Add him to the song

 

This May, Star Wars hits the big screen for the first time in several years with The Mandalorian and Grogu, a cinematic expansion on the popular streaming franchise. In anticipation for the movie, Star Wars social media has been sharing clips and scenes from past episodes of The Mandalorian. While most videos are of Mando flying or shooting or of Grogu using the force or being cute - everything you would expect from the series - there is one clip that was different. Instead of adrenaline, one clip went for the heart.

In a scene from Season 3, Episode 24, we see Din Djarin, the Mandalorian, attempt to add Grogu to the clan of the Mandolorians. The Armorer, official keeper of Mandalorian tradition, denies Din Djarin’s request, stating that Grogu cannot speak therefor he can’t take the creed. The Mandalorian then asks if Grogu’s parents can speak for him. While the Armorer approves of the request, she states that Grogu’s parents are not present and may not be alive. Din Djarin responds by offering to adopt Grogu, making him Grogu’s father and Grogu a part of the clan. The scene tugs on the heartstrings, cementing the bond that grew between the Mandalorian and Grogu through the episodes.

It is also indicative of how I feel about my cat. 

 

I rescued Oliver on August 1st, 2024. It was the second time in his six years he was rescued. It will be the last time.

Oliver aka Oily aka Oily Boily first came into my apartment in November 2022. I attempted to help his owner, a friend at the time, get back on her feet. She rescued Oliver when he was a kitten and moved him from Florida to various states then back to Florida. He lived with her mother, her friends, and her significant and not-so-significant others. When I opened my home to her, she brought him with her. Unfortunately, the demons of substance abuse and addiction were too much for our friendship to bear and I told her to leave in July 2024. When she left, she took Oliver.

For the year and half that she on and off crashed at my place, Oliver was always hers. He and I got along, but he had a mom. And when she left with him, I thought about getting another cat. But when my friend’s mother called me three weeks later at nearly 11pm to say my friend abandoned Oliver at the home of an old high school friend and the friend was going to get rid of him the next day, I drove 40 minutes to make Oliver mine.

When I picked him up at the high school friend’s apartment, Oliver was scared. While the guy was nice, he had Oliver in a cage. My feline friend was in a strange place with a strange person, locked behind cold, metal bars. He was sad and he was scared.

By the time I returned home with Oliver, it was just short of midnight. I had no idea if he had been fed or not, so after letting him out of his cage so he could re-acclimate to my apartment, I raced to the nearest 7-11 for a few cans of cat food. I remember giving him half a can of turkey feast. He ate as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

To be honest, during the first few days, I wasn’t sure I was going to keep him. If she came back, I was ready to give him to her and bid them both farewell, especially if it meant her leaving and never coming back. I had zero interest in getting re-tangled in her problems.

But I quickly realized I couldn’t give him away. He deserved better. He deserved a good home. When he curled next to me on the couch on his second day back and placed his head on my leg, I knew I was that good home. I was the better he deserved.

Almost two years later, Oliver has become my little guy. He curls up to me almost every night. He is always in what ever room I am in, even the bathroom. He gets hugs. He gets treats. He gets more than enough toys. He gets spoiled on his birthday. He sits on the porch of my apartment and watches the ducks swim in the pond. He is living his best life.

Like Grogu, I don’t know where Oliver’s parent is or if she is even alive. We hope she is sober and safe but those are her choices to make. We have charted our own journey. Like Din Djarin, I might not have intended to have a little guy in my life, but sometimes the Force works in mysterious ways. Like the Mandalorian and Grogu, Oliver and I are a team. We are a family.

This is the way.

 

A Week For Dad

 

Earlier this year, I wrote about my Dad’s life and his passing. It was the first time I wrote about my Dad in the past tense. Although he has been gone for nine months, it still seems like he went away yesterday. Or maybe last week. Reality has set in, but the hole is still there. I still miss my Dad.

Whereas I have good memories of my Dad teaching me things as a child and doing things with my Dad like Cub Scouts and making electronic doo-dads and gizmos, my best memories are of us as adults going places together. We went to concerts, ballgames, sports bars, car shows, and other assorted events.

My Dad was a car aficionado, especially of the early Datsun Zs. He owned a 1971 240Z for over 20 years and the car was pretty much a member of the family. Before a bad accident forced him to part ways with the car, his dying wish was for his car to be crushed into a cube, a hole drilled eight inches into the cube, his ashes poured into the hole, and the hole sealed so he would forever be a part of his car. Then the surviving members of the family were to put the crushed car in the living room, purchase a glass table top, and create a memorial coffee table. 

I was looking forward to the day I would tell my future kids to get their shoes off their grandfather.

