Get Off The Ground: February 2025

Sunday, February 23, 2025

What Happens Next

"...You may be right

It's all a waste of time

I guess that's just a chance I'm prepared to take

A danger I'm prepared to face

Cut to the chase

What kind of difference can one person make?

Cut to the chase..."

–Rush, Cut to the Chase

I needed a distraction. Something fun with the family that could shield me temporarily from work stress, from America slipping away, from grieving my best friend's passing, and from existential exhaustion. Feeling helpless and overwhelmed by it all, I just needed a break from how my brain has been reacting of late.

The Santa Cruz Clam Chowder Cook-Off was upon us and never disappoints. It's a weekend full of yummy local chowders cooked up by both amateurs and professionals and held at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. And this year our oldest Beatrice worked the event, selling tasting kits and merchandise.

Beatrice finished her shift and joined my wife Amy, her sibling Bryce, and me to start tasting the chowders. It's always a busy event, rain or shine, and this year the weather was fabulous. Within the first hour of tasting there was wall-to-wall people walking around, waiting in chowder tasting lines, or waiting to ride the amusement park rides. But mercy me the chowder is always a treat with dozens of chowder booths to choose from. After a few samples I'm always full.

It was fun, and momentarily distracting, but my life nagged at me like a child pulling on my shirt on the verge of a tantrum. I looked up to watch the 100-year-old Giant Dipper roller coaster train race down the first precipitous drop. That's the trope, I thought. That the world is just a big, scary roller coaster without safety bars or straps, and we've got to hold on with all our might for fear of flying out and plunging to our deaths.

Yikes, Kevin. What the hell?

There were so many people at the Boardwalk, that it was a little overwhelming at times, but we were still so glad that we went. Families and friends alike who all just wanted a break from whatever daily stress they face to have a little fun, ride some rides, play some arcade games, and eat some chowder (and a variety of amusement park junk food).

But after the chowder cook-off, I was still full of existential exhaustion. Since my dear friend Robby passed, I've struggled more than I thought I would with his death, my own mortality, and what I've done with my life. Over the years, he'd always say to me, "You know, sometimes I wish this would all end, but then I think, I still really want to see what happens next. You know what I mean?"

I know, Robby. I do. And even at our lowest points, we still wanted to see what happened next. The difference you made in my life, and so many others, was indelible.

Because of that, I just can't feel this way today. I'm still here and I can't feel like I don't and won't make a difference. You would tell me I have much work to do, just as my inspirational wife and children do. They are working hard to make a difference in the world around them. They proudly speak actionable truths that took decades for me to articulate and live. They not only want to see what happens next; they want to be the positive change of what happens next.

And dammit, so do I.

Sunday, February 16, 2025

Superman's Love Letter

The last time I talked with Robby, he sounded good, but he had never been frailer. We talked about the visit we had just had together a week earlier with the five of us -- Robby, Greg, Craig, Rob, and me -- friends of over 45 years. He told me he was grateful for our visit and our friendship.

He also wanted to again explain why he dug into Greg about our transgressions of the past. The times decades earlier when we'd come visit him and selfishly party it up like we were fraternity brothers on spring break, which we were all complicit in doing, including him.

He was always the past re-hasher of things and that was okay. It was always his way of working through the continuous trauma of being paralyzed since his swimming accident in 1984. Going to visit him was our annual pilgrimage of doing the same.

During that last conversation, he asked me, "Did you watch the video I made yet?"

I hadn't. "No, not yet. I've been off Facebook for over a month now."

"Oh, I get it, but you should login and watch it," he said.

"I will."

But I didn't. I did remember the last night we were at his house, though. I had already been asleep for a couple of hours, but then I woke up hearing Robby and Greg talking in living room. I went to see what they were doing. Robby sat on the couch with sunglasses on and the big glowing grin he was known for, and Greg sat across from him in a chair.

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

"I'm filming Robby," Greg said.

