Casey checks in from Tanzania

We've been here a week now. Sometimes I look around and feel like it's not much different from being in Mexico somewhere - palm trees, ramshackle shacks where the locals live, hot. There are some quirky things about this country, but again, I think they are the sort of thing that you would find in just about any underdeveloped or third world country. Mexico is more developed than Tanzania though.

First of all is the lack of infrastructure. I have already spoken about the roads. There are some paved roads. The main roads into and out of town are paved, but they are also two lane roads, and the traffic gets quite heavy at times. Other roads are dirt, and they are so bumpy that going 15 mph is going "fast." There are no basic water services. The other day we were sitting around when this big tank truck pulls up. It was dropping off Anne's shipment of water. She has a big underground tank, I imagine it's similar to a septic, but for fresh water. She gets a delivery periodically, and that water supplies her house. Also, the city experiences power blackouts just about every day. Anne has a generator, and every once in a while the lights will flicker off, and then you will hear the generator start up. Of course, she is one of the privileged to have a generator - most of the locals know nothing of this luxury. If you go out driving, you will come upon the few intersections where they actually have traffic lights, but they will be out. And of course there aren't any police directing traffic, so it’s pretty much a free for all. But it works out all right. Much better than the cluster-fuck we saw in China, where people play bumper tag getting across intersections, and traffic lights are merely optional.

We went to the beach a few days back. Beautiful, white sand with water that demonstrates every shade of blue. It was surprising to see a beach this uninhabited, again in the major city of the country. If this beach were in the U.S., it would be lined with condos or hotels, but there were almost no buildings - although development is slowly encroaching. Lots of locals were fishing, either dragging 20 ft. hand-held nets through the shallows, or going out on their "dhukas," small wooden boats with a single sail. There are many dhukas criss-crossing the horizon as you look out across the water. We spent about 3 hours out there, the weather was great, clear sky, nice breeze, and we were virtually alone. Once we had had our fill, we packed up and clambered into "the beast." Suddenly, we noticed this "security guard" standing right next to the truck and staring into the passenger window. This guy had sidled up without any indication - it was kind of creepy. Anne laughed, remarking that as soon as we were leaving he shows up. He wanted a "tip." This is another noticeable fact of life in Tanzania. Everyone expects tips. This guy wanted a tip for guarding our truck, even though we never saw him the entire time we were at the beach. If the cops pull you over, they expect a "tip." (wink wink, nudge nudge) Anne offered the guy a handful of change, and he retorted "no, two thousand" (Tanzanian shillings, about $1.75) Anne said, "no, you can have this." He balked, and Anne rolled up her window and drove off. He was unhappy, but Anne is experienced in dealing with this "shakedown" of sorts, and knows what is reasonable. She doesn't cave into pressure, and isn't afraid to say "fuck you" when she needs to. This is probably the best part of being able to visit someone who knows the lay of the land - you don't get screwed as much.

Last night we went to the Marine house on the embassy compound for "happy hour." The marines live on compound and have a fairly nice set-up. They invite basically anyone to come to the house for drinks, and they show a movie and have some food catered. It was quite nice. Being an unabashed peacenik, I am kind of uncomfortable around military types, but I have to tell you it was a great experience, because these guys are great guys (and ladies) who are very dedicated, and very nice. My problems are not with the military personnel, but with the people who decide to send them into harms way for dubious reasons, and its good to be reminded that these people really are putting their lives on the line for our safety. If you find yourself in a foreign country near an embassy, go in and ask if the marines do a happy hour or anything like that. I understand that this is a common practice, at least in non-western outposts (Asia, Africa, S. America) and they want to have any/all Americans "in the neighborhood" to stop by.

Today we fly off to Kilimanjaro, hopefully to make it to the top. It'll take five days, and if we make it all the way we top off just shy of 20,000 ft, walking around 50 miles total. If we make it, we'll post a picture from the top.

Dropping science

You never know what’s going to happen when you sit down with The Rooster and get through some beers. It can range from the bizarre to the sublime. We were watching the Pistons seemingly forever ago (although it was really, what, last month), when he excused himself from the bar, walking out to Woodward Avenue and returning 10 minutes later, off the street, with this, handed to me in here-ya-go form:

Life during wartime

McSweeney’s, coming through as usual:

Larry Rehak, rest your soul

We’ve lost someone we knew and cared about Thursday, June 22 when H’s Uncle Larry deemed it necessary to take his life. This was a guy I’d spent some time with in the very important 17 years I’ve known her and her family. I’ll remember Larry fondly, as a guy with this quietly acerbic wit, razor sharp actually. He had this great affectation, and carried himself with a specific dignity. I base my opinion of folks on how they treat me, firstly. And that guy was always right-on with me, always treated me with respect (despite, in the early days, I did nothing to earn it) and made it easy to be around him. He was fucking funny as hell, in the few times per year I was in his company.

