with bare feet, scouring the house for my nemesis, looking through every nook and cranny. They couldn’t find him. Fielding progress updates from my command post in the driveway, I hysterically insisted that the mission must not fail.

Finally, I heard the screams “we got him, we got him!” Of course it had to be the bat-masked 11 year old who spotted Mr. Bat nested in a blob on a curtain in my son’s room, snatching him with a fishing net. They brought the bat outside in the net to show me because I needed proof, and they also laughed and taunted me, briefly chasing me with the-bat-in-fishing-net in hand. The bat with wings retracted was smaller than a mouse.

I was completely drained... relieved... and thankful to my friends. Still traumatized and nearly delirious from the ordeal, I kept my reservation at the Hampton that night and anticipated my family coming home the next day.

My nights of terror have become legendary for some in our town... with me as the laughingstock, affectionately greeted everywhere I went as Batman. I’ve received every Batman gift imaginable — Batman doormat, Batman key chain, Batman T-shirt, Batman bumper sticker... and spontaneous, mocking serenades of the Batman theme song intro.

And more than two years later, I still drive my family insane, especially in July and August, as I hypervigilantly check for doors left ajar, or doors left open wide too long…admonishing any careless violators.

I suffer from malignant bat phobia, and I’m not ashamed in the least.

Because raw fear — even if, or maybe especially if, that fear is irrational — trumps*** shame.

*Author’s comment/edit in September, 2026, exactly 16 years later: remember when we could use that word without even a half-second pause?

Warm, red center?” “Can you cut into your steak to see if it’s cooked as you ordered it?”

Actually, NO, I can’t. I’m not going to cut into my steak while you watch me. I’m fucking 50 [and yes, I’m using the “F” word from now on because I’m going for gold and I desperately need more page views], and I can’t believe some kid who calls me “dude” or “boss” is asking me if I really know what medium-rare is! Like somebody changed the rules on medium-rare over the past 35 years. Get the hell away from me... cutting into my meat is a private moment. And can these middle-of-the-road chain franchises stop asking me “Have you been to a Longhorn before?” For heavens sakes, it’s not friggin’ DisneyWorld! I mean, I don’t see a mechanical bull or an all-you-can eat-salad-bar. The best feature of some of these steakhouses is the new X-CELERATOR air-dryers in the restrooms...those babies literally give you a permanent re-positioning of every vein in your hands.

“Well, as a matter of fact, sir, yes, I HAVE previously patroned a Longhorn during my distinguished steakhouse career, and please do not speak when I say medium-rare!!!” And don’t ask me if I want any “apps” or if I want my potato “loaded.” Just LISTEN, and I’ll tell you what I want. For godsakes, I just got out of Starbucks and had to deal with “what can I get started for ya?” and “would you like to try our new mocha drizzle frappucino latte?” Just take my order... competently and quietly... and STOP SMILING. This isn’t a friggin’ mixer at Delta Omega Chi. Dear Lord, if I can just get through the smiley, pull-the drawstring-on-the-back “Did you save some room for dessert!?!”

So, I got as far away as possible from any world woes on a Wednesday night in northern new england at an Outback Steakhouse (and yes, I’ve been there before). Table for one, please, and yes, the lounge area is fine. FYI (don’t tell Crocodile Dundee)... I didn’t see the bloomin’ onion on the menu. Good riddance! That thing looked like something you’d buy in the gift shop at a planetarium.

Fast forward past ordering interaction and obligatory medium-rare dance...

I was staring at my mini-bread loaf, samurai-sworded right down the center with a steak knife sticking in it. Thinking about looking over a report I brought in and fiddlin’ with my blackberry. And I overheard some guys at the bar talking about their fantasy football selections — four guys, four good guys... two well over 50, one 45ish, and a young buck in his 30s. Not obnoxious or loud. Just doing their thing pouring over a fantasy league magazine and debating their picks. They didn’t seem to be worrying about any world woes either.

No doubt you can guess what happens next. Four good guys talking sports? They eventually digressed into some good-old fashioned sports trivia of course. The guys were trying to name New England Patriots players from the ‘96 Super Bowl team that lost to the Packers. They rattled off Drew Bledsoe, Terry Glenn, Dave Meggett, Keith Byars, but they were struggling. I haven’t talked to male strangers in a bar since the 80s, but I couldn’t resist the brotherhood sports camaradarie, and out of the blue I felt seized by impulsivity and blurted out “Irving Fryar!” And they said “Oh yeah, Irving Fryar.” And I showed off a little more...”’83 Nebraska... Fryar, Turner Gill, and Mike Rozier... lost greatest college football game ever to Miami in the Orange Bowl, 35-34.” With my credentials acknowledged and a little college-style brotherhood rekindled, “check please,” and I was out the door. Turns out Fryar played with the Patriots in the ’86 Super Bowl and not in ‘96, but who’s quibbling?