"Yeah man, you're going to want to check it out. It's been about a year and half since the last time I did this," Robby said.

"Night," I said, and returned to the bedroom and my air mattress. I smiled at them, but I was tired and had to head out early the next morning.

After we talked that last time on the phone, I still hadn't watched the video. Three days later I got a call from Robby's sister, Diana. Usually, she texts us if something's up with Robby's health, but a phone call meant something entirely different. I knew even before she said the words -- Robby was gone.

He'd been quite fragile the past few years, his long-term paralysis taking its toll on his body. He'd been in and out of the hospital with brittle broken bones and various infections. He also struggled with chronic neurological pain. His traveling anywhere beyond the city of Chico where he lived had been over for many years. When we last visited him, he had turned 59.

After our last visit two weeks ago, I wrote (again) about how Robby, broke his neck our senior year in high school. It was spring break, April 18, 1984, and he was a swimmer at a local swim meet. During one of the races, he false started three times in a row, which disqualified him from that race. On the third false start, instead following through on the dive, he went straight down on the back of his neck.

Some of our other friends, including me, were at the coast for the day (which for us was a 2.5-hour drive). We tried to get him to skip the swim meet, but he really wanted to compete. There were no cell phones back then, so we didn't know what happened until my friend Charles dropped me off in front of my house where dozens of high school friends stood, many crying. After we learned what had happened, we fled to the hospital.

He relived his accident every day since it happened. We relived it every time we were there with him or when we talked with him on the phone. His accident was a shared trauma for all of us, his friends. It was a shared trauma for our entire high school and our community.

We were friends before Robby's accident, but our friendships were bound together forever because of it, and our pilgrimages to see him over the decades have been our collective catharsis of healing. He would've given anything to walk again. We would've given anything. Decades of love, laughter (lots of it), and tears were what willed our healing into being.

After I got off the phone with his sister and learned of his passing, I finally watched the video he'd made the last time we were all together, less than two weeks before. I cried. I watched it multiple times and cried again. It was a love letter to our friendships. He was grateful that we remained friends after all these years and that we kept coming to see him. It was classic Robby -- extroverted warmth, humor, sincerity, and of course, soundtracked to music. His sister was right: "He lived the biggest life anyone in his situation could have. Robby had a golden glow that I’m sure still radiates from him wherever he is."

Halloween of our senior year, six months before his accident, Robby dressed up as Superman. It was iconic because he was iconic. After his accident, he was trapped in 1984 forever while he lived the biggest life he could in the decades that followed. He'll always be Superman to us, and the last video he made for us was Superman's love letter to friendship.

Our hearts ache, but we see you standing there now, my friend and brother, and we love you.

Other past posts about and related to these friends of mine:

Sunday, February 9, 2025

Hope Is Always "Here"

We watched it together as a family. That wasn't unusual, as we do watch various shows together, but there's not too many movies that we all agree on.

And this one wasn't necessarily agreed upon at first; our youngest Bryce usually doesn't like the movies that Mom and Dad pick out. Our oldest Beatrice doesn't feel the same way, but it's still harder to align likability for all of us.

Everyone seemed interested in this one, though. The movie was Here starring Tom Hanks and Robin Wright and the reviews were not very good. There was still something intriguing about it with the primary movie scene set in the same place over time: a living room with a big window to the world beyond. There was also something Wes Anderson-esque about that, which is why Bryce and me really liked the way it was filmed. It was also based on a graphic novel by Richard McGuire, something both our artist teens like, especially Beatrice.

The story itself focused more on one family over time, but the movie didn't always work. What did work was the theme and it resonated with all of us. The theme for us, of loving where you live and who you live it with -- "here". Bryce and I cried; we are the family criers, that's for sure. Amy (Mom) and Beatrice are feelers, just not criers.

While we watched together, Beatrice laid on Amy and Bryce laid on me. This "here" for me has always been special. We've lived here for nearly 19 years and are grateful for every moment that we've had in this house. We lived here before we decided to have children. Bryce was born in this house. Beatrice was supposed to be. Our kids have grown up in this house (and continue to). They shared a room until middle school, and after some renovating, now each has their own.

