The Leap Year Blues

It's February out there. Oh yes, it's February.

How do I know? Because my normally sweet-natured, cooperative, mellow almost-three-year-old daughter had her official, week long, winter-cabin-fever "I'm not going to sleep, eat and be nuclear grumpy every moment" freak out.

And it was about Wednesday of the freakout while driving down the highway with crying tot in tow, that I remembered: "Oh yeah, it's February isn't it."

One of my favorite writers avoids the state of Pennsylvania at all costs because every time he crosses its borders something mysteriously always breaks down. (Cars, relationships, physical health) He will drive extra hours around the state just to save himself the trouble that will surely find him there.

I feel the same way about February, but I have not, as yet, found a way to avoid a whole month of the year. (I do however have one fond memory that takes place in this month, and that was when I first laid eyes on my beautiful wife, but knowing what month it was, I waited till March to ask her out)

There is an old saying (okay, I made it up and have been saying it for a while) that all the evidence that you need to believe in a merciful, loving God is in the fact that He made February with only twenty-eight days. (Actually, it was not the Lord, but those shiftless Gregorians who designed our current calendar)

And then, I hear that every four years they want to add another day to this most wretched of all months.

This is a bad idea.

If there is somehow (it must be magic) an extra day floating around out there why on earth would we give it to February? It's like entrusting those thousand dollars you were saving for a vacation to your gambling addicted roommate. It's akin to saying "you know what, I don't think that World War II thing was near long enough, why don't we tack on an extra year, make it go through '46" or "that national deficit isn't nearly big enough, let's put a couple of zeros onto that baby, really make some history here!"

And if there is some "magic" way to add a day to the calendar, then could those same folks somehow make the American Idol TV show disappear, professional baseball last all year and give me back all the hair that I've lost?

Actually, let's just do away with the month of February once and for all.

Here is what I suggest.

Let's divide up those twenty-eight days like this: We'll start by giving the other eleven months each one more day just for virtue of not being the month of February.

That leaves us with seventeen days.

Next, let's give June, July, and August each four more days, because come on, who would be against a longer summer?

Then let us reward October (my favorite month on account of all that foliage, and my birthday) with three more days and then let's randomly select oh, say April, to have two more days.

There it is; a nice even, well thought out plan to phase out February.

Oh, and that extra day every four years?

Put it anywhere you want...

The Skull Of St. Valentine (And Other Greeting Card Suggestions)

Some say that Valentine's Day is nothing but a corporate holiday, designed by the greeting card companies and the chocolate folks. Some say it's designed to fill that dreaded "holiday gap" between New Year's Day and St. Patrick's Day. Many call it "Single Person's Awareness Day" and dress all in black and celebrate by burning old love letters on the front lawn.

But whatever you may feel about it, it's here today and you must choose how you will celebrate it or if you will at all.

I think, at a minimum, we should be required to give a card to 13 other people like we were forced to in elementary school. The government (it can be local government for all you small-government folks out there) should issue each citizen a list of 13 other folks, with names correctly spelled, of whom you are required to write a Valentine's card to. It can be one of those generic ones that come 20 to a box, and you must, at a minimum, write the person's name on it and perhaps an "xoxoxoxo" if you are feeling inspired.

Imagine what it would be like for every person in the country (we can expand the program internationally next year; let's start small here folks) opened up their mailbox and got a Valentine's card on the appointed day. It wouldn't matter if it had a Transformer or Captain America on it (I draw the line with the ones that kids can get that feature Pro Wrestlers - a person has got to have standards) or Strawberry Shortcake or My Little Pony, because the excitement of getting a card or a piece of candy would be worth it. If it worked in third grade, why can't it work today?

There are lots of other things that we should do to follow the elementary school model in life, like naptime, drinking milk out of those cartons that are impossible for a seven-year-old to open (we could wipe out Osteoporosis in our lifetime!) and taking field trips. But I digress.

According to some exhaustive and in-depth research, done just now on Wikipedia, Saint Valentine might have been one of about six people who were martyred in early Church history (kind of puts a crimp in the old "day of love" thing). And perhaps the best fact that I found was that the skull of Saint Valentine himself is on display in a church in Rome. They should really make a greeting card out of that picture. It's also interesting to note that, in the Eastern Orthodox Church, this holiday is celebrated on July 6. This would throw a hitch in the old Fourth of July weekend celebrations here in this country.