Nothing restores a sense of equilibrium like wafting back into some nostalgic sports life landmarks... with some good guys. Even when you’re wrong!

By the way, I had a 10 oz charbroiled ribeye [overcooked medium +], with a side of broiled scallops, baked potato (butter only), and a caesar. Chased with a Columbia Crest Chardonnnay and a Jacobs Creek Shiraz Reserve.

Special gift or disability, or both?

OK, I’m going to give you the grandiose, self-serving spin on anxiety and this metazone thing. Think of those characters in the movies who visualize into the future and see cataclysmic events before they happen and then try to stop them. Quite a burden, right? And dramatic as hell. Seeing trauma unfolding before your eyes and having the awesome task of intervening just in time. Ignore the hyperbole, but picture the sensation of impending calamity with an attendant need to intervene or avoid as part and parcel of at least some types of anxiety. This may be helpful when you encounter an anxious person who is driving you insane. He’s not really trying to control you. He’s trying to keep you and /or himself safe.

Now, like with any sense organ, the accuracy of a person’s anxiety can vary widely. Certainly, there are anxiety disorders that are almost entirely dysfunctional and often result in severe, crippling debilitation (although understanding the experience of these persons still is important). And there are numerous factors that determine whether anxiety can be accessed as a skill — intelligence, psychological mindedness, some sophistication with inter- and intrapersonal dynamics for starters — or will be fated only (and tragically) for useless but consuming pain.

Let’s take one of those precautionary steps back so as not to be misunderstood. Anxiety exists, as much so and even more fundamentally than other emotional states like anger or sadness, and in some ways anxiety (and probably fear) are more basic biological survival instincts than other emotions. So it is not so much a question of whether one has anxiety, but rather how one processes, copes, and uses anxiety. (An apparent true absence of anxiety correlates with psychopathy... imagine the coldblooded criminal). Some cope by denying they experience any anxiety. A particular form of denial is projection of anxiety on to someone else. We often encounter anxiety being handled in this manner by hysterical personalities. This is frustrating because you as the other person know that the anxiety is there, but the person just blows right by it or blatantly contradicts what you know he or she is experiencing.

It’s like trying to deal with someone who says the sky is blue when it’s pouring rain. You’re not quite sure how to engage such a contradictory presentation, especially if observing the contradiction to the person likely will lead to a hardening of defenses and accusations on you. On the other hand, I truly envy those who appear to deal with anxiety seamlessly, as though they really don’t experience the obstacles faced by more obviously anxious folks. Being free from excessive anxiety is a godsend for those so fortunate.

[Blogging genre alert! I get a clear blogging idea, but then meandering sets in and/or I realize what I’m saying might not be really or entirely true, and then I’m off on some tangent only similar to what I thought I was going to write about. That’s the good thing about blogging... You can push along without worrying about poor, disorganized prose. And I can always clean everything up later when the publishers come begging.]

I’ll be blunt. My anxiety is both debilitating and highly accurate. I’m almost always right —- contrary to family legend — at least in terms of predicting what is going to happen if person x encounters person y or event z. In real stats, always right means about a 35-40% hit rate. What I’m often wrong about — probably 95% of the time — is in the calibration of the anticipated traumatic interaction. I often predict the train wreck when the real outcome yields only a fender-bender. The goals for me are making anxiety more adaptive and improving my proportionality function. It would be nice not to lead or front with anxiety but instead keep some in my back pocket just in case.

...... and then you see Schindler’s List (again)... or spend an afternoon at the Holocaust Museum... shattering moments of light... inspired... flickers of real truth that aren’t sustained wheels keep moving... look away

I was driving son to Delaware for more premier soccer.

As you cross into New York heading south on I-95 you get ready, you hope, for a quick 25 minute blur from the outskirts of the bronx past the projects and street signs like jerome and amsterdam aves thru to the george washington bridge. Pulse quickened, hyper-alert to a different world too vast and intimidating to want to see, half-conscious of millions of stories with not enough space, or courage, to hear. Check wallet, lock doors... humiliated, cowering white boy with these impulses exposed.

And then on the right, just past a mass of steel underpass, there is the Cross-Bronx Motel — a 10 story cinder block... its “guests” there for a few months instead of days, or for a half-hour, if you know what I mean. A curious, maybe even funny, image in a theater seat watching a spike lee film, but what about for real, at ground level, staring at the door? The liberal elite don’t know the answer, except through “internship” seeking course credit and feather for Columbia Law.

About seven stories up, three windows from the right, there it was... red toy guitar sitting on its head.