H and I would infrequently go to Ann Arbor to visit, meeting him at his studio downtown and then later for lunch. He was a clothing designer and had quite a reputation in that community. I remember going into his studio for the first time and being kind of wowed by the designs and tools of his craft all about. It was interestingly weird, being in a fashion designer’s studio, especially when you dress like a slob like I do. But Larry never vibed me about any of that and I took an immediate liking to him. Plus, he was one of my best friend’s uncles and the brother to Fred, a man I’ve admired and respected for all of these years, sort of quasi-detached, surrogate parent to me with his wife, Diane. H is very much like a sister to me. Shit, she is a sister to me. We broke that plane years ago and now her/our family is blasted with this shitty news of his death.

People tend to say glowing things about those who’ve passed, and Larry kind of epitomized that. Granted, I didn’t know him really well. And in these 17 years, I’ve probably been in the same room with him maybe 20 or 30 times. But it still burns a few layers into your psyche to see the people you care about reeling from such a shocking turn of events. Larry was troubled, there is no doubt about that. And the depression he duked it out with for years apparently started landing some crushing blows. What’s worrisome, I think, is speculation on how bad it must’ve been in the last two years, how dark and brutal it was in that hell his mind created, that constant din of pain of misery, the fucking hopelessness you just can’t shake, despite all of the help and medication, friends with support, and kind words. I can’t understand it and I won’t even try. Today, H and her family are emptying out his apartment and on Saturday I’m helping Fred and Larry’s brother Pat empty out his studio. This is an activity that is never easy but is a critical moment in the process that commences healing, believe me, I speak from experience. At the very core of my sadness is the view I’m getting of those really close to him and watching their ache. I hope everyone blows by this with the quickness.

The undead, Little League and creme brule

We made it to the Friday premiere of the full-length motion picture on which my nephew Sam was the lighting director.

Have I mentioned that he got a full-ride, four-year scholarship to Northwestern and was valedictorian of his high school class? Did I mention that already? That, and he and large group of like-minded independent film heads made this zombie flick.
Despite getting back at 1 a.m., we knew we had to get up early Saturday morning to catch Brendan’s Little League game, where his team was vying for the championship title. They won convincingly. He did pretty well, actually. For the four innings we were there, he drew a walk, got on first, advanced to second and then scored from second on a base hit. Here he is patrolling right field.

And here he is at the plate. This is where the beauty of photography’s permanent record showcases itself. Look at that ball coming in. The ump called that junk a third strike. Now, I thought it was high to begin with, but when I saw this photo, I knew I was right.

It’s at the kid’s fucking shoulders, which I understand is at very the top of the strike zone, no so much IN the strike zone. Little League is funny, umps who can’t officiate, coaches who think they’re playing for some of sort grail and fathers out there reliving their own athletic shortcomings through passive-aggressive displays. Good times. But it was good to see Rian and meet Corey and Joe, and even the elusive Farkas. The Bean looked like he was having fun, and that’s what counts. Plus, they won. Bonus.
We hauled ass back home Saturday to clean, clean, clean and get ready for Installment II of Dinner With Friends. The lineup? Our next door neighbors, Jen and Wynn; Gary and Jason; and Kerry’s friend Jodie, in town from L.A. Jodie, however, could not attend, so it was just the six of us, 2 gallons of sangria and a huge pan of paella. Since we lost Friday night to highway travel and zombie chicanery, we had to bust ass all day Saturday to catch up on cleaning, yard work, food prep, you name it. It was tough, frustrating actually, but worth every hour of it, I think.
Kerry blew out the food, as usual. I don’t think I got anywhere near the kitchen. She started making the paella (yes, two dinner parties in a row with the same menu; we know, we know)

a few hours before everyone arrived. We munched on this killer bruschetta Gary and Jason brought (baquette with tomato, fresh mozzarella and a basil leaf, brushed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil), as well as a salad of cucumbers and strawberries with mint vinaigrette. Kerry also made black bean and banana empanadas, and let me tell you those bad boys are the bomb.