But it does not take a saint to convince the world that it's good to have a day to celebrate love in all of its many forms. Though we default to thinking of romantic love during this time, with all the pressure to buy flowers and gifts and underwear, love is all around us in ways that are far more practical and real than the romantic ideal we are presented with by the good folks on Madison Avenue.

Lest I be too preachy here, I enjoy romantic love as much as the next guy. My wife, Special Sauce Caldwell (so named because she makes everything just a little bit better) and I enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) a courtship in which I pitched woo with the best of them. I wrote poetry and songs, I drew pictures and took her on picnics and went all out in pursuit of her hand in marriage. It's surprising what you are capable of when there is worthy goal in site. We still enjoy these things.

But "love" is so much more. To treat love as a gushy thing that we only celebrate once a year is like eating a hot dog with only one topping. Romantic love is great, but the kind of love you feel for your friends is wonderful, too. So send that good friend a note or a gift. (Guys, I'm looking at you here too.)

Parental love is worth celebrating, too. When my daughter, Princess Genius, was two-years-old, she ran across an open lawn space towards traffic (she never did this before or after, but for some reason she chose this moment to try and pick some flowers near the road) before anyone could react quickly enough and I had to cover 50 yards in just a couple of seconds. As I ran towards her and the cars, I realized that I would jump out in front of one if that's what it took to keep her safe. Thankfully, I caught her at the one-yard line by an ankle. Again, I'd love to see the greeting card that said, "I love you so much that I would jump out in front of a car for you!"

So, if you have a parent (and I know you do), make sure to send them a note or give them a phone call. They most likely saved your hyde a number of times, and a card or call is a great celebration of love.

So expand your horizon. Love is all around you. Give a stranger a Valentine today and see how you make someone's day. Call a friend, hug a co-worker (make sure to get permission first), buy flowers for Mom and hug your daughters and your sons and see love as more than a sentiment.

And then, feel free to celebrate your expanded horizons by eating a whole box of chocolates.

Happy Valentine's Day,

- Tin Can Caldwell

My High-maintenance Maintenance Man

Monday.


"Hi Bob, it's Paul up in apartment 7B. I went to use my bathroom sink this morning and it started doing that thing where the water sprays directly up in your face when you turn on the tap. I got a face full of cold water and a pretty wet floor, but otherwise things are okay. It stopped when I turned off the -

What's that Bob, you can't come today? Um, can I ask why?

You're having an existential crisis? That's too bad. As a writer I feel your pain, I've had one all my life. I mean, what does it all mean. What are we supposed to do with our lives and so on. What's causing yours?

You lost your big amateur cage fighting match this weekend, and now you are wondering if your plan to switch careers should go forward? That's a tough one my friend. Now about that waterfountain in my sink.

You say you can stop in tomorrow? Great. See you then.

Tuesday.

BEEP: Hi Bob, Paul here again. I stopped by your office this morning on my way to go get some breakfast at the diner, and I saw the sign that you were out at yoga and would be back soon. I have a meeting out of town today and I'll be gone most of the morning and afternoon. Feel free to just stop in and check out that faucet when you get back. It's starting to spray up a little, even when the taps are closed tight. It seems like a quick fix, and I might do it myself, but I have a deadline to meet this week, and this silly meeting today, so I don't have time to go to the hardware store and do the work. Also, I know that you have that room in the basement filled with pluming supplies, so I'm sure you have what you need in there to get my sink up and running again. Talk to you soon Bob.


Wednesday.

Hi Bob, Paul from 7B here again. I got your message - no Bob, I wasn't yelling at you yesterday afternoon on the street out front. I was just calling out to you to get your attention as you were about to cross the street. Hey, I saw you with your yoga mat again.

Oh, you're up to two sessions per day now? That's great. You must really be relaxed and stress free these days. Oh, speaking of stress, my sister and her family are coming to spend a long weekend with me and as much as I don't mind brushing my teeth and shaving in the kitchen sink, I'm really going to need the whole bathroom up and running to accommodate my family's visit.

You can come up right now! Great!