Alas, his beloved 240Z was totaled and claimed by insurance. He purchased a replacement car for a few years, but like replacement Dukes of Hazzard, it wasn’t the same. His passion for the replacement car wasn’t what it was for his 1971 240Z. As his health diminished, he sold the replacement. He was more depressed about his health and not having a car than he was about parting ways with his replacement Z.

When he had his original 240Z and his health was good, he would often go to the annual Z Car Convention, the national gathering of Z enthusiasts. He went to at least four of them – San Antonio, Savannah, Daytona, and Nashville. Sometimes he would drive his car and sometimes he would tow it. Sometimes he would bring my Mom and sometimes he would go with his friend.

This year, as fate would have it, the Z Car Convention was in Tampa for the first time ever. It is hard for me to articulate the coincidence. It seemed like more than fate, almost like a sign. The convention could have been anywhere in the United States – from Washington to Miami, San Diego to Maine, and anywhere in between. Instead, the event that meant so much to my Dad was scheduled to happen in my backyard. Of course I was going.

Z Car Conventions are week-long events. Attended by Z Car Clubs and fans nationwide, there are opening ceremonies, exhibitions of the latest racing engines, seminars, and guest appearances by celebrities of the Z community. Two car shows are among the highlights of the week - the first, a judged car show on Wednesday, and the second, a public car show on Saturday.

When I told my Mom about the upcoming Z Car Convention, we agreed that while my Dad would have attended all week, we only needed to go to the final public car show. That would be enough, both physically and emotionally. My Mom booked a hotel room for the final Z car weekend and we were ready.

I don’t remember what inspired me to look up the 2024 Z Car Convention. I think perhaps I was looking up Z communities in an attempt to help my Mom sell some of the car parts my Dad never got around to moving out of the garage. But I do remember tearing up a bit thinking that my Dad would have been in Tampa all week. I was missing out on hanging out with my Dad at something that meant a lot to him. I wouldn't have been at every event with him, but I am sure we would have met up a few times during the week for beer and wings and a few Z Car events. It is those missed opportunities that I miss the most.

Although my Mom and I agreed to attend only the public car show on Saturday, I decided to visit the hotel headquarters of the Z Convention on Thursday. I wanted to buy t-shirts and other swag early just in case they ran out the day of the public event. I also wanted to take in the event at my own pace, without anyone else. I didn’t know how emotional seeing all the cars on Saturday would be, so I figured getting some tears out of the way on Thursday might be a good idea.

Pulling in to the parking lot of the Embassy Suites by the University of South Florida in Tampa I immediately saw various types of Z cars. There were modern racers, show cars, and the classic models similar to my Dad’s. I was in the right place.

The impact of being among the community that meant so much to my Dad hit almost immediately. Inside the hotel lobby was a car that looked very similar to my Dad’s in make, model, and color. It had a different design on the side, but was ninety percent the same. I walked into the hotel, saw that car, and had to turn around and walk out to collect myself. I took a deep breath outside the hotel door and walked in again. Seeing that car so soon was a bit of a punch.

Once in the hotel, I found the Z Car people. They had a merch store with various swag and t-shirts. They also had two large banners and were collecting signatures of everyone who registered for the convention. After explaining my reason for being there, they let me sign the banners for my Dad. I put “RIP George Lortz ’71 240Z” on each banner. He was at the Z Convention in spirit and now in name.

I spoke with several volunteers at the hotel in both the merch room and the registration room. Everyone was very nice. They let me place my Dad’s memorial card besides different maps and images and take several pictures. They asked questions about my Dad and his car and they made me feel very welcome. Going by myself that first day was definitely helpful as I process grief better when I am around other people.

I walked out of the hotel with a smile on my face and looked forward to Saturday’s car show. Then I saw a car in the parking lot that looked ninety-nine percent like my Dad’s car. It was a pristine pearl white early ‘70s 240Z. Parked among the other Z Cars, it was sitting where my Dad probably would have parked.

 

 

I had to take a moment and catch my breath. I sat down in the parking lot next to the car for a few minutes and cried a bit. When I composed myself, I thought it might have looked a little weird for any passersby to see a grown man sitting next to a stranger’s car and tearing up in a parking lot, but I didn’t care. In a city of shoe lickers, addicts, and other assorted homeless, I probably had the best reason to be sitting in a parking lot getting emotional.

Saturday morning, I picked up my Mom at her hotel and we went to the Z Car Convention public car show. I was impressed. There were hundreds of Z cars of various makes and models and a crowd of several hundred curious and interested Z fans. There were also various vendors with official shirts and other swag. Unable to refuse a good deal, my Mother stocked up on stuff, some of which she needed, some of which reminded her of my Dad. 