And three days later, championship medal in hand, taking the NJ turnpike north... past woodrow wilson, grover cleveland, vince lombardi travel plazas, americana on steroids with a jersey drawl. NYC coming into view, and we wondered... would the red guitar still be there??? We had made up stories about how the guitar got to its perch, and the owner... a little boy no doubt, with his Dad, or his Mom and his siblings, waiting for the next stop.

It was there! Still there, in the exact same spot! We were relieved, even comforted —why, I can’t explain although I should try to think.

So the plastic red guitar became a story, a little family thing. And a few months later we were driving to NYC for a mini-vacation around 42nd between 7th and 8th. Priceline rate tucked securely in the bag. 30 miles away we grew so excited, wanting to show mom and sister this nugget and prove our great find.

AND THERE IT IS! — The Cross-Bronx Motel!

But the plastic red guitar was gone...

My rising high school senior son visited my alma mater this weekend with my wife and daughter. He liked it... a lot... on a par with a handful of other schools, but through college visit #15 (or so), he still hasn’t had that “this is where I absolutely want to be” moment. This may be a good thing because who wants to have that feeling and then not get in. And getting in these days is a chore. The college admissions landscape is brutal, especially among the upper tier of schools. You would think with our prolonged economic downturn that the competition would have leveled off. Instead, the last 2-3 years were the most competitive ever with many schools hitting record lows for admissions rates. Supposedly the baby boomer effect has peaked. We’ll see.

I’ve procrastinated on blogging about college search and premier youth soccer, which is odd given that these are two of my prime blog categories, and especially given the amount of space that these topics take up in my head on a daily basis. I’ve hesitated in part because I have too much to say, and no one will want to slog his way through a 100 page blog post. So I’m not quite sure how to manage all of the thoughts and information in the blogging arena. And then there is the small problem of what I’m going to be revealing about myself when these topics should be all about my son, and very shortly, also my daughter. Well, WTF, if I’m really serious about this whole blogging gig I’ll just have to cope with that. So let’s plunge ahead with part #1.

What does youth soccer have to do with a college search? Everything, or maybe nothing. Soccer is the world’s game, but in this country, and especially at the progressively more elite levels, a certain demographic tends to dominate. Not as badly as with lacrosse, or tennis, or squash, but definitely more so than the major sports. And because of the starting ages — 4, 5, 6 — almost all youth are exposed to soccer, including great athletes who move on to other sports during the latency or early teen years. Out of the many millions who have at least some exposure to the game, there will be a funneling down to maybe a few thousand looking for soccer to provide an edge as they enter the vast pool of bright, talented kids seeking admission to selective colleges and universities. The youth soccer demographic is such that a good percentage of these soccer kids will be vying for spots at the most selective schools.

By age 6 or 7, you know if you have a good soccer player on your hands, and by 9 or 10, you at least think you know if you have a player who might be kind of special. By then, your kid may be clearly the best at his age in your town, or depending on the size of the town, one of the best. And he or she might be one of the best in a 3 or 4 town area that you know about. What you don’t fully appreciate at that point is the fact that there may be hundreds of kids just as good and better across your whole state, and literally many thousands across the country. So, without knowing what you’ll know when your kid is 15, 16, 17, the damage already is done. The bug already has bitten — for your kid and for you.

Your kid is 9 or 10 — or for some it’s 7 or 8 or earlier — and you’re staring in the face of this thing called premier club soccer. You’ve found a team with most of the best players in a 30-45 miles radius, and if you haven’t already cognitively linked college with soccer, you will have within a week of meeting the other gracious and lovely parents. Within 2-3 years assuming your child still is faring fairly well, you’re looking for better teams, higher competition, and more out-of-state tournaments. You’re exploring special programs like ODP (Olympic Development Program) and looking ahead to the possibility of the new DAP (US Developmental Academy), the most elite and exclusive youth soccer program in the country. It goes without saying that you’ve already attended a bunch of special clinics and camps, spent hundreds of dollars on skills training DVDs, and monitored your kid’s soccer juggling progress. You don’t necessarily think your kid is destined for a professional soccer career (although you know at least a few parents with a glimmer of hope who arrange some training with a professional club’s youth academy while they’re “doing Europe”). But you do think that a college soccer future is well within reach — maybe NCAA Division 1 with perhaps some scholarship money, or at least Division 3 with soccer helping push your kid over the admit line at a very, very good school.

Occasionally you’ll run into some geezer who says he’s been through the whole circuit before, and he’ll try to share a little perspective with you... let a little air out of the obsessional bubble that you’re inhabiting. You don’t listen, and you chalk this up to his kid must have sucked. And anyway, the stakes seem too high, especially if all seems to be moving rather smoothly towards the goal. And after all, your kid absolutely loves soccer and he’s having a great time with all of his soccer friends. Soccer is your kid’s passion for god sakes so who are you to stand in the way.