Thursday.

Hi Bob. It's Paul. Look I'm sorry about not offering you coffee or a snack yesterday when you came up to look at the sink. I'm just really focused on this book deadline and I guess the little details of civility are escaping me right now. If you want to come over today I'll break open this great Costa Rican brew my wife got when she was down there last. It's the best Bob. Maybe we can have lunch? I have this great ham from the deli over on Elm Street. It's tissue-paper thin and fantastic on rye.

You're a vegan? Oh, sorry. Maybe I can go get some humus and pita right now.

Have I ever though about animal rights and how we get our food in 21st century America? You have a documentary you'd like me to see?

Sure! I'd love to see it. Why don't you bring it up right now and while you're here maybe you can look at the bathroom sink again. The spray is now arching out onto the floor and I've got to have a bucket there to catch it all. It's not a big deal as long as I'm around to empty the bucket every hour, but it could be a problem if I every, you know, need to go out.

You're coming up now? Great. I'll get the coffee going.

Friday.

Hi Bob. Look I'm really sorry I wouldn't let your dog in the apartment when you came over yesterday. I know he's you "assistant" maintenance man (by the way, LOVE that cute button on his collar that says that), but my wife is allergic to dogs and if little "Fenway" had come in she would be sneezing and short of breath for a week. I hope you can understand.

No, I love dogs Bob! I really do! I had one named "Springsteen" when I was a kid. He was great. It's just when I decided to marry Julie I had to give up the idea of having a pet dog.

Sorry, sorry. I know dogs aren't pets anymore, they would prefer to be called companions. I'm sensitive to these things Bob, but I need to go EMPTY A BUCKET NOW!

Saturday.

Hi Bob. Paul here. Sorry about hanging up on you yesterday. It's been a really long week, manuscript deadline, waking up every hour at night to change out buckets, it's been pretty draining. (Thanks, that was a good pun!)

I did manage to bang out a new short story in my free moments though. It's about a humble maintenance man who follows his dream of being a mixed martial arts champion and yoga instructor. It came out so good that I'm thinking of turning it into a screen play to submit to the next Northeast Film Festival. I could totally see Channing Tatum playing the lead role.

You'd love to read it? That's swell Bob. I just happen to have a draft printed out on some top-shelf parchment I got as a Christmas present from Julie. Since you're coming up anyway, maybe you could bring your tool-belt with you and give that sink the old "look-see."

You will!

You're the best Bob." 

The Real St. Patrick...Way Cooler Than Boiled Food

St. Patrick's Day this year falls on a Sunday, and I can only assume that the partying will be raucous and open-ended, given the weekend schedule and the great weather the past few days. Monday morning will no doubt be a painful time for many celebrants, and the (predicted) sunshine of the day might be painful to many bleary eyes and sore heads. At the risk of being preachy, let me say that celebrating the life of St. Patrick by getting drunk is like celebrating Gandhi by eating a 32 ounce steak or remembering the life of Mother Teresa by buying a McMansion. (And St. Patrick's Day comes on the heels of Valentine's Day, another saintly day where folks celebrate by eating too much chocolate and buying lingerie.)

Now, I enjoy a Guinness as much as the next Irishman (actually Scotch-Irishman, my people have the great distinction of getting kicked out of two countries) and boiled food as much as anyone else. (That is to say "no one".) But the more I learn about the life of St. Patrick himself, the more I want to pass the day doing what he did and not getting snookered in a pup while waving an Irish flag.

Here is a quick primer on the life of this Saint (truly a man worthy of that title). He was born at the end of the forth century in what is now Wales, and at the age of sixteen he was captured by a band of Irish raiders (I'd use the word "pirate" but that just conjures up jolly images of eye patches, the letter "R" and Johnny Depp) and sold into slavery in Ireland. As a slave he most likely wore an iron collar around his neck to show his status and spent six of his formative years in abject servitude, tending sheep for a tribal chieftain before he miraculously escaped to the coast and convinced a ship's captain to bring him back to Great Britain.

If that were not incredible enough, what happens next will blow your shamrocks off. He went back to Ireland!

