Ep 54: Let's stop living in fear: The New York Times publishes its first front-page editorial in nearly a century, Dec 4, 2015 (Why lives matter more than "black guns")

Last night, Chelsea and I sat down to enjoy dinner (without the kids) at Julianna's, a local restaurant in Cortlandt Manor that we love.

However, within a few minutes of our arrival we were both distraught and literally fearing for our lives. Our trepidation proved "unfounded," but not without reason and not without consequence.

Across the way in this small one-room restaurant were a middle-aged couple with blue bandannas tied around their necks. The man kept putting the bandanna up over his face, up to his nose. However, more daunting was the t-shirt he was wearing that read in big capitalized white-against-black letters: BLACK GUNS MATTER.

This was a "nice" restaurant per se and so it simply didn't make sense to me why anyone would sport this shirt in public or have bandannas on. Chelsea and I kept nervously glancing at them, hoping they were leaving soon.

Chelsea leaned over and told me, "If something happens, the back door is right behind us." Having been trained for years by NY subway propaganda, "If you see something, say something," I contemplated calling the police to report these suspicious characters. But I balked, I bet on the notion that these people were simply expressing themselves, uncaring to the idea that they were stirring panic among patrons.

Being from Michigan, my wife reassured herself by saying it was likely more reminiscent of the culture she grew up in and not a reflection of the more liberal areas we live in. Her brother-in-law once told her "Only in New York and California do you have folk who don't equate freedom to the right to own your own gun."

Regardless, we were uncomfortable and I was perturbed and disturbed by the inciting. I suggested that maybe these were bikers, thus the bandannas. Alas, neither of us had noticed a motorcycle of any kind when we walked in.

Luckily, this out-of-place couple, soon left without incident and we tried to enjoy a rare night out when we get to focus more on being foodies‌‌ than parents‌.

Nonetheless, the moment made a great impact on me. It has compelled me to be more vocal about an issue that is stirring our nation.

I believe it is awful enough that I must be afraid of coming in and out of Grand Central every morning and every afternoon now. Thus, it is no strange coincidence that the front page of one of New York's most popular papers, the New York Post, reflected my emotions this morning reading FEAR ONLY FEAR.

Fortunately, The New York Times read my mind as well and published its first front-page editorial in nearly a century, calling for lawmakers to do more to ban the type of assault rifles used in the San Bernardino shootings and other mass shootings in the U.S. I couldn't agree more.

It's the least we can do. It makes me rather sad to know that we are so inept as a nation, so paralyzed by industry and archaic entitlement, and so utterly inane when it comes the question of what matters more—purported rights and materialism or life itself.

Here is an excerpt:

End the Gun Epidemic in America

BY THE TIMES EDITORIAL BOARD

DEC 4, 2015

It is a moral outrage and national disgrace that civilians can legally purchase weapons designed to kill people with brutal speed and efficiency.

All decent people feel sorrow and righteous fury about the latest slaughter of innocents, in California. Law enforcement and intelligence agencies are searching for motivations, including the vital question of how the murderers might have been connected to international terrorism. That is right and proper...

Read the full front page article:

End the Gun Epidemic in America

Ep 53: The Peekskill Fun Run!

I ran my first race in a year this morning, the second in over 20 years (1993 NYC Marathon). Inspired by my chat yesterday with a colleague, Lanse Natsch, I ran it as "training" run and a good base time to build from. 

My wife and three of our five kids "ran" with us. Milo and Olivia, the toddlers were the youngest among a field of 24 kids who ran a fun run once around the  track, they came in dead last, but got trophies nonetheless and were an inspiration to all. 

I absolutely loved the course because it was a tough climb up Division Street, right before Mile 2. Back in the days, hills were my forté, so although I struggled up this one, I'm looking forward to making this route a regular training run.

I did a 8:19 first mile, 17:53 second (at the top of a long hill and finished at about 28:00 (my 2 year old daughter walked out to me at finish line, so I walked a few feet with her to the tape).