The paella would later turn out wonderfully.

Rice, chorizo, chicken, corn, artichoke hearts, garlic and a few other items I’m sure I’m forgetting. True Spanish tradition calls for eating it right out of the pan, which is what I did. We enjoyed a lovely meal with great company

and, later, some very decadent dessert.

Gary and Jason brought forth this very tasty lemon syrup loaf with raspberry syllabub “flopped on top.” Kerry hooked up the crème brule

It was a lot of work with little time to prepare, but damn well worth it.

Africa, first in a series of many

Kerry's brother Casey and his wife Mary are in Tanzania for the next six weeks. They both work in the education-related fields and typically take some burly global vacation every summer (last year it was bicycling around Belgium). I asked Casey if he was interested in sending to me some images and text while in Africa, and he graciously agreed. This is a first for me, opening up my little corner of cyberspace with someone else, but Casey's a fucking master photographer and all around super-solid guy who gets a lot of my love and respect. So when he agreed to do this, I was flattered and honored. For once, City Chicken isn't all about me and what I have to say. He'll hopefully be sending to me posts at will and I will get them on here ASAP. Below is his inaugural post on the Chicken.




DAR ES SALAAM, TANZANIA — Part I - Werewolves of row 22. Arriving at the airport, it finally sets in that we are heading to Africa. Wow! Only 18 hours of flying time, 21 hours total, until we get there. We board, and the plane pushes back from the gate - we're on our way. Just as we begin to move, the two year old sitting across from us (we later find out his name is Ian), starts to fuss. The more his mom tries to calm him, the more whining he makes. We're airborne, and mom unbuckles him and takes him into her lap, thinking this will soothe him. He's full-on crying now, and starting to squirm. He's clearly upset. I try to maintain my sympathy, knowing it can't be easy for a two year old to sit still when ordered. Mom's efforts only seem to be making things worse. She begins to tighten her grip, and he begins to wail even louder. She's whispering in his ear, but he's not having it. He begins to fight and kick. Mom clamps down. Ian is squirming like a maggot caught in a sparrow's beak, and he lets out a howl that would make Lon Chaney envious. 20 minutes in and I'm already irrittated. Ian is not calming down. Thank god I brought the Ipod. Earphones in place, I no longer care about Ian's problem.

Arriving in Amsterdam, midnight our time, with a two hour layover. We search out our gate, and sit down to await boarding. There are a huge number of American missionaries heading to Tanzania. They mingle in small and large groups, no doubt cheered by the thought of saving souls on the "dark continent." One large group all wears matching t-shirts, professing their dedication to Jesus and their preparedness to "shine their light." I am just weary and uncomfortable sitting on the floor. I let my eyes wander, falling on the missionaries, rich old tourists, school groups, and a few native Tanzanians that will be on our flight. Then I see him - Lon Chaney Jr. junior, Ian. He's going to Tanzania! Dear God, if you have any energy left over after the missionaries have taken theirs, please don't let me be sitting by Ian.

We're Africa bound now, on a flight that is two hours longer than the first leg. Ian's nowhere in sight. Sleep in almost impossible. Thankfully I have my own monitor in the seat back in front of me to keep me entertained. Before I know it, we're decending. I look out the window as we approach. It's odd - there are NO lights. I thought that as we approached the Capitol city of this country, it would be more "urban," but its pitch black, with the exception of one or two flickering lights out in the middle of nowhere. We touch down. It's 10:15 pm local time, and Mary's sister Anne is there to meet us. Ian is in the luggage claim area, but he's at peace now. Cute kid actually. No hard feelings kid.

We walk out the doors into Africa. Its warm and humid, but not "Africa hot," in fact more pleasant than Michigan. Its dark with not much to see, but it smells of burning charcoal - the cooking fuel of choice in these parts. We clamber into Anne's old-school Toyota LandCruiser, big, deisel, with fold down seats on each side of the back compartment, the truck Anne calls "The Beast." She throws it into gear and off we go. Through "downtown" Dar Es Salaam, which doesn't resemble any downtown I have ever seen before, but its hard to see. Every once in a while we pass a row of battered, shabby shacks - "dhukas" they are called - with people hanging about, trying to sell any sort of thing, or having a beer and watching the World Cup. Soon we are off the pavement, and negotiating the dirt roads to Anne's house. Now I understand why she drives a Land Cruiser. The road seems as if it's been shelled. Anne lives in one of the "nicest" areas of Dar - and her house is in fact beautiful
- but they don't know what pavement is. We weave back and forth across the road, avoiding the largest potholes, but we might as well be driving across an open field the road is so bumpy. We're going about 15 miles an hour tops, and it seems like we're going too fast. Eventually we make it to Anne's house. I'm beyond tired, but a few beers entice sleep. Tomorrow we'll hit the "yacht club," watch the sun set beyond the pacific, and have some cheap red wine.