Well, not right away, but after a hearing the Lord call him into full time ministry he trained in Rome for a few years (the dark ages equivalent of Bible College) and, according to his own writings had a repeated dream where he was visited by various Irishmen who pleaded with him to come back and "walk among them".

And he went back!

Now if you take an understandably dim view of organized religion (one of my favorite bumper stickers says "when a religion starts to get organized, watch out!") and particularly when it comes to the Church and Ireland, you can still find much to admire in a man who would willingly go back to a place where he had been formally a slave.

And it was no picnic when he went back; he was robbed, beaten and threatened constantly. Yet he spent the remainder of his life in Ireland, telling anyone and everyone that God loved them and had a purpose for their life. These are no small words from a man who had seen the dark side of life in the way Patrick had.

So maybe we could celebrate St. Patrick's Day by finding someone who we need to forgive. This person might not deserve it or even ask for it, but maybe March 17th could be a day of reconciliation as well as boiled cabbage.

Or how about we celebrate St. Patrick's Day by getting out of our comfort zones? Perhaps you could get to know someone who you might otherwise pass by? Maybe you could serve the community in some aspect or volunteer at a St. Patrick's Day party at a retirement home or a soup kitchen.

Now I don't want to be a kill joy, I'm not anti fun. One of my favorite memories of St. Patrick's Day was seeing the river in Chicago turned green. (I saw it a few days earlier and it was naturally a shade of green that no body of water should be.) And I enjoy Irish music and corned beef (although not every food should be boiled, I've been to Ireland, and I've never seen such grey eats as they serve there) and the color green. In fact I have a daughter named Ireland. (In these pages she is mostly known by the nom de plume "Princess Genius"; now you know her secret identity.) But the more I reflect on the life of St. Patrick, the more I want to be like him and the less enthralled I am by leprechauns and shamrock shakes at McDonalds.

So next year, before planning an evening of inebriation, please take a minute to consider the patron saint of dear old Ireland, and consider how you might uniquely celebrate such a remarkable life.

But make sure to boil the breakfast early

Life In My Skinny Jeans

I have been exactly ten pounds overweight for about 15 years now. This has to be some sort of record for both sloth and consistency. I don't know how I have done it, but since the late 90's I've weighed 165 pounds, give or take the steak and eggs for breakfast or the pizza for dinner.

I just thought my weight was normal, but according to some health metrics I've seen lately, a guy my height (my diver's license says I'm 5 '8', so I'll go with that, though some hair might have been involved in that measurement back in 2003), should weigh 155 pounds to be at peak health.

155 ponds! I'm going to have to give up something to attain "peak health", should it be the biscuits and gravy or the potato chips? (Did you know that "diet" is "die" with a "t"?)

I've always had a pretty high metabolism and combine that with being a fairly nervous (some would say 'twitchy") person, and I've never really had to worry about weight or my eating habbits too much.

What I am finding out is that you can be the same weight for a number of years and still change shape (my dad has a t-shirt that says "I'm in shape! Round is a shape!").

That's right. Things are heading south. That middle-aged-guy belly? Check!

This realization was brought home to me recently when a pair of my favorite jeans didn't quite cinch up as easily as they once did. It was right after the holidays, so I figured that I had gained a few pounds drinking gallons of eggnog (as much sugar in one glass as a candy bar), but when I consulted the family scale in the bathroom, it read exactly the same; 165.

So I did what any sensible American does. I went out to get a new pair of jeans.

As a writer and stay-at-home-dad, my uniform of choice and practicality is a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt (the uniform of my youth as well). I usually get one pair of jeans and one shirt each year, usually around tax return time.

This being that time of the year, I perused the racks for just the perfect style and pair. And then, looking at the price tags, I immediately headed to the discount racks in the back of the store.

There my eyes fell upon the perfect pair. Right size? (The right size being "one size bigger than the ones in my bureau") Check! Right price? Check! (How could you go wrong with a price that was one tenth the price of the neighbors in the next aisle?) Should I try them on?

Nah, all the info I need is right on the tag, and since I'm running late I'll just grab these guys and get out of here. What could go wrong?

Well, the next morning when I went to put them on I discovered what could go wrong. You know a pair of pants is going to be tight when you cant even get your foot through waist of the jeans.