On average the time converter says I did an acceptable 9 minute mile. I was happy with the results and fantasize that if I can get back to training in earnest I can reduce that mile time by two minutes. Having endured two Crossfit WODS in a row on Tuesday and Wednesday ( Abigail! and Metcon Grinding) and then two River Runs on Thursday and Friday ( New York Life Home Office Fitness Center River Run (4.43 Miles) my legs were pretty sore and stiff, so I cut myself some slack.

More critical to my diminished performance was the fact that I was catching my breath through the whole ordeal, indicating that I am significantly out of cardiovascular shape. I'm eager to improve that.

In 2013, when I'd run a 5k on the treadmill at the gym at work, roughly once or twice a week I averaged 7:20 or so on a good day. Inspired by talking to many of our colleagues about their marathon training has renewed my passion for my favorite sport (see Your Marathon Story & personal transformation). I'm sharing all this so that I might hold myself accountable to this challenge, like Jason Brooks has shown me to do.

Thank you one and all for reigniting that fire.

Ep. 51: The Little Garden That Could

This final Summer Friday I have the pleasure of staying at home to spend time with my wife Chelsea and our two toddlers, Milo and Olivia Luz.

This morning Olivia and I went out to our front garden to pick part two of a beautiful bounty. I was astonished at how quickly the next batch ripened and how bountiful it was once again. We collected two baskets full of cherry and beef tomatoes, and one puny pickle-in-the-making.

As you can see by these photos, there's plenty more where that came from. This little garden of ours sits in our front yard and is the little garden that could because it gives and gives and it keeps on giving....cherry and beefsteak tomatoes, giant squash, jalapeño peppers and even a few pretty dark purple eggplants.

Brendan, our 70-year old Irish landscaper stopped by while we were plucking and pruning, and commented, in his charming native cadence, "Wow, you're blooming! It's because you get sun all day and you planted in virgin soil," repeating the latter part 2-3 times as he is apt to do.

We love Brendan, and to show our appreciation the kids gave him a little box decorated with paint and shells. We gave him a little bag of tomatoes to take home with him as well.

He was visibly excited about the gifts, which prompted him to tell us that he was just about to throw out a big box of sea shells which he brought back from his last trip to the homeland, Ireland, but that he was now going to bring them over for the kids.

A little later on Mama Bear took the little cubs to BJ's, while I stayed home and prepared an amazing salad with fresh mozzarella pearls; cherry tomatoes from our garden and yellow heirloom tomatoes picked at the farm; chipped cured kalamata, castelvetrano, and cerignola olives, the latter double-stuffed with garlic and jalapeño; freshly chopped basil from our tiny herb garden; freshly ground sea salt; and three types of olive oil - cold-pressed extra virgin, garlic-infused and Harina-infused.

Yes, this is how we do it at Domínguez Manor. It's good to be home.

Ep 50: Rhabdo is Real (and so is P90X)

“Since the start of the summer, I’ve gotten at least one case of Rhabdo a week,” shared my workout partner and wife, Chelsea, as we were wrapping up our workout. “And most of it is from Crossfit. A lot of patients are half our age.” I’m turning 48 soon, so it was a good reminder to keep hydrated and take it easy, and not bow to the peer pressure that this group-oriented exercise engenders. 

Chelsea’s a doctor of internal medicine at Northern Westchester Hospital, so I’m fortunate to have someone like her at my side to check my pulse as we push ourselves to the limit. Besides my age and her professional insight, with five children in tow, we also know that remaining cognizant of ourselves is crucial to not having to cash in on our term policies all too early. 

“The motivational loud music, the coaching, and the 'subtle' peer goading are designed to help you push pass the pain. However, they also  intrude on our ability to listen to our bodies,” she waxed, as we drove home. “The unforgiving pace of the workout also contributes to the spike in Rhabdo among Crossfitters,” I added. “Most other sports don’t induce such risk, because there are pauses or the pace is even-tempered enough to facilitate endurance.”