Colors

We finally finished painting the dining room (save for some minor cosmetic touch-ups, trim work, etc.). It looked like this before:

And now, I give to you our new dining room. I call the color “Miami Dolphin blue-green.” You either love it or you hate it. We, by the way, love it.

happy campers

Nothing like giving yourself a weekend of doing nothing but loafing, eating, drinking and otherwise goofing off with one of your best friends. So it was this weekend when me and T-Bone met up at Sleeper State Park in Caseville for some quasi-camping and full-on chilling. I cut out of work Friday a few hours early and took M-53 straight up to the tip of Michigan’s Thumb. I loaded up the cooler with ice and booze, the car with gas and my pockets with loot before I hit camp just after 5. We chilled, got a fire started and had dinner of turkey brats on the tripod over the fire.

Yeah, they were that good. The campground was so-so. Our site was small and they were kind of shoehorned in close to other campers, but it wasn't too bad. I’ve definitely had better. The big draw to Sleeper is the beach across the street. It’s huge and sandy, and sits on a Great Lake so it’s hard to bitch. What wasn’t hard to bitch about was the heat. It was, as Matt D. says, hotter than two rats fucking in a sweatsock. It did cool down a little Friday night. We walked over the beach and wolfed down a tasty bottle of wine that Tom made.

We headed back to camp for a night of drinking, bullshitting and wood-burning. Got up Saturday and headed to town for some breakfast, spending the rest of day driving around and playing putt-putt. We would later jump in Lake Huron for probably the most exilhirating hour of 2006. That water was cold but it hit the spot. This guy was camping across the path from us.

Tooling around the Thumb, we saw some marginally interesting things

… chief among them, this son of a gun. Now, THIS is a car. I keep warning Kerry that I’m going to one day come home with something like this. And I’m not kidding.

I love Lincolns. Those, and the 98s are probably my two favorite “long rides.” They’re like living rooms on wheels, but I’ve also dug their logos and symbols.

Sometimes it is especially delightful to sit around your campsite, thinking of nothing/everything, waiting only for day to turn to night, and to look up and see something like this

Perspective, baby. Eat that shit up like Skittles.

After swimming, we tried in vain to find the Tigers-Cubs game playing on a TV in any one of the many area bars. After the fourth bar, we determined nobody was carrying it up there so we watched some of the U.S. Open, played pool and drank some beer. We headed back to camp for a dinner of buffalo steaks and baked potatoes, assorted “snacks,” and some A.M. baseball on the Freeplay. Tom fucking killed me in Yahtzee. I went to bed shortly thereafter, shamed in my defeat. It was a good weekend.

Even if life does NOT give to you lemons

Take one of these, or something like it …

… grab some of this stuff …

… do this with it …

… add some of this stuff …

… do this to it …

… and you have this …

… probably one of the best things ever about summer, next to baseball and the sometimes beautifully disproportionate amount of thread to skin on the gender of your choice.

Changes

I think we are both exceptionally pleased with the way the kitchen turned out. I mean, it’s not like we ripped out counters or redid the floors (the latter we don’t need to mess with, because the entire crib has hardwood, all of it in great shape), rather, we painted it a different color and replaced some light fixtures. On the day of the closing, the kitchen looked like this. You can not, however, see the big dumb lights, composed mainly of a centered cheap-ass saucer-like fixture surrounded by black track lighting.

We replaced the central light, about five months after Kerry bought this much-improved light source.

So, for a certain amount of time, it looked like this, with the new fixture in the middle and the existing rack lighting,

I tore that black shit down and was damn glad it came out clean. I wanted to preserve the slats on that ceiling, as it lends sort of a cottage-y feel to the room.

With removing the track lights, I was left with two small portals in the ceilings with boxes and wires, one at 8 o’clock and the other at 2 o’clock. We found some individual lights, small enough in size to work and throw some light. This job was pain in the ass. I bought from Home Depot some single track lighting plates, about the size of a single piece of bread, especially a small, thin one at the end, probably the last one, it was about that size. Those lights ended up working perfectly. The original lamp yielded only an amber light, so I got a halogen, plug-in job to go under the oven over-hang. The kitchen needed more light, but I wanted capitalize on the wires already sticking out from the ceiling. So, I installed two of these bad fuckers.

They took forever to put in, had to slice out portions of those slats, measure shit, cut the power, be patient, all of it shit I’m not good at. But it worked. Kerry helped and I believe that she is oftentimes the intangible that makes shit happen with efforts of this nature. During my week off, I painted the kitchen. It ended up looking like this

I think we spent more time prepping, taping and cleaning than we did painting, but we very much like the way it turned out. Here, look at it again fucker.

See? Burly/ugly track lights, white walls and black trim around the kitchen window. To, again, this

Yeah, I thought so. The dining room is next, as is some grass seed planting in the back yard, and some much-needed basement liquidating and organization. That’s going on through June to July1. After that, I’m chilling the fuck out for a month and focusing exclusively on watering the lawn, watching baseball and making out. Four weeks. Nothing but.

Speaking of before-and-after, this might be interesting to look at, or not. The day we closed on this house, I took this picture.

Snow-covered and bleak, we were still so very stoked to be in this house. And in the first eight or 13 weeks, we would wake up and remark to each other like we hit the fucking jackpot. “Do you BELIEVE this shit?” And here we are, the smallest house on the block. I shot this today to show a bit of contrast, but a huge ray of sunlight blasted down, creating an interesting blur.

What a difference a season makes.

Tell it

People who know me well, yes, that's right, all nine of you, know that I have this "thing" for hip-hop. To be honest and more accurately, I've long enjoyed a certain amount of rap music and, yes, I know there is a difference between the two. I don't even think I'm qualified to try to convey any of it here, tonight, but hanging out on a Friday night, readying to turn on the Tigers game and having already met BCL for a coupla pints, I've done some work here tonight with the ever-important background music playing. I've gone from sitting in front of the stereo or rocking steady with the headphones on taking in every note, to finding the right beat, groove, noise whatever, to play the back burner while I'm working, writing, fucking off, grilliing, again, collecting my non-thoughts. So, tonight, I'm getting a ton done, blowing out some divine shit both in-house and out, but never in the outhouse, when the small stereo unit behind my left shoulder catches my attention. It's GURU, he of the Gang Starr and Jazzmatazz series fame, and amid the backdrop thumps and hooks, I hear him talking about, what else, how goddamn dope he is, like, what the fuck else is he going to talk about? He busts two different lines on the same track, among many, the two of them separate but, to me, equally worthy of headshakedom, like "no shit, I can't believe this dude just said that." First, he emphasizes his street worthiness and settles any questions as it relates to his rap intensity when he tells listeners "I put in work like a factory."

I've seen factories. They do a LOT of work there, so this guy, you know, is fucking serious.

But really and somewhat less sarcastically, GURU draws a bead of paralellism that goes right to me, a message that speaks to me, which is what rap, punk rock, metal, speed metal, some jazz, big band music, torch songs, Cubano ryhthms, Klezmer music, fuck it, you name it, at the time time, it hits the best spot. So, I'm at my desk thinking this, that and, naturally, the other, when I hear the rapper emote the following. I actualy had to stop and rewind twice just to get it down because, well, I wanted to hear it twice more and get the word down correctly. I've been blessed with a lot of friends, as I've proudly but humbly noted here prior, AND I have a knack for doing shit the hard way, and for every friend I have, there are two other people who think I'm a fucking jerk. So when I hear homeboy blast: "and all the haters want to throw me off/
bitches wanna blow me off/got diehard fans like I'm Holy Cross," I slap my palms down atop the edge of my desk. The NCAA tourney play-in game reference was priceless.

My nephew rules

Boy, what a crazy/busy couple of weeks, from working around the house and running around, it seems like the last 15-18 days have been both busy and tedious. I lost a bunch of photos from our reclamation of Dinner With Friends. Chris and Marty, and Jeremy and Amy visited last Saturday for empanadas, paella, house-made margaritas and a generally classic sense of get-together-good-timeness. Sadly, I have no photographic evidence of ANY of it. Trust me, the paella Kerry made was tasty.