As I stood in my bedroom, trying not to be seen by any other human being, I wondered what was going on. I checked the size again. Seems okay, but what are those tiny word under the measurements?

"Skinny fit!"

I looked like a cross between a tights-wearing extra in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing and James Dean (minus the glorious hair and that "I have to go to the bathroom" look on my face).

But what to do? I didn't think that I could face the embarrassment of returning the jeans and having to state "the reason I need to return these discount skinny jeans is that I look ridiculous in them." And come to think of it, perhaps the reason they were on the discount rack to begin with was that everybody else thought they were ridiculous too!

So I did what any other male worth his salt would do. I didn't admit my mistake and went about my day in tights and a flannel shirt. ("I'm sorry sweetheart, I can't help you tie your shoes today. Daddy can't bend over right now.")

If there is a benefit to skinny jeans, they do hide that paunch in the middle of your frame pretty well. I looked pretty svelte, even though I kept having fainting spells all day.

So, I think it's time to go do some sit ups and push ups and perhaps get rid of that ice cream in the freezer.

What's the best way to get rid of unwanted ice cream in your freezer you ask?

You should eat it.

155 pounds, here I come

My Resolutions For 2014 (You Can't Rush These Things)

I have made my list of resolutions for the year 2014, because, frankly, you can’t rush these things. How many times have I sat down and seriously considered what things I want to change, and then come up with a concrete plan on how I was going to accomplish these things?

Quite honestly? Never. I mostly think of things on the spot when someone asks me that “best-of-all small talk questions” for this time of year. I’ll say something like “I’m going to learn Japanese and Swahili simultaneously and try to get a little more exercise at the same time. In fact I have lessons for both languages on my iPod and I’m going to walk five miles each morning while reciting the Swahili and Japanese alphabets and in a few months I’ll have both languages down cold and be thin as a rake to boot!”

Last year I got up early and exercised on January 2nd and January 3rd, then something happened (I think I hurt my knee somehow) and then it was all over for the year. Two glorious days of exercise, days where I felt more alive and was more pleasant to be around, (grouchiness and winter go hand in hand for me) and then it was all over.

To be sure I got out and had a pretty active summer and have had a few early mornings since then, but I was out of the New Year’s resolution game in record time. So it’s easy to become discouraged and cynical about making life changes when there have been so many crashes and burns in the years before. And I know I’m not alone in this. I would hazard a guess that most Americans view New Year’s resolutions with a sort of winking eye philosophy; they’re fun to talk about, but come on, who really takes these things seriously. There mostly fodder for small talk (just like their Christmas cousin, “have you got your shopping done yet?”) and mostly a really good, really impractical idea.

There is also a growing wave of well intentioned propaganda that says “you are just fine the way you are. You should accept yourself and not worry about changing anything. You are just fine!”

But the reality is this dear reader; you have things that need to change. I have things that need to change. Miss Universe (isn’t she from Sri Lanka this year?) has things that she needs to change. If you think that you don’t have anything that needs to change or improve then go ask a close friend or a trusted relative (not an Elvis Presley like “yes man“) if there is anything about yourself that needs to change. Then listen to the answer.

If the answer makes you a little uncomfortable or a bit defensive then good. You are on to something.

But discouragement is easy. Hopelessness is not hard to come by. Despair or disbelief that change is possible is as common as a head cold. (I should know, I’ve had two in the last month).

So here is the secret code. Are you ready? Do you have a pen and paper handy? Good.

Plan big and shoot small. Plan big and shoot small. (Things sound more impressive if you repeat them twice.)

Plan big: If a change is warranted or desired then a plan on how to execute that change is as important as any ounce of will power or the most expensive home gym that you can find. Without a plan it all goes kabloowy.

But I always plan for too big a change. It’s mostly impossible to learn a language in a year without being immersed in the culture of that language and most of us can’t become Olympic level athlete in just a few months. It seems to me that any change that has happened successfully in my life happened by small degrees. Most of us think of making a life change as if we are jumping off a diving board, but it’s more like taking a hike. You do it by degrees, taking in the view every once in a while and stopping for water breaks often.

But at some point you look back at where you have come from and the view behind you is startling. You were wondering if you were getting anywhere at all and when you look back you see just how far you have come. But it came small step by small step, inch by inch.