Having been inspired by Ahr-nold when I was a young man of 21, his Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding, guided me during my daily 3-4 workouts for a full year. For the only time in my life I actually had a six-pack and I developed muscles I had never seen before (and have never seen since). Five years later I ran the New York City Marathon as one of three guides to a pack of blind Russian runners. With our feet literally on the starting line and 27,000 other runners behind us, we ran across the Verazano Bridge at 6:45 and covered the first 12 miles at that same pace. And we were on pace to cross the finish line in under three hours,  but, ultimately, we averaged only 7:20 because our tethered friends had been training in Siberia and had decided not to drink water for the first half of a slightly humid race. In turn, our comrades had to stop 22 miles in and we walked for half a mile, killing our goal.  Point is, I know pushing the limits, I know going the distance, I know intense training, which is why half my life later, I'm well aware (and concerned) of the real risks of these intense Crossfit workouts.

In addition to my wife’s experience, as soon as I read about Rhabdo when we began Crossfit a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded of a former colleague or ours (she recently left our company) who had Rhabdo as well. She is only 28 and she had relayed the traumatic experience of enduring Rhabdo and the recovery required. It had not occurred to me until we began our own workouts, that this is likely how my friend had been stricken. 

“Recently, a patient came in with Rhabdo at the same time that his wife was going into labor,” relayed Mrs. Doctor. “For three days he had to wheel around an IV to the delivery room because we were pumping in the equivalent of three small water (12 oz) bottles of liquid into him every hour.” Apparently, the kidney malfunction that Rhabdo causes does not allow you to exorcise the breakdown of muscle protein that occurs when you workout and your pee turns brown. Ewww. 

If you’re a layman like me, who does not understand half of what his wife is saying most of the time, trying to read and understand what Rhabdo is via all the medical literature is virtually impossible. Luckily, healthline.combreaks it down for us in simpler terms, “Rhabdomyolysis is breakdown of muscle fibers. Muscle breakdown causes the release of myoglobin into the bloodstream. [Too much] myoglobin can cause kidney damage. Symptoms include dark urine, muscle weakness, and fatigue.”

That’s why it’s vital to always drink water before, after and even during your workouts. The hydration helps your body take out the trash.

“I’ve also gotten two cases of P90X Rhabdo as well. Ever heard of it?” Chelsea asked. I hadn’t, nor had she. P90X, x is for Extreme and according to Wikipedia, “is a commercial home exercise regimen on DVD designed to take 90 days, and consisting of an intense training program (designed for those who are already fit) that uses cross-training and ‘periodization’ and is combined with a nutrition and dietary supplement plan.” Ugh. 

Such programs (or regimens like Crossfit) present a problem in a society like ours that values and promotes get-fit, lose-weight, and get-rich quick schemes. Those who fall prey to them are usually those at the greatest levels of risk and most in danger of serious harm.

So, if you’re anything like me, either on the brink of 50, or stretched and taxed and worn to the max by a sticky web of obligation—accepting that you’re going south on that slippery slope of life and listening to what your body tells you, will allow you to enjoy that steep climb back toward youth and rejuvenation.  In other words, just do it, but just don’t over do it. And at our age you've got to also remember that its often wiser to enjoy the journey, rather than to reach a destination.

In closing, if only for our amusement, I must say that intense workouts like today’s Partner WOD, not only effectively breaks down muscles (so that we may build stronger and bigger ones), but it can also break down communications and relationships. 

Admittedly, Chelsea and I almost got into a fight (how apropos, in a gym) because we were doing our relay reps differently. She started doing them in sets (I do 15, you do 15), where I was doing the relay one at a time (you do 1, I do 1). The latter method allows you focus on form and is more difficult because the minute(my-noot) delay conveys a greater burn. Whereas her way, let’s you get through the workout faster, so that you are more likely to finish it. 

After some tense misunderstanding, nudged by the fact that we are falling behind the others, I cajoled her into doing it my way.  If I have to drink a glass of yucky-icky organic-but-quite-bitter kale each morning, take a baby aspirin each day, and eat an inordinate amount of vegetables, I think it’s only fair that for onceshe follows my lead.

Related

Severe Rhabdomyolysis Associated With a Popular High-Intensity At-Home Exercise Program
(Case report from the Journal of Medical Cases documenting a 23-year-old athlete, who after two sessions of the extreme workout known as the “P90X” developed rhabdomyolyis.)

Ep 48: I got beat up last night (by my WOD)

I took this screenshot from my Wodify app last night after a grueling work-out that was not for the faint-hearted. I truly felt like I had been beat up after I barely-barely finished. At 24 minutes I still had 10 (ring) pull-ups to do, so I cut the killer Burpees in half and finished the work out. 

Admittedly, 20 minutes later at home I texted my younger sister in California who has been doing Crossfit for two years now -  "I'm still feeling woozy and weak." As bothWendy Yee and my sister have assured me, once you get in the grove, its all well worth the pain. 

At 47, soon to be 48 (i.e. 2 years from 50), I'm willingly taking up the challenge, but we'll have to see how long my dedication lasts. Being out of shape is one challenge, having the time to work out is a much greater one. And although I've been religiously taking my baby aspirin on a daily basis, my workout partner and Dr. spouse still worries about how the stress might ultimately affect me. 

Not to discourage anyone, but she did say that she imagines there might be a high risk of heart attacks, especially among those in their 40s, because the instructors do not seem to be certified as physical therapists or have degrees in physical education or fitness, and therefore don't seem to be fully conscious of individual's limits. When we joined Crossfit Peekskill, there was no health assessment and a minor read on your athletic ability. And by having everyone do the same WOD, you're unduly upping the ante for those at risk for heart failure or Rhabdomyolysis, which causes death of muscle fiber and kidney failure - yikes!

So, fellow Crossfitters although I encourage you to push your limits, I also suggest you have a good idea of what those limits are and to allow yourself to cut back when your body simply says you just can't do it anymore, even if everyone else can. 

As Dr. Richard Besser, chief health and medical editor for ABC News, says in the following story, "No pain, no gain is the worst approach to exercise." Instead, listen to what your body is telling you, lest you want to "fry your kidneys and kill your muscles." Ugh.

Ep 46: The Return of The Peekskill Commuter, The Encounter with StinkyFeet

Ok, this is my gripe this morning. Yes, I'm letting myself vent for once and seeking a little empathy, although I know the odds are against me: 

Although half the world seemingly loves and eats Chobani Greek yogurt, I really think they should ban it from the morning train ride, because it smells overwhelming like stinky feet to me. 

I know, I know, I probably have that rare mutant gene that allows me to be annoyed by such scents, but am I really alone here? 

Okay, I feel (somewhat) better now.

Ep. 44: Late is not better than never

December 17, 2013

This is too weird. Only a few weeks after the tragic derailment on my line, the Hudson Line, the morning train to Grand Central has become arriving early.

Normally, one might rejoice. However, since it usually arrived slightly late, I could briskly walk down the hill and always have a couple of minutes to decompress before I stepped onto the train and settled into my seat.

Now, the train arrives 1-2 minutes early, rather than late, so that it sits in the station for a couple of minutes, but leaves exactly at 7:30.

Today, I made barely-barely made it. As the tell-tale beep and flashing lights went on, I literally yelled "Hold the train!" to the conductor who had signaled all was clear to shut the doors.

It would have been the third time in less than a week that I missed the train as I was coming down the pedestrian stairs from the bridge that runs above the tracks.

Missing the train would have meant having to wait another twenty-five minutes, putting me into the office almost half an hour later.

So, in my case, three times is not a charm; and it is not better to be late than never.

Usually, I've got a little leverage and no one is watching when I unlock my office door. However, my boss and I are neighbors now. Last Friday, in perfect coordination with my train misses, she moved into the office right next to mine. Alas, she not only does she get in half an hour earlier than I do, but she lives along the same train line as well and has a few kids of her own. Meaning, while I've gained some parental empathy, there's even less room for excuses.

When she took over our team six months ago, she began booking early morning team meetings. Ugh. It gave me just a few minutes to turn on the lights and my computer, check to see what room it was in and grab a pen and pad of paper.

This completely threw off one of my colleagues, Liz Lemon, who for the last two years arrived an hour later. Single and free, and living in the city, she could stay late to finish work, sleep in and then leisurely roll out of bed to walk her dog the next morning. Not any more.

Our old boss was very matter-of-factual and albeit always punctual, each of us had built a hard-earned rapport with her, so that we weren't as self-conscious about our arrival times as we are nowadays.

The old boss came in from Connecticut each day, a two-and-a-half hour commute each way! So although she got up a lot earlier than I, we were at the office almost at the same time. Since she had a train to catch, she also always left earlier than me too. And although her office was right next door to Liz, they had an understanding based on 6 or 7 years of working together.

Starting all over with the new boss has been a bit of a rocky journey. She has a very different approach, which is more hands-off and managerial; as opposed to the old boss who was well-versed in our profession and our procedures.

Nonetheless and allthemore, although it feels like we're beginning to level off of the steep learning curve in the office, I've still got to adjust to this new train schedule. I've simply got to get out of the house a few minutes earlier and let go of my impulse to help with crying babies who need a bottle or their diapers changed. This is particularly true since we just had snow and the temperature has been holding below freezing, which means that although the roads are salted, the sidewalks are often still frozen with thin sheets of ice. I was cruelly reminded last night when I body slammed into the pavement as I was ten feet away from our back door. Luckily, for my neighbors this compelled me to spend the next hour breaking ice and salting the sidewalk.

So apart from the anxiety caused by almost missing the train for the third time and a sore elbow from the fall, at least it was a fairly smooth walk to the station this morning.


(The sidewalks are clean and salted about Dominguez Manor this morning)

Ep 43: Better Tidings

I truly wish I had better tidings to bring. But simply for the daily record, I'm posting a few photos, but have little to say lest my musings be wrought with worry and exasperation.

Ep. 41: This, Our Daily Bread

Olivia Luz, our little princess was born two weeks ago tomorrow.
She is merely one of my many daily blessings.

Lately, almost all of my one hour of "free" time has been spent playing semi-mindless WWF during my daily commute to work.

I'd word-whittle my time away on the return trip too, but these days I'm almost always the guy with a little drool sliding down the side of my snore-hole.

The first true love of my life, writing, has had to take a back seat to juggling two babies, a manor-of-a-home, a happy marriage, a blended family made of rambunctious boys, and my evolving 9-to-5 (i.e., there is no such thing as job security anymore, adapt to the culture of "constant improvement" and reorgs, or - be ready to fill that cardboard box).

I'm writing now because this catharsis is long overdue. No complaints apart from the fact that I don't have time to pen my thoughts, share my observations and express my appreciation for all the wonderful little things that fulfill my days.

As I told Margarita yesterday whilst shoveling in my last scoop of her heavenly Posole, "As veces, estoy en la oficina y me pregunto 'Porque estoy aquí?' Entonces regreso a casa, a mi familia y cenas maravillosas como esta-y recuerdo."

"Sometimes, I'm in the office and I ask myself 'Why am I here?' Then I return to my home and family, and wonderful meals like this and I remember."

Ep. 40: Eureka all over again

Milo and I went for a walk around the block early Saturday morning, while the whole hood seemed to still be in bed. During our stroll he reminded me of an invaluable lesson: less is more.

It is a lesson I've been learning all my life, one which I must be reminded of all too often.

For I've learned that much of the stress and anxiety we contend with in life is simply a consequence of pursuing more and ending up with less.

At first glance, our routine struggles may seem purely in the name of something better, when most often we are merely maintaining the status quo.

However, if we dig beneath the surface often you'll find a disconnect between our pursuit of luxury and a basic foundation for happiness.

Most of us have far more than we really need to be happy. Much of our limited time is wasted either simply storing stuff for nothing, never to be used again, or in the vacuous pursuit of being entertained; when with very little effort we can either entertain ourselves, or better yet, each other.

That's what Milo reminded me of when we took our little stroll about the block. Every walkway was a detour; every driveway was a beginning to a new adventure.

The treasures we found along the way were precious, the value of each piece punctuated with a genuine quizzical inspection and a declaration of pure elation and discovery, as if every infantile "Unh!" was Eureka all over again.

Our trove was priceless and included a flower, one dead and shriveled-up worm, un palito, three rocks, a Popsicle stick, a loose wad of dried grass and a whole lot of curiosity and appreciation for the little things.

Ep 37: The Son Also Worries

Mom's texted photo of her giant showboat cocktail, 

evidence that she would be even less anxious to get to a shelter, 

did not reassure me.

Tuesday, May 21

Milo continues to teeth, so I was up at 2:45 for an hour trying to sooth him. Poor Chelsea had to leave at 4 for work this morning, so she barely got five hours of sleep, if that, considering Olivia has been kicking and hiccuping a lot more lately.

When I arrived to the track around 7:45 there was barely a soul, maybe half a dozen, waiting on the platform. This was in stark contrast to the 7:32, which always has dozens upon dozens already waiting by 7:20 or so.

At 7:50 the droves descended upon the surrounding parking lots and the drones finally filed in. The mass entry was like a refugee scene from an apocalypse or pandemic film; or rather, more like a zombie movie.

The rush of the AC helped mute the distant chatting of three women at the front of the car, so the ride was fairly tranquil. With the haze of a hot day in the making hanging over the Hudson, the ride in was also uneventful - no derailings, no tornados.

Alas, looming disaster is not too far away considering Mom is on vacation in Branson, Missouri this week. The weather channel warns "Tornado Risk Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and Missouri," with severe thunderstorms likely to hit this area on Wednesday.

At first chance I texted Mom and asked her to find the nearest shelter. She informed me that she was on a show boat on the Swanee River somewhere.

I promptly replied, "Please stay safe Mom. I know showboats don't have shelters. Remember, The Wizard of Oz was just a movie, and Dorothy was simply dreaming, whereas tornados are all too real."

She reassured me that after the show she was going straight back to her condo at the timeshare complex and that she now knows where the shelter is.

Hmmm, her casual, unconcerned reply was not that helpful. I still worried and wondered if she would actually make the effort to go to the shelter at the first sign of a twister.

Ugh, oh the worries of a doting son.

Ep 36: Tranquilo, Lorenzo

Maybe, YOU need to take a chill pill Pops!

Monday, May 20

It was a tough morning on the train.

The woman sitting next to me was a nervous wreck. She kept fidgeting and fiddling with all her toys including a laptop which she could not get to connect to the ether; an iPhone in a sequined case; a reading tablet; a green leather laptop bag; a fancy patent white leather handbag, and her eye glasses.

She kept shifting and adjusting and waiting for something to happen throughout the ride. 

Dyed platinum blonde with a black leather motorcycle jacket, she looked like she was in her early fifties, desperately clinging to the first half of her life by throttling anxiously forward, attempting to make meaning through meaningless busy work.

It was hard to ignore her. Unlike most  of our fellow passengers, who were either sleeping, quietly reading or simply pondering the day ahead, this hot potato was constantly moving, but seemingly accomplishing little. Ugh.

After the first couple of minutes of her spasms I wanted to tell her, "You sure are nervous," but decided it would probably make things worse or, at minimum, make things awkward for the next hour.