We've lived in every inch of this house. We've loved, laughed, cried, screamed, brooded, and laughed and loved some more. There's no other place we'd rather be than here while the world keeps spinning outside our front window. That spinning "here" includes the community we live in, the state we live in, the country we live in, the world we live in. We're Americans who love our "here".

But our "here" is in danger; we've never lived in fear until now. American democracy has certainly had its challenges and setbacks, but today it's being transformed from the inside-out by a fast-moving coup that's doing everything it can to take away our civil rights, our education, our livelihoods, and our safety, all for the sake of oppressive power and control. Even those who supported it all and who think these changes will benefit them will lose it all in the end, too.

That's the point -- that we all lose in the end except for a wealthy few. And in the meantime, these dismantling actions are supposed to make your head spin. To make you scared. To paralyze you. To make you give up. But we stand tall where you are and stay vigilant. Fight the good fights about human rights when and where you can. Speak up, speak out, and speak truth for a better bigger picture.

Today, our morning meditation mantra was this: Hope is my source of strength. It provides the endurance needed for positive and sustained change. As I look around our house and out our window, I know that hope is always "here", and our family is all in.

Sunday, February 2, 2025

Men of An Influencer Age

"We control nothing but we influence everything."

That's a line I heard from a recent Hidden Brain podcast titled Wellness 2.0: The Art of the Unknown and featuring political scientist Brian Klaas. The line above came from social scientist Scott Page, who underscored the theme of the episode: How we respond to the random events that shape our lives, and how we can turn them to our advantage.

And I listened to this podcast on the way home from seeing my dear friends of over 40 years. It got me thinking about all the things that have transpired in our lives over those 4+ decades and why we've remained friends. It also got me wondering about the line above -- "We control nothing but we influence everything."

My best friend of over 46 years, Robby, broke his neck our senior year in high school. It was spring break, he was a swimmer at a swim meet, and some of the other friends, including me, were at the coast for the day (which for us was a 2.5-hour drive).

If we had only convinced him to skip his meet and come with us.

If he had only followed through on his dive even though he would've been disqualified from that race.

If only...

"We control nothing but we influence everything."

Now, that doesn't mean the outcome would've been any different, because it wasn't, and neither of those things happened. It could've happened at any one of his swim meets. But it didn't. It happened that fateful day, April 18, 1984. He relives that moment in time every time we get together; he relives that moment every single day. We relive it every time we're there with him and talking with him on the phone.

What would've happened if he hadn't broken his neck? His able-bodied physical memory is trapped in that fateful day in April 1984. Like The Police song I heard on the way to his house, King of Pain, "There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall (that's my soul up there)..."

That's his soul up there. I believe that every cathartic conversation we have with him frees him a little from the high cliff wall. But only a little. A little at a time for over 40 years. And that's the thing about geological time: it's like it's forever compared to our brief existence. No matter how much we chip away with our laughter (and our tears).

Thankfully there's been lots more laughter. Over 40 years of highly (sometimes inappropriate) comedic memories that bring deep-seated guttural laughter and happy tears to our eyes (and that aren't ready for primetime; we're our own late-night SNL production). Our teen kids have gotten in on the act asking me, "How are your boyfriends?"

"My boyfriends are great," I say, even though all us boyfriends have had those "what if" moments throughout our lives, and collectively our learned experience of what we actually controlled versus what we have actually influenced leaves us to the same conclusion year after year: that we are stalwart friends.

So, when we were out for dinner during our latest visit with Robby, the server asked us, "What's the occasion?"

"Friendship," I said emphatically.

The guys teased me for that, but they knew I was right. We are men of an influencer age, and that includes the sustained influence of our mutual love and respect for one another. Blessings to my boyfriends.

Other past posts about and related to these friends of mine: