"Sir, Now You've Upset Me." Happy BDay, Vladika

Last weekend my friend, Brett, turned 43. I've known him since high school, where we began our association with each other as enemies. I can't tell you why we didn't like each other. I was the band director's kid, so maybe that had something to do with it. I recall an incident with an Eagles LP, which could've been the source of my anger. It was the hastily compiled "Greatest Hits, Vol. 2" which I received from the Columbia Record Club. In other words, cheap vinyl that I got for a penny. Hardly a reason to get pissed at a guy. Then again, I was 14/15 at the time, so I wasn't very logical.

The strange thing about the animosity between the two of us was that we had the same mutual friends: Alex, Tom, John, Phil, Sally, Kathy and Kerry. We all hung out together. At some point Brett and I buried the hatchet (probably over a couple of North Olmsted Coolers, a primitive version of a Shandy) and became good buddies.

During my high school senior year emotional void, when I thought the world would end because my heart was broken, I took a memorable camping trip with my friends Tom, James and Brett. We drove out into the middle of nowhere, parked our car and hiked down the side of a forest hill to pitch a tent. It was a fun adventure until the rain began. We wound up crashing at Brett's house the next morning, laughing about the complete failure of the trip. From that point on, Brett and I hung out more frequently.

After high school and into college, the same group of us saw each other during winter and summer breaks. There were never any "plans" to do stuff. Someone would show up at another person's house and we'd just hang out. At this point, Matt was a part of the gang. Man, Matt and Brett together were a pair. One particular night, Brett was over to the house and I began expounding on the brilliance of "My Sharona." Brett laughed as I went on and on about the musicality of the song; I even jammed it on the drums for him.

Later in the night, while the two of us were in the Malchus family room, shooting the shit over a couple of beers, my father entered the room. At that moment, Brett set his beer on the wood arm rest of the couch, or maybe it was an end table, I'm unclear. Wood was involved.

My father flipped.

"Sir, now you've upset me," he snarled at Brett. It was the most irrationally response I'd ever heard my dad direct at one of my friends. He spoke to Brett as if the guy was one of those punks that get under his skin during each school year.  But he liked Brett (still does, as far as I know). The look on Brett's face was priceless. Utter shock. Once my dad left the room, we both shared a WTF look and went about our business.

After Julie and I got married and moved to California, I never thought I'd see Brett again. Through mutual friends I learned that he was married and living in Colorado. The, sometime in the early 2000s, Brett contacted me to say he was going to be in LA for a couple of days. We had dinner, got caught up on each others lives, and suddenly the friendship was renewed. He's been to LA a few more times, and he happened to be in Ohio a couple of summer's ago while we were also visiting Julie's family. In a period of five years, I believe I've seen him more that any of the old gang. Pretty funny considering we used to hate each other.

This past December I finally met his lovely wife, Leah. At the fundrasier held in the memory of Seann, Brett and Leah showed up, along with the Koziols. Although we all only got to spend about an hour together, it was one of the best parts of an emotional evening.

Throughout the years, Brett and his family have supported Great Strides and my marathon fundraisers, which makes them extra special in my book. This year I was shocked to learn that Brett is battling Leukemia. He's been in chemo throughout the spring and I can only imagine the emotional toll it is taking on Leah and their two beautiful children. If anyone I know can kick this disease's ass, it's Brett. He's always been one of the fiercest people I know, a quality I truly admire.

There's not much I can do for my old friend except send my prayers and support his way. Oh, and I can remind him how fucking awesome "My Sharona" is and why it should always be cranked up on the radio.

Happy Birthday, Brett.

Memories of Cutting Trees

This weekend my brother and I took down an old pine growing in my backyard. The tree had grown so big that it was pressing against the wall separating our yard with my neighbor's. The task was, at times, a little nerve racking, as we worked around power lines in both yards and we had to avoid getting crushed by thick falling tree limbs. After a long day of sawing (marked by a brief excursion to buy a treadmill), the tree was gone and we all ate a hearty Mexican dinner cooked by Julie and my sister-in-law.

Working with us were my two nephews, who seemed to get a kick out of cutting wood and using a hand saw. Watching them, coupled with the sound of cracking branches and the smell of dead pine, conjured memories of my youth. The old Malchus house had a huge backyard full of trees. I can remember many autumn days standing under a ladder while my father climbed up and clipped off branches for kindling. Those were long, boring afternoon and I shivered quite a bit, pounding my feet on the hard, cold ground, praying we could go inside soon.

I've been thinking about my father a lot this past week. I spoke to him recently and he said that he can't play the clarinet as well he used to. His fingers aren't as quick and his eyes can't always read the music. My heart sank when he told me this, as playing music has been his lifeblood for as long as I can recall. Life in the old Malchus home in North Olmsted would not have been the same without the regular sounds of my dad's clarinet playing, either to figure out a new arrangement he was working on, or showing one of his students how they should play their parts.

I'm sure my relationship with my father is no different than most men my age. When I was a boy, he was an imposing figure, but I loved being by his side, especially when we accompanied him to marching band camp and stood on the sidelines while he barked out instructions to his students.  I was constantly afraid of disappointing him, a fear I carried with me into college. It wasn't until he had heart surgery in 1992 that I began to see him more as a man and less as this mythical figure called "Dad." As I've gotten older, although we don't always agree on everything, I have come to love him more and respect him for all that he did for the family. I may not agree with all of his choices, but I understand why/how he came to his decisions a little better.

Hearing him talk about losing some of his musical skills saddened me. I know how much he loves playing and how alive it makes him feel. The reality of my dad getting older really hit home during that conversation and reminded me once again that I need to call more often to talk to my folks. I've said it many times, but there would not be a Basement Songs book without my mom and dad.

I know that they read the book over Christmas, and I'm sure some of what I wrote may have surprised them (but come on, Mom & Dad, you had to know some of the things that were happening while you were away on vacations), but everything I put in the book was done so out of love.

Anyone reading this, make sure you contact you parents this week and tell them you love them. If your parents aren't a part of your life then call those people who mean the most to you. Life is unpredictable, as we all know, and we shouldn't let a day go by without telling the people who helped us grow into men and women know how important they are in our lives.

Whenever I hear this song by Springsteen, as with many Springsteen songs, I think of my dad.

Winter days

It's cold out this morning. Coooooold. I know that my east coast friends will tell me, "Malchus, you don't know cold, you thin skinned west coast baby!" But I'll tell you, a) I DO know cold, thank you very much, and b) it was frickin' ice cold when I rode my bike to the train station. Literally. I was riding across ice patches.

Alright, I'll stop my moaning. But I do feel new aches when I climb on my Specialized Crossroads 18 speeder each day. Is it age? Seems like I've had the same pains in my hips, knees and shoulders for months now. I recall the days when I could shake 'em off and plow through my waking hours. Not so much anymore.

It makes me wonder if my parents experienced the same thing in their 40s. I was in my teens, my formative years, when Mom & Dad lived through their 40s. I don't remember them having any issues. Maybe I was too self absorbed to notice, or maybe they just hid it well so as not to worry their kids. I bet it was a little of both.

I do know one thing, I've come to appreciate Tylenol PM. My sleeping habits are sporadic and I don't always climb into bed the most relaxed man. After a night with Ty PM, I don't feel quite so pained in the morning. That helps on days like today... when it's so damn cold outside.

I'll stop now because I realize that I'm being infantile. I've seen real pain first hand, people with debilitating arthritis who fight through their agony and carry on a 40 hour work week. I can endure some minor creaks in my bones. And I can endure the cold chill that comes with a two mile bike ride to the train station.