Walking the rows of cars, I saw many of the people I met on Thursday. Again, everyone was really nice and expressed their condolences and their appreciation that we came to honor my Dad. They listened as we told them about his car, his travels to previous conventions, and the awards he won. These were my Dad’s people. As an added bonus, we also made connections that might help us sell the rest of my Dad’s car parts.

Oddly missing from the large expanse of show-quality Zs at the public car show was the pearl white early 70s 204Z I saw in the parking lot the previous Thursday. My mother and I walked the aisles of cars several times thinking I might have missed it, but it wasn’t there. I am not sure who goes to a car convention and doesn’t bring their car to the final big event, but that car was not there.

Like the coincidence of the convention being in my city the year after my Dad’s passing, perhaps the pearl white early 70s 240Z was only in the parking lot for me to see and appreciate. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be at the car show for everyone. Perhaps it was a sign that my Dad was there and at the same time not there. I can’t explain it. I just have to accept that I saw that car when I did.

After lunch with my Mom at a local German restaurant that we agreed my Dad would have liked, I dropped my Mom at her hotel and went to the Buddy Guy concert in Clearwater. Buddy Guy is a legend in Blues and a performer my Dad and I had seen in concert several times. Although I have seen Buddy Guy more than a dozen times total, half of those were with my Dad. Seeing Blues legends in concert was one of our things.

Prior to dropping her off, my Mother and I debated whether or not my Dad would have joined me at the concert. She said he probably would have stayed at the Z Car Convention for the closing ceremonies and social hours. I like to think he would have joined me. Or I can think of the events as separate and think of good times with my Dad at each. While his spirit might have remained at the Z Convention, his spirit and memory also came with me to the concert. Both things can be true.

Continuing the tribute to my Dad, I ordered a Jim Beam and coke prior to the concert. Jim Beam was his drink of choice. In yet another weird coincidence, there was one and half pours left in the bottle. The bartender was kind enough to give me that little extra for free so she could finish the bottle. In bourbon lexicon, there is a term called “Angel’s share”, a small amount of the batch that evaporates during the distilling process. I like to think that little bit poured into my glass to kill the bottle was “Dad’s share”.

Overall, it was a great show and one I am sure my Dad would have enjoyed. Time hasn’t stopped Buddy Guy, who at 88 years old, is still at the top of his guitar-playing game. But alas, this might be Buddy’s last time on tour as he is semi-retiring and only scheduling dates at his home bar in Chicago. It was a great run.

 

 

On the way back from the Buddy Guy concert, I pondered going to see my bartending buddy SportsChump at his Irish pub, but my body said no. I was too damn tired. SportChump aka Chris and I have become better friends over the last few months. Not only was he the first person to write a review of my novel, he also wrote about his own Dad’s passing shortly before my Dad passed. We joined that unfortunate club nearly the same time. I knew I could visit his bar and tell him all about my day for my Dad and he would appreciate my story. Chris, consider this shout-out my apology for not visiting. I’ll swing by soon.

Although I didn’t go to a pub or a bar, I did stop by a local liquor store to pick up a nice drink to close the night. I settled on Jim Beam Black, a little less harsh and little smoother than his standard Jim Beam. My Dad would have approved.

While I was perusing the aisles, the store clerk told me they had a discount on top level bourbon. I declined and told him why I turned down the offer. He not only understood, he sympathized. He told me about the last concert he went to with his Dad, Pink Floyd in 1980. Shortly thereafter, he became a member of the club no one wants to join. As I checked out, he told me he applied the discount to the bottle I bought. A really nice gesture and a much needed conversation.

As the night ended and I sipped on a glass of Jim Beam, I reflected on the week. I was happy I could honor my Dad and celebrate his love for his Z during the 2024 Z Car Convention in Tampa. Although it was sad at times, I know he was there in spirit the entire week and especially at the car show and concert. He would have enjoyed his day.

I miss you, Dad.

A Video Tribute to My Dad

 

As part of my Dad's celebration of life, I volunteered to make a video slideshow. Making the video was a feat. I had to scan old pictures, label pictures, find dates, and sort through hundreds of pictures spanning from 1952 to 2023. I had to make some tough decisions on what to include and what ended up on the cutting room floor. But in the end, I think the final product turned out pretty good.

I try not to think about it like this, but this is the final thing I did for my Dad. I like to think that I had the honor and the pleasure of telling his life story. As a creative person, that's the best gift I can give.

George's Journey - A Tribute to George Lortz from JordiScrubbings on Vimeo.