What I do have for everyone is, quite possibly, one of the best stories I can tell. As previously mentioned here, nephew Sam P. graduated high school. He was valedictorian of his class. Here he is on stage before his speech. I found the lighting interesting, if not entirely appropriate.

The (young) man earned, through years of hard work and sacrifice hardly any of us will ever know — and I’ll leave it at that, out of the respect he so richly deserves, a full-ride scholarship to Northwestern, one of the premier degree-granting higher learning institutions on the planet. What follows shortly is his high school profile from a publication highlighting the school’s graduates. It includes a list of scholarships, awards, school activities, etc. I remember sitting at my high school commencements, reading the program and the very same litany of accomplishments from the top of the class kids, this chick going to West Point, a guy headed to MIT, etc. and I sat there thinking, wow, these guys worked their asses off. I was always impressed with those cats. And now, a member, the first actually, of our family to blow out some serious grades and scholarships is on his way to Northwestern. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of any one person in my life.

Award and Distinctions Earned:
Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy: Valedictorian and Prom King; Saginaw News Member of 2006 Academic Dream Team; Michigan Scholar Recognition, Optimist Club of Saginaw; Youth Appreciation Day Honoree; National Society of High School Scholars; Presidential Educational Awards Program Honoree for Academic Excellence; WNEM-TV5 honoree for “The Best of The Class of 2006; Who’s Who Among American High School Students; U.S. Acheivement Academy All American Scholar.
Membership in School Clubs and Community Organizations: Student Council President 2004-2006), National Honor Society, Model United Nations, Destination Imagination, Ultimate Frisbee, Computer Gaming Club, F.I.R.S.T Robitcs, Fall/Spring theatrical productions.
Volunteer and Work Experience: Michigan Community Blood Centers (blood drive coordinator), Pit and Balcony Theatre Company (light operator and co-designer), Bay City Players (volunteer youth director), State Theatre (light/sound operator), Temple Theatre (light/sound operator), United Way “Make A Difference/Spring Into Service” Day and United Way “Adopt-A-Family.”

Scholarships:
Northwestern University, $126,360 for academic achievement, outstanding community service and financial need; DePauw University, annual fund scholarship, $53,200; Bonner Scholarship, $8,400; Trustee’s Award, $44,000; Ruth Clark and Philip Holton Memorial Scholarship, $4,000; Central Michigan University outstanding student award, $12,000; Superior Scholar Award, $5,000; Anderson-Bastow Academic Achievement Scholarship, $30,000; Scholarships from other organizations include: Catherine Jean MacDonald Fine Arts Scholarship, $1,100 for academic achievement and outstanding community service as a MI resident with family ties to the MEA; Michigan Elks Foundation “Most Valuable Student” state scholarship, $1,000 for academic achievement and community service; Best Buy Children’s Foundation Scholarship, $2,000; Michigan Merit Scholarship, $2,500.

Here is a young man, the son of a single father, with no mom presence, really, to speak of. Growing up, he had no idea what a life of privilege was like. He had himself, his friends and his dad

a guy who probably scratched his head one too many times trying to figure out how in the fuck he’s going to pay for this kid’s college education. So, he did what a lot of parents do, he preached good grades and study habits. And it worked. The kid plowed through courses, stayed clean and employed a focus seen mainly in rebel snipers. Now, I have this nephew, who in about two and a half months will leave the insular, boring and somewhat culturally arid region of mid-Michigan, where the foul stench of belching factories and equally acrid aroma of despair-based ain’t-nothing-changing-around-here-but-the-seasons mentality rules with a feces-caked fist, for Chicago, where he’ll study, grow and hopefully mature under the watch of the denizens of a world-class city. I worry about him, about what he’ll learn and how he’ll grow. He’ll lose his mind a couple of times in his 20s, only to build it back up, a la Steve Austin, faster, stronger, and steel trap-like. I look at this nephew of mine and I regenerate in me a customized, sort of hybrid ersatz sense of hope, power-washing off the grime and sludge that sometimes accumulates by your mid-to-getting-kinda-late 30s. I love what he’s accomplished. I love telling a summarized version of his story. I love the look on the face of people who understand the magnitude, when I tell them my nephew got a full ride to Northfuckingwestern. I’ve never been happier for anyone in my life than that kid. But, really, who am I fooling? He’s 18 and headed to Chicago. He’s not exactly a kid anymore.