Stupid month of April. Since 2004, April has been a month I’d have gladly dropped off of the calendar year. It’s a thorn in my side. The plague of my existence. The floater in my cold beer. Nothing good ever seems to happen in April. And because of that, I want it removed from the calendar. Can’t I just skip over it? To most, this will come as me just ranting about a month that typically is wetter than most in the Pacific Northwest. I’d imagine that folks will infer that because I so vehemently loathe the rain that this would be my rallying cry for such a monthly removal exercise. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. While I hate the rain, the dreary seasonal effects of the month were merely a small visage on the overall horrific sight of a less than stellar month.

Everything in April seems to be intimately tied together in some sort of wicked network of drama. So where do I start?


Let’s start with work. No defamation of the company here. The concern is the flat-out over abundance of work statement that’s absolutely impossible to complete given the unavailability of resource. Most specifically, time. There’s just not enough time to do everything. Oh yes, but overtime is approved. And then the commute hasn’t helped either. I’ve had meetings, obligations, and appointments in far off reaches of King County forcing me to drive to work rather than commute on the beloved train. So now I’m driving from the middle of nowhere (home) to the middle of somewhere (work) and there’s only one way to get there; on an over congested highway. Awesome. Traffic. Washington drivers. So the whole work life-commute-run errands-attend meetings-finish work-head to an appointment-and commute home again thing has me a little frustrated with April.


Moving on. April sucks for health reasons too. I’d imagine that my frantic schedule hasn’t helped. So I’ve been taking my vitamins, getting more sleep than usual, and even drinking more water than beer. But in an uninteresting reversal of fortune, our entire household came down with the stomach flu. I won’t painstakingly go into colorful vomit-like detail, but I’ll give you the low points of the week. The first of the week, I think I’m ahead of the game, feel some congestion, and go to bed early. No more than an hour later, Son #1 is up looking for comfort as he’s heaving up his Spaghettio dinner on the carpet. Awesome. Time to clean the carpet. Son #1 was resilient; he puked for 24 hours and moved on. Son #2 and my wife faired differently. It involved a few more days of discomfort and output in dual directions. Son #2 puked on the couch. And at the very least, the numerical equivalent in towels furnished in the entire MGM Grand hotel was used. So I was doing laundry. A lot.

I never got pukey, but I can say there was one day that I didn’t think I was going to make it and ate a total of five saltine crackers just to see if I could puke and feel better. No such luck. After a doc appointment, I learned that not only did I have the flu, but the sinus infection from January never went away. But the last item to mention here is really the first thing to happen a week earlier. And that was fainting in the bathroom only to wake up flat on my back on the floor with one hell of a headache. Nothing like a minor concussion in the early weeks of April to set the mood right.


You know I can’t let the weather escape this disgruntled diatribe. So the rain is pissing me off. What’s the deal with having 2x the monthly average for April rainfall in the first two weeks? Now I’ve heard of ‘April showers’ but this volume of rain is ridiculous. It makes horrible drivers even worse. It makes waiting for the train shitty. I can’t ride my bike during the monsoon and even when there’s a break in the storm, local trail networks are rivers. Speaking of under water, the downpour transformed my backyard into the Dagobah swamp. I wouldn’t be surprised to find an X-Wing fighter submerged in the muddy mess. All in all, it’s ruined my all ready piss pour mood. I suppose it doesn’t matter because I’ve been sick anyway.

April can suck it. I remember April 2003 being great. I just got engaged and bought my first home in Long Beach. I was on top of the world in a dead-end job but it didn’t matter. I had great friends, it was sunny, and I could barbeque every day of the year. Now if I go outside this April I’m swimming across the yard to check the mail. I hate swimming.


I’m going to write my congressman and lobby for the removal of the month of April from the calendar. The way I see it, there’s enough days in April to spread across 30 weekends of the year. We could make a three day weekend out of 30 weekends of our choice by adding a day from April to them. Now there are about four weeks in April so instead of having 52 weeks a year, we would now have 48. That gives us 48 weekends that we look for in our tragic existence. We could make 30 of those 48 weekends a little more enjoyable by adding a day to them. What about the other 18? Who cares? I’m willing to overlook 18 two-day weekends for 30 three-day weekends. This alternative is much more interesting and appealing than the month of April.


Those with special days in the soon-to-be-removed month of April will receive a two-for-one day in the remaining months of your choice. Please submit your choices in writing to your congressman or woman.

Inspiration always seems to come at the most inopportune times. I used to spend hours and hours in my studio drawing and sketching. Music blasting in my headphones, I’d come up with the next wheel design or tattoo. Unfortunately, those cathartic moments are gone just like the studio in that old rental house in Long Beach. I draw a lot less now; almost never. What’s taken up my time are my boys and the off shoots in writing that you find here. I’ve swapped drawing and sketching for observing and writing. And I’m learning to be OK with this.