A Tribute to My Dad

On December 23, 2023, I joined a club few if any want to join. Unfortunately, in the course of life, time makes many of us members. Now in my mid-40s, many of my friends have lost a parent or two. And as much as I feel comfort knowing I have people who are there for me and have felt this loss, it’s still hard.

My Dad is gone. I’ll never talk to him again.

My Dad was proud of me. Of that there was no dispute. I followed close enough in his footsteps that he knew the route, even if I walked on different paths.

My Dad was a complicated man who wanted the world to be simple. He enjoyed Jeopardy, Jim Beam, and James Bond. He thought there were too many dinosaurs. He could be obstinate. He could be argumentative. He was quick with what is now appropriately called “a Dad joke”. He taught me to drive as fast as I wanted, as long I didn’t endanger anyone. Seventeen speeding tickets later, he would tell me not to speed.

I learned a lot from my Dad. Most of it true, some of it not. For years, I thought the bungee cord was invented by a man named Arthur J. Bungee. According to my Dad, Arthur J. developed the bungee cord in 1942 to preserve rubber for the war effort. My Dad told me that Mr. Bungee’s new cords were used on aircraft carriers and helped America win World War II. Of course I believed him.

I wrote in the dedication of my novel, Curveball at the Crossroads, that my Dad introduced me to baseball and the Blues. I remember when he took me to my first Major League Baseball game, Back to School Day at Shea Stadium, 1985. I received a free Mets school binder that day that I still have. My Dad religiously watched those mid-80s Mets, descendants of the ‘69 Mets he witnessed win the World Series. In that year in which the second most amazing event was a man on the moon, my Dad was selling programs and scorecards from Shea Stadium’s upper deck.

One of my Dad’s favorite stories about his time as a vendor was when the Mets won the division for the first time in their history. When the final out was recorded, bedlam erupted and the fans rushed the field to celebrate. As an employee, my Dad was supposed to stay in the stands, but on this day he joined the jubilee in the grass. When a policeman grabbed him and asked why he was on the field, my Dad told the officer that in order to sell his stuff, he had to be where his customers were.

I remember when my Dad introduced me to the Blues. I was a hip-hop kid in the 90’s, much to my parents’ chagrin. During one my first visits home from the Army, however, I asked my Dad if he could make me a cassette of Jimi Hendrix songs. As he recorded most of the classics from his vinyl collection, he asked me to listen to “Red House” before he copied it. Red House is Hendrix’s most bluesy song. I wanted that song on the cassette. That lead to me finding a CD entitled “Jimi Hendrix Blues”, one of my favorite albums of all time.

My Dad taught me that most music is influenced by something earlier. I remember him listening to Dr Dre and immediately recognizing Parliament-Funkadelic samples. He challenged me to find the source of my music. In my growing Blues fandom, that led me to Clarksdale, Mississippi, and the legendary crossroads where Robert Johnson allegedly made his deal with the Devil.  If that sounds familiar, then you understand my Dad’s influence on my novel.

Throughout the years, my Dad and I went to a lot of events together. In 2008, I took him to his first World Series game in 39 years. I took him to see Eric Clapton, Buddy Guy, and almost every year from 2000 to 2010, we saw the legendary BB King play the Blues. 

Sometimes our events required long drives. For a few years, he would journey to Tampa and join me in trips to Tallahassee to see FSU football. As part of those weekends, I introduced him to the Bradfordville Blues Club, a small music venue outside of Tallahassee that was one of the last juke joints in America.

Besides music and sports, I understood my Dad professionally. After a few years with various other defense contractors, he worked for Northrop Grumman for over 30 years. In my career, I have worked for over a dozen different defense contractors, to include Northop Grumman for a year. My Dad was very excited I joined his company, but not so excited when I complained about my time with the company and left after nine months. I had to tell my Dad that although the company is the same, my division and my experiences were vastly different. Whereas he worked on a Northrop Grumman campus, with Northrop Grumman equipment, in Northrop Grumman buildings, I’ve always worked on military bases, surrounded by military people, doing military things. In my Northrop Grumman job, that base was in Doha, Qatar, where I enjoyed being until it was time to come home. When I came back, the company had no stateside positions for me so I moved on.

For someone who never put on the uniform, my Dad had a love for the military that went above and beyond. The equipment he worked on in his forty-plus years in defense contracting saved lives and helped win wars. And when I left for basic training on August 21, 1995, it was my Dad who drove me to the recruiting station in his pearl white, 1971 Datsun 240z. If you knew my Dad, you knew that car only came out for special drives. When we got to the recruiting station, he cried, gave me a big hug, and told me how proud he was.

