To milestones

Today is my twenty-second birthday. It's also the day that two bikers may have lost their lives and one innocent man had his change forever.

Shortly after a couple of motorcycles collided with a white grand am at the intersection of Highway 27 and Black Oak Ridge Road, I pulled up at the wreck ready to snap some photos and get quotes from onlookers.

I can only say that I underestimated what walking up on a wreck would be like. In all of my years as a Herald-News correspondent, I've never worked a crime scene or wreck or site of injury or fatality.

I didn't really consider it until it had already happened. People were doing what people do and gawking hand-over-mouth, each giving his/her accord of what took place. But some weren't. Some were just watching.

I spoke to one man who drove up on the accident and parked and got out rather than sit and wait for emergency personnel to clear the road. He had nothing to say to me. But his face was telling. He looked on as if one of his own loved ones had been involved. He was wearing a red Redskins ballcap and glasses. He reminded me of my dad.

There were others who showed genuine horror at the accident. I was surprised, though, at who these people were. They weren't the fellow bikers who had stopped and were part of the group that the victims were riding with, although undoubtedly there was angst and worry in them. They stood around and bellowed at drivers to go here and there, and they hugged one another.

There was a fifty-something couple from Ohio who are just in town visiting. Their daughter lives in Dayton because she graduated from college here. I used to work with her. They were nice, and we talked about the Strawberry Festival from a few weeks ago.

And there were the emergency personnel. They see thousands of wrecks, accidents and deaths every year, but today, at the scene of a wreck involving six people at the max, I saw grief in their faces.

That surprised me. The man who drove the white grand am that the bikers hit stood silently away from the crowd propped against his wrecked vehicle. He just looked.

I was hesitant to speak to him for several reasons, but my job superseded my own preferences. I walked over to him and found that he walked with a cane. He wore thick brown glasses and a tucked in long-sleeve button down shirt with khaki pants. I didn't look at his shoes. I was unable to tear away from his eyes.

They were red and hollow. He had been crying. He was still rattled. Very rattled, almost in shock. His eyes said sorry in every way that a human being can feel it, but his lips never uttered the word. I think he wanted - needed - to tell someone what he was feeling. But it couldn't be me, and I knew that.

I only asked his name and if he is from Dayton. He is. I told him I was sorry about the accident several times, but it didn't help, and I couldn't go any further and comfort him. So I walked away and left him there, alone, by his car with a dried trickle of blood along his hairline and down his face.

It was a horrible experience, but I'm better because of it.

I didn't tell him that it's my birthday.

Sunny, 65 and clear

February? Not really. More like March or early April.

But hey, I ain't complainin'. The only negative thing about days like this is that I absolutely want to do nothing nothing productive. I would rather go ride my bike. Or hang out outdoors. Or anything, even fish.

But instead, like most of the not-Occupiers, I actually had places to go and things to do that didn't involve sharing a roasted weenie with a dreadlocked woman outside of a public place on a dirty sidewalk with someone else's urine two feet away.

But that's beside the point. Nope, Chuck Testa.

The power (and danger) of the blog

   The internet is a wonderful thing. The internet is a horrible thing.

   I am a nobody guy with access to a computer that is connected to the internet, and therefore I have the power to create a blog that will go out into the world where anyone can look at it. That is power.

   I can sit alone behind my laptop and spout whatever crosses my mind and offer my opinion about anything with no consequence whatsoever as long as I don't point out anyone and make false/libelous/defamatory statements about them. That is dangerous.

   It is the beauty and the ugly hunch-back of the internet and the blogosphere. I can say whatever I want. I can sound like a complete jerk. I can sound like something that I am not. Most of the people who read this won't know the difference.

   What I find is that a lot of times, people post things on facebook, twitter or a blog that they would never say in real life situations or face-to-face with another person. It's so easy to throw around opinions and arrogant words behind the computer. There is a giddy rush of adrenaline knowing that something is inflammatory or hard.

   But that is really irresponsible and damaging to character. I've done it. I've been harmed because of it. My character has been permanently damaged in some peoples' eyes because I was careless and arrogant on the internet. I have permanently damaged others.

   It's painful, but Uncle Ben was right. With this great power, the power of the internet, there is a burden of responsibility and there is a real danger of being the "totally different" person that we all know. I don't want that to be me.

   That's the view through my green-tinted glasses.

The September 11 Generation (as it appeared in The Herald-News)

   A lot of people speculated that because we were kids, we didn’t understand the full gravity of what September 11 meant. They were wrong.

   The fat-bodied Boeings that Al-Qaeda terrorists used on that September Tuesday burst gaping holes through the rightful naiveté that we lived in; they took something from us, some intangible right to a happy childhood that every kid should possess.