Back to inspiration and its timing. I was on the train heading to the office when something new and refreshing graced my eardrums. Thanks to Adrenalina for connecting me to this group. The song reminded me how powerful your network of friends and family can be in your life. I was caught up in the moment with the most pure appreciation for my friends and family who have supported me over and over in my life. This song had the power to replay all of those great memories with friends and family I’ve had along the way. And in that moment, I was so inspired by you all. But I couldn’t write anything as I was being audited by a fare enforcement officer to ensure I wasn’t freeloading a train ride to Tukwila at 5:30AM.

So here I am now, wanting to rekindle that inspiration, that vision, to put something reflective of how fortunate I feel for having absolutely the greatest friends. The song playing here on this entry is for you all and the journey we’ve taken together in my circus-like life:

“Brotherhood “ is a term that’s used too loosely in conversations about fraternities. You really comprehend the roots of true brotherhood when mass perception and the system are against you. There’s a galvanization when you and your closest group of brothers have a realization and are laser-focused on building a bond which outlasts time and withstands all collegiate challenges. To my brothers in my fraternity, we are bound for life by the Phi, the Kappa, and the Theta. We took turns steering the ship to its greatness. And while the years of life have separated us from the basement parties in our house and Hoodstock, we are just who we always were; Brothers.


He often calls me his spiritual advisor. And the first time he referred to me as this we were sitting at a little hut perched on a beach in Negril, Jamaica eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking Red Stripe. I don’t take this title lightly. Strangely enough, he allowed me to jump up on my soap box that day and whip his ass back into shape. We knew each other for no longer than a flight to Jamaica and the bus ride to Negril. Still, there was a connection deeper than I could ever understand. We occasionally reflect back on that first conversation and it reminds us how far we’ve come. We grew up but we’re still those two drunk dudes finding their strength to get back up and ride that donkey. He still introduces me to people as his spiritual advisor. And while there’s humor in it, I’ve found that his advice to me is as equally as empowering to me as mine is to him.


How do you stop a 6’4” angry drunk guy from hopping in his car and driving off because a chick wouldn’t give him her phone number? Lie down in front of the car on the cold wet Seattle pavement. Sometimes you do things with a reckless abandon that people question your sanity. And sometimes, you don’t think but react in a way that’s reflective of the respect and admiration you have for someone. And that’s what happened to me that night. I knew I wasn’t going to let him drive away that night. He was going to have to kill me first to do it. It was out of admiration that subconsciously taught us a hard lesson on friendship. We do this together. Always. Years have passed and well…..I married his sister and now we’re brothers.


In our lifetime, the internet has electronically made the world smaller. We have FB and so many networks that keep us engaged in each other’s lives. Before all of that, there were forums and chat rooms. Who would’ve thought that a forum about Gen5 Honda Preludes would introduce me to a friend that clearly is one of the few kindred spirits my soul has traveled with from the beginning. One car club meeting in Richmond BC reintroduced our spirits. And with that, the next 14 years blew through our lives like a hurricane. Great lengths of time sometimes separated our talks. However, we always had a confidence in the ability for the next conversation to level set us. And while I would never wish the setbacks he and I have had in each of our personal lives on anyone, I can confidently say that those episodes have added a complex web of trust and friendship deeper than any social network.


I don’t know too many people who’d drive from Long Beach to LAX at 1:30am on work night to pick up his roommate (me). I actually know one guy who did that just for me. Coming back from a Washington wedding late, he was waiting curbside for me to haul my ass back to our trashy rental in LB. And while the dude was abrasive and had an eternal pissed off attitude like he’d been listening to Pennywise far too long, he was always a loyal and dedicated friend in even the most thankless moments. I’m proud to know him and to have had those nights in Belmont Shore trolling cougars before it was cool. And now he’s married to a great girl and they have two wonderful kids. Even angst ridden young punks grow up to be great friends and successful adults.


Family can be a curse or an advocate; sometimes both at the same time. Sitting in my mom and dad’s house with my God-sisters and their families, I was humbly reminded of the support I have in them. I was also reminded by my oldest sister that at an early age I wasn’t a fan of the happy birthday song and hid under a table. But those memories with my sisters are priceless. We don’t get together nearly enough like we used to. There was a time in our lives where we got together every weekend for our parents to play cards. I miss those days when our innocence was exemplified by dancing around. While things are complicated with bills, kids, and jobs, I can always count on my sisters to neutralize my headstrong attitude with a reminder of my childhood behavior or masquerading as an ex-girlfriend to get me out of a horrible past relationship.