I am going to remember a lot about my Dad. Although he could be a pain in the ass, we had a lot of good times. But time moves on. Shea Stadium is gone, leveled in 2009. BB King passed away in 2015, and the Bradfordville Blues Club closed its doors early last year. Many of the people and places I shared with my Dad are gone. Now he is gone as well.

I’m gonna miss you, Dad.

Reflections on not being a dad

This post is reflective and personal and inspirational.

The death of Kobe Bryant was hard on the sports world. Kobe Bryant was a superstar athlete and one of the greatest basketball players to ever play the game. In a moment, he was gone.

Among the recollections of Kobe, besides the stats and accolades, were pictures of Kobe and his family. The fact that he was with his daughter on their way to a youth basketball game made his death even more poignant and heartbreaking from a family perspective.

In the days since, tributes to Kobe have been profound. Pictures, articles, and videos have circulated throughout social media. They have helped connect people to Kobe and help them heal in the midst of tragedy.

One of the tributes that arose was the hashtag #GirlDad on social media. To show their camaraderie with Kobe Bryant, the father of four girls, men on social media posted pictures with their daughters - showing how they too support everything their daughters want to do or be. It is a powerful statement and heartwarming.

But to me, it was awkward. #GirlDad is something I can't relate to, although for no reason I can explain other than I don't have any kids. I am 42 years old and single with no kids. From what I can gather, that's rare. I am in good health, well educated, make decent money, and live near people. There is little to say that I shouldn't have a family and kids.

Friends have families. My brother has a kid. That phase of life just hasn't happened for me.

But I don't regret anything I've done. I can't point to any particular decision where I turned down the possibility to be a dad. I could point to a family tragedy in my teens as setting me back socially a bit. Maybe being in an all-male military unit in my early 20s didn't help.

But that was years ago. I am much more familiar in social situations now.

Regardless, I can't wallow in the past. Because that leads to stressing over situational minutia. What if I asked that girl on a date a few years ago? What if I smiled back at that other girl in 6th grade? Would I be a dad now?

Over-analyzing the past is a bad idea. What's done is done.

A few months ago, I was driving with two friends who have been long married with families. They stated that they could not imagine not being married with kids. To me, there has been no other lifestyle. This is all I know. That's not a bad thing. It's just what has happened.

But what if I wanted to change that? The strange thing about being a #GirlDad or even being a dad at all is a man really doesn't have a choice. A man has a choice about the type of dad he is, but he has little choice about being a dad in the first place. The birthing of a human being is up to a woman.

Even if a man has unprotected sex, a woman can have an abortion - whatever your thoughts are on that. Fatherhood is entirely a woman's decision. A man has no control of that.

That lack of control of being a dad is the weird thing. If you look at what Kobe Bryant could control, he could control his basketball playing. He could control his drive, his confidence, his work ethic, his intelligence, his leadership, his personality, everything about him. Those traits could fill up pages on basketball reference.com and they could make him a basketball legend, but they could not make him a dad.

Kobe Bryant was 41 years old and had four children.

Likewise, I could control my career. I could get a good job. find a stable place to live, win awards, get degrees, work hard, read more, learn, get in better shape, eat well, run a marathon, be nice, rescue kittens, and help little old ladies across the street. I could be an expert in my field. But yet none of those things would get me any close to being a dad. And guys who do none of those have kids.

I am 42 with no kids.

I can't set a goal of being a dad. That's not feasible. A woman can say she wants to have children before 25, 30, 35, or whatever age. A man can't do that.

So what should I do?

If you think about it, most of us are the result of a woman saying "yes" to spending time with a man. Not even in a sexual way - that comes eventually. But every future mother agreed to be in the company of a future father. That's the absolute step 1 to being a father.

My first step may be dating more. Unless I want to be the father with a random bar hook-up or a Russian bride, knowing someone well might be recommended. Dating, going out, or spending time with a good woman might be good things in the quest for fatherhood. Even if children are not in the picture for this woman, I get to connect with someone I like. That's a good thing.

Maybe I should create a dating profile with the heading "I want to be good dad someday".

Do I tell women out there that I want to be a dad at some point in my life? I think so, but I don't think that should be a subject on the first date. Being a new dad is part of the reason I am rarely interested in women older than I am. I want to start being a dad from scratch. Deal with all those things other guys I know have dealt with, albeit a bit later in life than they have.

Some people say you should have kids when you are young so you can enjoy them into your middle age and be a grandparent, great grandparent, etc. But those people don't realize that men can't control that. Personally, I can't turn back time. Being a 20-something or 30-something dad is something I will never be.

I am optimistic. I have a lot going for me. But as I said, I can't work or study myself into being a dad, no less a good dad.

This post is a look back, but not in guilt. Do not misunderstand. Despite some occasional career struggles, my life has been amazing. I have had fun and seen the world and worked, hung out, and met awesome people. I have performed on stage, written a book, and learned amazing things. And I still have goals to get a great job, get a PhD, teach, retire well, travel, etc.

But if you notice, my goals are things I can mostly control. Things I can do to get where I want to be.

I am happy.

But I wonder what life as a dad is like. The reflections and camaraderie among #GirlDads has me wondering what that part of Kobe Bryant's life was like. I wonder what relating to my friends and family who have kids is like.

Most of all, I wonder if I can do anything different to make that happen.

The value of an Uncle

A few years ago, my nephew gave me a funny birthday card.

So apparently my value as an uncle is worth more than the aforementioned $1,000,000. That's good to know, especially if I ever decide to put my uncle skills on the open market.

But what if I valued myself for over a million dollars? What if I was a professional baseball player and made $20 million dollars a year? My uncle value, if exactly $1 million, would only be 5% of my professional value. I'm not sure that would be something to brag about.

Being that I am not a professional baseball player, and my salary is not yet anywhere near $1 million, could I use the perceived value of my uncle skills to answer the dreaded "salary requirements" question employers often ask?

Q: "What are your salary requirements?"

A: Well, being that my uncle skills are valued at over $1 million, and then adding my education and experience, I don't think I could settle for anything less than $1.23 million.

I'm sure recruiters would be cool with that.

What this card does not make clear, unfortunately, is the amount of time the value is spread over. Is it annually? Or is it over the lifetime of the uncle relationship? Since I am 30 years older than my nephew, there is a good chance I will be his uncle for 50 years. If my uncle purchase price is $1,000,0001.00 - a value $1 over $1 million - then my annual uncle value is only $20,000 per year. That's not bad, but not something to brag about.

"I'm a $20,000 a year uncle."

Sure, some uncles are worth less than that. Some uncles don't even know their nephews. But they don't get birthday cards with their value. So they must live in ignorance, if they care.

But I consider myself a kick-ass uncle. I have value. And that value is over a million dollars.

For Grandma Lortz

Unfortunately, once again I am compelled to write about someone I will sadly never see again. In June, I wrote a tribute to my mother’s mother, my Grandma Walicki, after her death in the last days of May. Now, less than half a year later, I am still in Afghanistan and writing a tribute to my other grandmother, my Grandma Lortz, who passed away November 5^th.

Grandmothers come in all types. From as far back as I can remember, Grandma Lortz was the “fun” grandmother, the grandmother always took us places, let us run around, and get away with things we wouldn’t normally be allowed to do. As we saw her and my grandfather (who passed away in 1995) far less, there wasn’t the hands-on discipline and knowledge of our family rhythms that there was with my mother’s parents, who always lived much closer.

When I was young, my grandparents on my father’s side lived in Queens, in the same house where my father spent his teenage years. I don’t remember much about their house in Queens, except that it fit the stereotype of what a grandparents’ home was. There were things in the house from years before and it had a very “past” feel to it. Being that it was the early to mid-80s, this put most of their décor in the conservative appearance of the 1950s and 1960s. For lack of a better term, it was a typical grandparents’ house in Queens.

In 1985 or so, my Grandparents Lortz moved to upstate New York, to a little town called Olive Bridge, near Kingston, NY, about an hour and a half north of New York City, and in a completely different world from my normal urban comfort. There wasn’t much in Olive Bridge. Our visits there were my first experiences visiting a small town where the malls, shopping centers, and basically anything outside of human necessity was a long drive away. For a suburban kid such as myself, waking up to see deer and turkey roaming the back yard was an interesting experience. But even though it was nothing like I was used to, I always liked the quaintness of the house in Olive Bridge.

One of my fondest memories of visiting my Grandparents in Olive Bridge was in 1993 when my Grandmother took my brother and me to Cooperstown, NY, to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Although we didn’t have much time to sightsee as my Grandfather wasn’t well and couldn’t be left alone for long, we had a great time touring the Hall of Fame and checking out the sights of the baseball Mecca of the world.

That was one of the things I will remember the most about my Grandma Lortz, that she was a big baseball fan. Having grown up in Brooklyn, she was a raised on baseball, and when the Mets came into existence in 1962, her and my grandfather latched on to the new team and became lifelong fans. Visiting my grandparents always meant watching or listening to the Mets game and talking about Doc Gooden, Keith Hernandez, Gary Carter, Darryl Strawberry, and the rest of the Mets of the 80s and early 90s. I remember during the aforementioned ’93 trip to Olive Bridge sitting next to my grandfather as he listened to the Mets on his walkman and relayed that the Mets finally won a game for beleaguered pitcher Anthony Young, who had amassed the longest losing streak in Major League history.