And then puberty hits. Some get a bounce from an early puberty, and some have a temporary setback. Some who got the bounce appear well on their way to at least some decent college soccer, but then age 14 turns out to have been their peak. It’s not always clear-cut. There are good patches, surges, setbacks, and for many just enough good stuff to stay in the hunt. And there is a substantial youth soccer business very willing to feed you whatever you need to stay in the hunt. And believe me, we parents want to be fed. With each year, though, big doses of reality are tough to dodge. Maybe a kid isn’t going to be fast enough, or big enough, or skilled enough, or smart or hungry enough. Tough lessons, for the kid and parents, and the lessons aren’t learned — they’re more sensed, then denied, sensed some more, denied more strongly... working your way back and forth towards some outcome gradually coming into focus but delayed by blurring because we need to blur.

Remember, the worst case scenario was supposed to Division 3 soccer at a wonderful college. And even with all the lumps and lessons (sort of) learned along the road, your kid is still the best in town, still one of the best in the area. He’s had a strong junior year in high school and he’s going to be a Captain for senior year. He’s still playing at a relatively high level for one of the best premier club teams in the state. Division 3 soccer at a great college doesn’t seem too greedy. That’s not too much to ask. No one’s called yet for recruiting because for Division 3 you let the college know that you want to play for them, right? I mean, it’s Division 3 and my kid is still a really good player. How tough can it be?

And so you head out and visit these colleges of your, umm, kid’s dreams. You already know that without help from soccer with admissions that you’re likely a rejection, at least at the 3 or 4 schools you want the most where perhaps your kid is within range academically but without soccer may fall short on the something-extra-special criterion. Soccer is going to be the deal-clincher, the passion that is going to put your kid over the top. You’ve exchanged a few emails with the coach, and you’re feeling pretty good as you sit down to meet. Then you see this board with 75-100 names on it, and you recognize some of the names because your kid has played against those kids. The coach tells you he’s actually had email correspondence with more than 500 kids. Your and your kid’s hearts sink in unison as the coach offers a lukewarm “let’s make sure we keep in touch.”

A gorgeous day, walking around one of America’s beautiful college campuses with almost 200 years of ivory tower history... opportunity, belonging, future, dreams... hanging in the breeze.

OK, I lied. Second blog post and I’ve already lied. Probably the first of many.

I am going to say a bit more about Lebron and Mel. As I’ve procrastinated to get started with this blogging gig, I continued to have a nagging feeling about the first post. The contrast that I juxtaposed seems even starker to me the more I think about it. Lebron, with “The Decision,” and Mel Turpin, also a former Cleveland Cavalier, taking his own life. One man on a stage with a worldwide, live television audience to announce where he would be playing basketball, and another quietly (albeit violently) killing himself in his modest, middle-class environs. One man dominating newspaper and television headlines literally for weeks, and another’s death a side note, a 15 second blurb encapsulating his 49 years here on Earth. I am filled with an uneasiness as I think about these two events.

The juxtaposition is not as neat as something like Life vs. Death, and perhaps especially because I felt some death watching Lebron as well. Not because of what he did to Cleveland, or Cleveland’s “loss.” Beyond the gross commercialization and utter gratuity of “The Decision,” I felt Lebron’s emptiness. At what was supposed to be his grandest moment, carefully choreographed for maximum impact, there was nothing. He felt empty, and at least in the moment he seemed like he had no idea who he is. Watching was awkward and uncomfortable because he seemed so ungrounded, so vacuous, so small. A great, bigger than life, American athletic hero reduced to a stammer and cliched speech he could barely get out of his mouth. Lebron died in that moment — well, in that hour — suicide by narcissism. There was nothing there.

I do not know Lebron. My knowledge of him is limited to marveling at his athletic gifts, observing his demeanor on the court and with the media, and what I see and read about how he is portrayed. He certainly has been described as a narcissist. I can’t presume anything about who he really is, or what he really cares about, but at a minimum the screen character he played in “The Decision” was narcissism pure and simple. Mel Turpin’s “moment” was narcissistic in a different way, but perhaps also more true.

July 9, 2010…the day after Lebron showed how high (and low) narcissism can go and Mel Turpin committed suicide by blowing his brains out with a gun.

I won’t blog any further about the Lebron fiasco as much better writers than I already have chronicled this supersaturated beyond belief story.

Mel Turpin was a UK basketball star in the early 80s — a high NBA draft pick who mostly flopped in the league. Considered a friendly, good guy, living at home in Lexington, KY. Dead at 49.

This is also the first day of my blog.