So instead of trying to lose fifty pounds and run five miles a day shoot for fifteen pounds and walking a mile a day. It’s much more manageable and frankly, more likely to happen.

And don’t get discouraged with a few setbacks, just keep moving. Make a plan, write down a concrete schedule for yourself and carry it around with you. It’s only over the day you give up completely. Remember, plan big and shoot small. I’m no expert, and man o man do I have some things that I need to change, but we’re all in this thing together and I’m pulling for you.

Plan big and shoot small. Plan big and shoot small.

I really should have some t-shirts made up.

The Complete, Concise and Utterly Truthful History of the Motorcycle

The motorcycle is a ubiquitous presence on the highways and byways of the good old U.S.A. But few people know its incredible origin story, which dates all the way back to the shores of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina and the three fabulous Wright brothers.

Oh, you didn't know about the third Wright brother? Let me fill you in on a little fantastic bit of history.

The famous Wright brothers, Orville and Wilbur (whose parents were surely out to lunch with giving the brother those names) of course are credited with the invention of the airplane (and the phrase "It'll never fly Orville"). But not as well known was their little brother Michael (Mike or "Mikey") Wright.

When Orville and his big brother Wilbur (again, love those names) set up shop on the shores of the Atlantic there in Kitty Hawk their parents sent their teenage brother Mikey to spend some time with them during summer vacation. Young Mikey tagged along with his older brothers when they went out to the sand dunes to test their flying contraptions. He was much lighter than his portly, middle-aged brothers and they would often call upon him to strap in to their early attempts at flying machines. Young Mikey was generally a pretty good sport being the guinea pig in their experiments at flight, and as a thank you the older brothers would give their brother unlimited access to their scrap pile of mechanical pieces they kept on the premises.

One summer day when his brothers were out of town, young Mikey started tinkering with a small airplane engine bolted onto his bicycle. The experiment was successful beyond his wildest dreams and he went motoring about the shore of the North Carolina coast. Though it had yet to be written, the song "Born To Be Wild" was playing in the background as young Mikey tooled up one sand dune and down the next. He also, inexplicably, felt the need to take off his shirt and put on a pair of sunglasses, though those had yet to be invented either.

When Wilbur and Orville (I'll never get tired of typing those names) got back from their business trip young Mikey showed them his prototype for the motorcycle. They both were impressed with it and promised to give it their full attention and support once they had conquered the air.

What follows is well known history. The Wright brothers finally got one of their flying contraptions to stay aloft for a few minutes (with the younger and much lighter Mikey at the throttle and controls) and set the young century on its way to scientific discovery and invention.

Because of the hubbub of the airplane (the ticker-tape parades, the visit to the White House) the development of the motorcycle was delayed a bit, and when the time came to pay attention to it young Mikey wasn't so young any more. With a new family to care for Mikey sold the patent to his "motorized bicycle" to two sausage makers named John Harley and Steve Davidson. (Incidentally, this is why the term "hog" became synonymous with the motorcycle.) Mikey Wright went on to invent the mini-van and the Cuisinart in his later life.

Harley and Davidson made some critical improvements to the prototype (such as those streamers that you sometimes see coming from the handlebars and the loud tailpipe.)

Actually, the tailpipe was the critical defining moment of motorcycle development. On its first forays out into moving traffic the motorcycle was much too small and quiet to be noticed (despite Harley and Davidson's constant use of the "Motorcycles Are Everywhere" bumper stickers on the bumpers of their Model T's) and were constantly being knocked around by other vehicles.

It was a young intern at their shop in who tinkered with the exhaust system to get it to be ear-splittingly loud. He was rewarded with the chance to design his own cycle, and he promptly invented the "Chopper" which is, for you who are not up on such things, the motorcycle with the ridiculously long front tire set up and the high handlebars that require a seven foot arm span to operate.

The motorcycle is now firmly etched into the American myth (it helps to have a whole continent to drive across) and this year the Smithsonian Museum is dedicating an exhibit to Mikey Wright and his first "motorized bike' design.

Please make sure to park your motorcycle in appropriate marked spot in the museum's parking lot and be as quiet as you can when entering the exhibit.

And please, make sure to wear a shirt.