A few years after she took me to Cooperstown, Grandma Lortz came to visit us in Florida and with my newly acquired driver's license, I took her across Florida to the Ted Williams Museum when it was in Hernando, Florida, before it moved to its current location in Tropicana Field. From what I remember, she enjoyed her time reliving the moments of baseball past. I don’t think I realized how cool it was at the time to have a baseball fan for a grandmother, but looking back, it was pretty awesome. And I guess it was because of her and my grandfather that my dad became a Mets fan and then passed a love of baseball on to me.

Sadly, those 20 year memories are among the last I have interacting with my Grandma Lortz. In the late 1990s, shortly after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Before long, her mental capacity diminished to the point that she barely recognized her grandchildren and then eventually lost recognition of her own children. About this time, I had become an adult and my trips to New York were few and far between. But every time I visited, in 1999 and then in 2003 for weddings, my parents and other family members told me to say good-bye to my Grandmother, as it would probably be the last time I see her.

The last time I saw my Grandma Lortz was at my cousin Jan’s wedding in 2011. The care home she lived in arranged to bring her to the wedding so we could take a few pictures with the whole family. Although Grandma had her eyes open, there was no reaction to anything around her. She was there in person, but as far as we could tell, definitely not in mind.

Life is about moments. You, your family, and your loved ones only have so many together. Losing both of my grandmothers while away in Afghanistan has reaffirmed to me that I made a great decision a few weeks ago when I flew across the world for my cousin Jill’s wedding. The trip allowed me to not only see my family, but to share in moments and events that will last for lifetimes. Because you never know when those lifetimes will end.

Rest in peace, Lillian Lortz. You will be missed.

2/3 done with my Afghanistan adventure

Greetings all,

It is time for another update. I am happy to say I am now 2/3 of the way through my adventure in Afghanistan. Unlike the last letters, in which time blended together in a Groundhog’s Day-like gumbo, the last few months have been eventful and full of interesting times, especially the latter half.

September to October more or less followed the routine of the months prior, as days were days were days. Typical of most of my time here, month seven disappeared under the normal routine of work, sleep, and food, with a consistent smattering of gym time mixed in, which I am actually quite proud of. I have been notoriously poor at maintaining a regular gym schedule over the last few years, so to have gone every Tuesday and Thursday through August and September is something I am hanging my hat on.

(Unfortunately, my co-workers typically didn’t share in my athletic accomplishment, as many were fitness buffs who attested to never miss gym days in years. To each his own, I guess.)

On a positive note, month seven also saw my account of my poor attempt at comedy get published on one of the most popular comedy blogs on the web. Once I get settled back in the states, I definitely want to get back into the comedy thing, so to have a post on Splitsider is a big deal. And as compensation, many of my friends or fellow Tampa funny people said they enjoyed the jokes I cited in the article.

Whereas the gym and getting published were the highlights of month seven, such accomplishments were small potatoes in month eight. Month eight was the most exciting, fun month I have had since I started this journey way back in March.

Two days after my eight month started I left on vacation for the states. My goal was to traverse the globe, going from Kabul to Dubai to Atlanta to Washington, DC for my cousin Jill’s wedding. And as an added bonus, I planned to surprise my parents and brother, who were also going to be at the wedding. Mid-way through my trip, however, I hit a slight snag, which despite my initial worry actually turned out to add excitement to the trip.

Due to a horrible 5.5 hour delay getting out of Kabul on a civilian airline, I missed my initial flight from Dubai to the US. Having to wait 24 hours before the next flight, I spent my wasted day sightseeing in Dubai. From what I saw, Dubai is an impressive city, part Las Vegas and part Miami with an Arabic flavor. Having missed my original flight, it was “en shallah” (God willing) that I would make the next flight out of the Middle East. Fortunately, the fates were on my side and I did.

(Check out my pictures of Dubai here.)

After a change over in Atlanta, I arrived in DC a few hours before my parents. I was told what hotel they were in, so of course I got a room in the same place. A few hours after my arrival, I went to the front desk to ask what room they were in. With the hotel clerk escorting me, I went to their room for the big surprise.

The surprise worked like a charm. They had absolutely no clue I was arriving. My brother let out a “holy shit, my brother is here” and my mother gave me a huge hug.

Following the surprise, the next few days were a whirlwind of wedding bacchanalia and shindiggery. The Monday following the wedding I flew to Orlando to spend the second week of my vacation in Florida. I surprised my little nephew (“What the heck? I thought you were gone!”) and spent a day with my grandfather. Then it was off to St. Pete Beach for a few days to see some friends, see a hip-hop concert, and stay in a relaxing beach resort before flying back to Afghanistan.