   September 11 was the first time that I ever saw my parents truly scared. I had never seen it, and I didn’t how to deal with that, how to accept that, what to do with that. It was deep down, in an incomprehensible way, alarming, and it affected me.

   The fear came second for me. My first reaction when the details of the situation were clear was anger; unbelievable, yet-to-be-felt, hot anger rose up in my heart as my country – the United States of America, my home, the red, white, and blue, the untouchably powerful– looked like a far-off country across the globe where in-fighting and wars were common. My country, for the first time in my life, was bleeding.

   I knew before I went home from school that day that my world was gone. The happy place where I had no worries disappeared when steel met steel in downtown Manhattan. I knew that. It wasn’t a heralded thing, and it wasn’t something that even registered right away. But in a simple way, in a distinctly child-like way, I understood and accepted the fact that my world was taken from me and that I and everyone my age had been thrust into something that was not temporary or susceptible to a quick, clean revenge that would set things right.

   Osama bin Laden took our childhood away from us, and we hated him for that. Perhaps because his was the face that we saw on our television sets every night, mocking us from afar in our hurt, we absolutely, unequivocally placed that bearded devil in our hearts as the one to blame. It was common for us to sit at lunch and discuss what we would each do if we hypothetically found Osama bin Laden; the answers are not fit for print.

   He became the equivalent of Lex Luthor, the Joker, or Magneto to us, and we even criminalized him so much in our minds that he almost felt fictional, just a name “Osama bin Laden”: a dark-skinned, bearded man in a turban.  His death vindicated the 11-year-old, frightened little boy inside of me. It was personal.

   It’s hard – and it feels selfish – to express the hurt that a child felt on that day. Everyone hurt. But I, and I can’t speak for all, felt especially bruised by the events of 9/11. I still do. I’m angry still, ten years later. I can still see out of 11-year-old eyes the chronological chain unfolding before me. Maybe more acutely even than some adults, my classmates and I knew that this attack – a hard word to swallow, then and now – would shape the entirety of our adult lives. We grew up on that day. We had to. We’re the 9/11 generation.

  

  

  

It's 3 A.M.

I've been reading all about the post-classical empires in World Civ. I online (as an elective...hardcore!) and it's amazing what we can learn from the people who lived before us.

In the pre-modern times, it was pretty commonplace for government to experience a complete overhaul every 200-1000 years. Every 200-1000 years. Common.

I'm not that guy who will make the "America is doomed, just look at the INSERT CRISIS" argument. But here's the thing: our government is a hot-bed of drama, corruption, and cheaters. For the first time in a long time, American citizens can't be sure if everything is really going to be ok. It's a scary, unsure time.

My point here, though, is that we aren't at a place that civilizations have never been. The Roman empire, the Byzantine empire, the Chinese empires are crumbled because of on-going skirmishes (not necessarily all-out wars) and internal pressure because of taxes, internal projects, and power grabbers. And we're talking 500 C.E.

In the manner of an old history teacher, I ask, "so what does that mean, people?" What that means, I think, is this: we aren't as screwed as it seems we are. At least not government wise. As long as vast empires have existed, turnover has existed. After a crash/revolution the great empires almost always came back. Even if they didn't, some new up-and-comer would come along and start the next best thing.

Am I inferring that America is going to crash? I don't know. I hope we don't find out on August 2. But if we do go ka-put, we'll come back. History says we will - barring an invasion by one of our many international enemies.

I have Narcolepsy

I'm telling you the end of the story before the beginning and middles of the story. But there you have it: cat is out of the bag. I'm still going to tell you the story, though.

I've always been healthy, but would you believe me if I told you that I might have a real disorder? Could you start to guess what it is? -----wait...that isn't really going to work anymore. Let me try a different approach.

Right about the tail end of my senior year of high school (2008), I began to notice that everything was not exactly normal. I suddenly began having trouble getting up in the morning, and I had trouble sustaining any kind of energy throughout the day. I fell asleep at Six Flags for crying out loud.

In the months and years following high school, it seemed that I had developed a new love for sleeping: a common happenstance in the college years, I was told. And partially to blame was my college-boy sleeping patterns which usually found me getting in bed in the morning and sleeping until noon.

It was in my second fall semester at college, however, that I thought something might really be up. I had a 9:00 class that I really just couldn't get up for. Noone likes getting up, no doubt. But at times, I COULDN'T do it. And if I did do it, I was overwhelmingly ready for sleep by the time I got there.

Like anybody, though, I attributed my sleepiness and tiredness to the stresses of life and school. And several people made the excuse for me that I was simply lazy. That was much of how things went on for the first three years out of school.

Then around Christmas 2010, after Christmas Eve dinner with my dad's family, my mom asked me if I felt ok. I said sleepy, but that was an all-the-time thing these days. She was concerned that feeling sleepy all the time was not normal for someone of my age and health, so she had me to schedule a doctor's appointment.

After ruling out diabetes, hypo/hyperthyroidism, and and other horrible health prospects, my medical doctor, Dr. Alan Crews said something to me that I would have never imagined hearing: "I think you might have a mild case of narcolepsy".

I laughed. My mind went immediately to Mr. Bean in Rat Race and his constant nodding off and causing disasters. After months of testing and visits, he says narcolepsy. He sent me to Dr. Chandra, a sleep specialist in Chattanooga. Dr. Chandra had me do a sleep study. I fell asleep in 5 minutes on the night of the study, and I entered REM sleep in 9.5 minutes. The following day, I slept during all 5 scheduled 40-minute naps, and once, I fell asleep in 1 minute. It was official: I had narcolepsy.

Those results came to me today. So now I'm a guy with a dog, a girlfriend, and narcolepsy. And I do not just fall asleep at random times. But I could if I wanted to, which up until now, has made me feel like a mutant in the X-Men world.

I've been prescribed medicine that will help me stay awake during the day. As I jokingly told my good friend earlier, I feel like I'm having my mutant-ness taken away, and in a weird way, I wonder if this disorder is partly what makes me me. I wonder if my behavior and outlook will change with the medicine. I don't know, but I'm going to give it a shot.

Summer Solstice

    It's summer solstice today, and to celebrate the greatest season of them all, I'd like to look on what makes summer so special.

   Right now, I'm listening to one of my favorite albums of all time (The Killers-Hot Fuss) and watching Spongebob Squarepants while my dog sleeps in the corner. It's 11:03 and I'm halfway through my first Dr. Pepper of the day and I've yet to eat food. Summer time is the best.

   Living this summer life, it brings back the fried-bologna days of my childhood when summer was the ultimate recess, and my days were spent trekking around my neighborhood, building dams and riding my bicycle. Really...I miss those days.

   But so does almost everyone, I imagine (and hope that everyone had a childhood as good as mine to miss). The simplicity of those sultry southern summers to a kid are profound, and in those short three months away from school, kids become something more than students and numbers in desks.

   There's something simply magical about summer. Last night, I was driving along a back road close to home, and I had all of the windows down on my late-90's model Cherokee at midnight, because it was still so warm that I could comfortably do so. The smells and sounds of a small-town summer are irreplaceable. The smell of a fresh-cut field and of nearby cows mingling with the chirps of frogs, cicadas, and crickets is something that maybe only those of us who have known could really miss.

   The twinkling of hundreds of stars in a velvet-black Tennessee sky makes you feel small. The sound of a static-y country station broadcasting Garth Brooks turned to barely audible is the perfect second course to the roar of tires on blacktop roads and wind rushing through rolled-down windows sliding through the air at 45 MPH.

   I took my bike out yesterday, too, and I rode through downtown Dayton at evening and on into dusk. As an orange sun slowly tucked itself behind a green mountain in the west, I was struck with the simple beauty of home. The sounds of cheers rose up from a ball field where kids were playing little league baseball, and the only people I passed were a couple of guys fishing off of a bank.

   Summer is the season of front porch talks that last well into the early hours of the morning. It's the season of late-night McDonald's runs for apple pies and sweet teas. It's the season of choosing cartoons over the news. It's the scratchy voice of a baseball announcer describing the scene in Southern California, where the Atlanta Braves are playing a series. It's orange street lights and the courthouse lawn. It's ok to have no money.

   Summer is putting on a hat instead of showering. It's wearing the same T-shirt for two days and the same shorts for a week. It's flip-flops instead of sneakers. Summer is sitting by the water pondering how great life is, regardless of wars, recession, or gas prices. It's the time when childhood comes roaring back, and Chris Matthews and Bill O'Reilly aren't as enticing as Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. Summer is moths flocking around light and deer grazing on the side of the road.

   If there ever was a special day of the year, it would have to be today, summer solstice. The most summer-y day of summer. The most daylight for wiffle ball, tag, bicycling, fried bologna & Kool-Aid lunches, and swimming. And then the night when the small town sleeps and peace can be found on a two-lane in the country. Give me cicadas. Give me stars. Give me hay fields. Give me home.

   I often try to convince myself that there are other decent places to live in the world, but after nights like last night, I'll never believe it.