Being limited by the guidelines I’ve set for myself here and not wanting to bore people to death, I can’t offer all of my summaries about the appreciation I have for my friends. Just know that if you weren’t mentioned here, it’s by no means a slight toward the value you provide in my life. I’ve made great friends along the way and wish that time and bandwidth would permit me capture all of it here. But in light of time and miles being against us, have confidence in knowing that there’s no way I could ever take any of you for granted. Much of who I’ve turned out to be is a result of all of the influence (positive and negative) and lessons you have taught me in my life. Please accept my humble thank you for your friendship and this small token of bandwidth here playing a dedication to you. Cheers!

The path I’ve followed for the past seven years has left been an unpredictable spread of emotions that trying to map out would look like a buckshot blast across a moving target. There have been days where I wanted to bury my car into a jersey barrier convinced that I had nothing left but desperation. And on the other end of the spectrum, there was joy and elation where I knew that the story was incomplete but remained hopeful. And while it was missing one character that I thought was integral in plot development, I discovered that which seemed to be a trivial memory was so much more formative and defining. I began to understand how timeless and spanning memories are and that they carry on much longer than any one of us could ever dream.

Distilling the emotions down into something more compartmental was the only way I could get to a gripping point with how incomplete I felt after life turned that unexpected corner. Despite my comfort and overconfidence in how things should progress in my life, I was reminded in 2004 that nothing I expected, planned, or dreamt of could possibly be absolute. And with that dog leg in the path of life, I learned that the road dirt my clothing endured would be stained into my core and I couldn’t wash out the lessons that the loss taught.

Now down the road a bit with my shoes fairly dirty, I’ve become more matter of fact about it. Believe me; it wasn’t always this easy to talk about the variety of emotion that was experienced. So instead of moping around as frequent as I used to, I found that I want to talk about the healing process more and reflect on the lasting and timeless memories. I still struggle with the loss more than most people would ever be led to believe. And it’s a challenge to be alone at times. But I’ve come to a point where the spectrum of emotions is two distinct categories.


TORTURE
It starts with shock and dismay. The phone rings and on the other end is a somber voice telling you something that you do not want to hear. And in an instant, you’re confused. Your brother has been in a car accident and isn’t expected to live. You hang up the phone and scurry like a rat to pack your bags. You’re 1000 miles away. The phone rings again. He’s gone. It’s too late. You fall to the floor sobbing just like the movies. That’s how it happens. Unscripted.

He left without saying goodbye. I took it personal like a slight against my own existence. How could he leave forever without saying goodbye? I was pissed for a long time. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. I never had anything planned out but I just knew it couldn’t be like this. I guess I tried to deal with loss and loneliness by trying to blame him for leaving. It wouldn’t have been any easier or more tolerable if he would’ve said bye. Maybe it was the guilt. I didn’t talk to him the weekend before he died because I was ‘too busy.’ He went to a swapmeet with my father over that weekend and I was pissed he didn’t call that following Monday. The call I got wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t a goodbye.


TOLERANCE
But you gain a little perspective after driving down the road a bit further. At least then you can reflect back on the twists and turns and try to make sense of it. For me, I started looking at it like the neighbor with the annoying rice burner car. That is, it’s just the way it is and no matter how much you hate how loud the nasty ass exhaust is or how fast he drives on the side street, it’s just the way it is. It won’t change. And like that crude metaphor, losing my brother is what it is. By some sort of divine or prescribed intervention, we were left holding memories and not his hand.

Clinically, the quacks talk about ‘acceptance.’ Well, let me tell you something about that. It’s bullshit. I don’t know anyone who has ever accepted losing a loved one. It’s not OK. You don’t accept, you learn to tolerate the new landscape of life without them. You tolerate the pain. And down the road, you realize the beauty that’s born from the despair. And you worry about the guilt of being happy after they’re gone. I hate that I’m in love and have been successful. But my brother would want that for me. It’s OK to tolerate the loss and know that the path in front and behind you was defined by the loss.


I know there‘s nothing I wouldn’t do for my two boys. And I know there’s nothing more dangerous than a person who has lost their hope. For my brother, I can’t lose my hope. There’s a constant struggle with the reality that my boys will never know their uncle other than the stories, pictures, and an occasional visit to the cemetery. To me that‘s unfair. As articulate and emotional as I am, I just don’t feel like I could ever impress upon them how influential he was in this life and how important it is having that one person unconditionally believe in you regardless of poor decision you make at times.

I once heard, “You can live without Chaucer and you can live without calculus, but you can’t make it in the world without common sense.” As we get older, we understand the importance of this. Adulthood is nothing but a series of choices: you can say yes or no, but you can’t avoid saying one or the other. In the end, those who are successful and happy are those who adjust and adapt to life and the decisions they’ve made and make the best of them.