As we rolled into the mile-long tunnel into Grand Central she got ready to jump out of her seat. Poised, her knees began bouncing her bags and things as she tried to sit still, anxiously wondering when I would move out of my seat, so she could pass me.

Blondie sat up stiff and straight in her seat and was like a sentinel scrutinizing each person that was ahead of us, calculating and mentally pushing the lit elevator button. I could almost hear her mind pushing, "Come on everybody, move."

Meanwhile, I sat still and steady through the ride and slow inching into the station. The only things moving for me were my thumb composing this post and my eyes shifting occasionally to my left to catch a glimpse of what this lady was doing now.

A few minutes later, while I was walking down Park, a barely twenty-something version of Nelly stepped up to the curb next to me.

Taking the green light, she strode ahead of me and I noticed she wore practically the same exact outfit as the thorn who was at my side just ten minutes earlier: a short leather jacket, a cotton tee that hung past the dangling waist straps of her jacket and lithely covered her ass, tight black jeans, and the same ankle high leather boots. It was probably the same outfit that they both saw in last month's edition of whatever-fashion-magazine this girl was carrying. 

The only difference were the models and how they wore their retro 80s outfit: the one without crow feet was a natural brunette, who wore her hair up in a sloppy  bun and her boots untied, with tongue and laces dangling wild and free; her jacket was also unzipped and she seemed genuinely unconcerned about anything.

Perhaps, there is no good and positive or valid point with my scathing observation. All I really know was that I was annoyed, and writing about her simply makes me feel some sort of visceral redemption.

Perhaps, it is really I who needs to take a chill pill. 

Tranquilo, Lorenzo

Ep. 35: The man who has everything, has Nothing to complain about

At least, I have Milo - who makes me smile every time he calls me "Papa"

Friday, May 17

I woke up this morning hoping it was Saturday. Alas, or rather, thank God, it's Friday. I'm confused.

By 6:40 the haze had lifted and I was in the shower scrubbing, soaking, simply trying to wash away my earlier disappointment, so that I may readily embrace responsibility.

As I've told my colleagues a couple of times this week, I may be disappointed by how my work morphs into a homogeneous blah of boringness after all the edits, rewrites and approvals, but, at least, I have a job, and moreover, it's a job I love to do.

So, at least, I have a warm bed to pull away from; at least, I have a beautiful home, Dominguez Manor ; ), which I can home to and call my own; at least, I have a great bunch of boys that I am looking forward to playing basketball and watching Iron Man III with this weekend; at least, I have a little baby boy who looks up to me, scoots to meet me upon my return home and makes me smile with every garbled "Papa"; at least, I have a beautiful wife who I am deeply in love with and who is carrying our little princess, Olivia; at least, the sun still shines every morning I have to get out of bed to go to work.

At least, I'm alive and well and can write, because I love to write.

Okay, I feel better now.

Caffeine is kicking in, the two guys incessantly chatting about their boring lives have faded with the focus upon this composition, and we're almost at Grand Central Station, spoke-and-hub for the greatest city in the world.

I have really have nothing to complain about.

At least, I have this gorgeous view on my commute home

Ep 34: Splurge a little; purge a lot

Sometimes, you've just got to splurge to purge.

Thursday, May 16

Once, maybe twice, a week I relent my quest for purity and get a Goose Island Honker's Ale before boarding the 5:32 train home.

It is a small indulgence that eases me into the ride northward bound, one that costs me a little less than four bills and a willingness to concede to a catnap if I have to.

That said, for the last 34 years I've often beat myself up over the long term costs of this, mostly, innocuous inebriation.

Beleaguered by the guilt of not being more willing and able to give up this poison for a longer, healthier life, I simply mediate with binges of abstinence. The usual attempt at detoxification lasts no longer than three days; most of the time these desperate measures are the result of a bout with a stomach virus, food poisoning or a very rare hangover.

Alas, on average, every couple of years I must endure these nights of terror; of bone-gnawing chills, body aches, gut-wrenching, and incessant expulsion of bodily fluids, all usually coupled by a few hours of fever, than a flood of perspiration.

Hence the vows of "never again" and over-confident pledges of purity. Needless to say, this renewed commitment does not last very long.

I think I know why.

Sipping the last quarter of my beer as we rolled past Morris Heights my contemplation led to the same elucidation that compels me to jump off the wagon over and over again.

Life would simply be too frickin boring and intolerable if it were all about always doing what is seemingly best for you.

Because it is not always best for you.

An occasional indulgence in what's bad for you, can be good for you in the long run. The benefits run the gamut of stress relief, loss of inhibition, expression of emotion, a willingness to talk with strangers, self-satisfaction, unfettered glee, genuine happiness and the compulsion to live and enjoy the moment.

Granted, drugs and alcohol and other vices are not prerequisites for experiencing this menu of benefits, but they sure as hell often help. Especially if you're a stressed out father four-cum-five, corporate drone, manor-owner, hour-long commuter, middle-aged, only somewhat-accomplished and always-yearning to-accomplish-more guy like me.

So go ahead, indulge. I'm giving you permission - live a little , as they say. You just don't know when it will all catch up to you. So, you might as well enjoy it while you can.

Ep 33: The Merry Mexican; we must all bow before the light

Who came first? Our culture o Cantinflas?

Monday, May 13

Last night, for our Mother's Day dinner, we sat below a large portrait of "Cantinflas", Mexico's all-time greatest comedian.

Film star of the forties, fifties and sixties, he is a legend through most of Latin America. His filmography spans six decades, from 1936 until 1982.

As I was trying to explain to Sidney, he is as funny as Jim Carrey and Will Ferril combined. In truth, his genius is more like a combination of Jerry Lewis's antics, Robin William's wit, the verbal dexterity of Matt Damon, and the linguistic innovation of Shakespeare. Charlie Chaplin once commented that he was the best comedian alive.

His unique manner of talking is known as Cantinflada and during his heyday it was not uncommon for Spanish speakers to say "¡Estás cantiflando!" whenever someone became hard to understand in conversation. La Real Academia Española officially included the verb, cantinflear, cantinflas y cantinflada in its dictionary in 1992.

Born Mario Alfonso Fortino Moreno Reyes in 1911 in Mexico City, Cantinflas was a champion of the working class and impoverished both on and off the screen thorough his political and charitable deeds. His talent and good deeds ultimately made him a folk hero throughout Mexico and for several generations.

In 1993, after his death from lung cancer, thousands appeared on the rainy day for his funeral in Mexico City. The ceremony was a national event, lasting three days. In the US, he is honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

In essence, as I ate my chile rellono smothered in mole, I realized that Cantinflas is the epitome of "The Merry Mexican," who accepts the harshness of life with a grain of salt, adds a squeeze of limón y chile to make it flavorful and is more than happy to laugh at himself, especially if he can simultaneously make fun of others who take themselves too seriously.

The epiphany got me wondering, "Who came first? Cantinflas or our cultural reputation for eternal cheerfulness?"

I'm apt to believe that Mr. Moreno merely embodied and projected the gnawed-up apple core of our culture; much like Vicente "Chente" Fernandez, Mexico's greatest living singer has interpreted the sappier side of how we handle life and it's endless bounty of little glories and it's occasional gush of lovelorn tragedy.

I also like to think that in my own small and somewhat-humble way, I too manifest my heritage with my optimism in spite of other's obstacles; a youthful wit that admittedly lies dormant beneath 14 years of angst-ridden and impatient parenting; the counter-corporate funny fotos of my family that I have hanging in my office; and my humility in the light of life...

...for, in the end, we must all bow before the light.

Some of the counter-corporate fotos of my family
that I have up in my office that show that
I am indeed a merry Mexican...