(My pics of St. Pete Beach.)

If you measure a vacation by its time, you will always come up short. But if you measure it by the goals of seeing people and doing things, then my only-13-day vacation was absolutely perfect. I did what I wanted and saw who I wanted. Of course, I would have loved to spend more time in the Tampa/St. Pete area and see everyone I know. But in order not to spread myself too thin and actually decompress, I had to cut corners in who I saw, which meant leaving a lot of good friends without seeing me. But March is right around the corner and I will be home before I know it and with that comes the ability to see everyone.

Just before I left Afghanistan, I was told another office on another base needed my services. Because I had planned my vacation months in advance, the military leadership told me to go and enjoy myself and worry about the new position when I got back. So when I returned to Afghanistan I didn’t even unpack. I packed my other belongings and within two days was whisked to another base where I will spend my final now four months in Afghanistan.

(Here are my pics of my old base.)

Having been here two weeks already, I’ve learned this base is far different than my previous home. This is a predominantly American base with US military personnel, whereas my other base was a majority international. In two weeks I have yet to say hello to anyone in any other language but English (I fear my Polish and Dari will get rusty soon!).

Working with the US military also means remembering rank and proper protocol. In the international environment, with the many foreign ranks and hierarchies, everyone called everyone by their first name. In a solely US-locale, rank becomes a much more important guidepost for social structure and interaction.

Although I’m going to miss working with my international colleagues, my current base is much larger and has much more amenities and things to do. So it is different – not better, not worse, just different. And its "home" to the second part of my Afghanistan adventure.

On a final and sad note, I learned my other grandmother passed away last week. I should have a tribute up to her soon as I did with my other grandmother who passed away in May. It's hard to believe I came out here with three living grandparents and will go home to one. But as I mentioned, I did see and spend time with my grandfather and that's what counts. Not the quantity of people left, but the quality of time you spend with them.

Now that we wind down the year, I know the days will go quickly. Thanksgiving is right around the corner, then Christmas, then New Year’s, and with any luck, I’ll be home on or around St. Patrick’s Day. Suddenly, that doesn’t seem so far away.

For Grandma

There are some things that by their very nature are incredibly difficult to write. While most writing derives from the brain, sometimes a writer must write from the heart, a practice that requires laying bare emotion and making words not only convey meaning, but also feeling. There are times when a writer must write for affect, not effect.

Although I’ve never considered writing for affect one of my strong points, this is one of those times.

Even before I was born, my grandmother had a profound impact on my life. According to my mother, my grandmother wanted her first grandson to bear the name “Michael”, and hence when I was born, I was given the name. Although being the first of nine grandsons has always meant a lot to me, it has meant as much if not more knowing that because of my place in that order, my name is directly because of my grandmother.

I never did thank her for that.

I grew up only about 15 minutes from my grandparents. I have many great memories of going to their house to eat. And eat. And eat. And eat. Being tall and skinny, my grandmother used to always tell me I had a “hollow leg” as the food surely wasn’t going to my stomach. What can I say? I was a growing boy.

While dinner during these visits was being prepared, I would often watch TV. My favorite thing to watch was Grandma’s recorded-from-HBO VHS version of Star Wars. Once my parents, grandparents, or anyone else old enough to work the VCR put in the tape and pushed the play button, I was transfixed. To this day, I firmly believe that one of the reasons I can recite all the lines to the movie is because I watched it every time we visited my grandparents’.

My grandparents moved to Florida in the mid-80s and my family followed a few years later. I didn’t know much about Florida, but I knew their house was in Inverness and Inverness had turtles. One of which my grandfather marked with a can of spray paint. Then there was the time I flipped over the front end of a bicycle and had both a concussion and a seizure. I don’t remember much of that for obvious reasons.

When my brother Eric needed to undergo cancer treatment at Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida, he and my mother would be gone for days if not weeks at a time. While my Dad still had to work and my brother Bryan and I still had to go to school, both of my grandmothers stayed at our house at different times to fill the role of “mom”. As my father’s mother lived in NY, she didn’t know the normal rhythm of the house. During her visits I did what I could to avoid my household chores. But when my mother’s mother was there, these antics failed miserably, as I was forced to comb my hair, wear a jacket to school, take out the trash, do the dishes, and all my other normal duties. And when I tried the “mom doesn’t make me do that” line, my grandmother knew I was lying. She knew the standard my mother kept and there was no fooling her.

A few years later, I joined the Army and left home for the first time. After a few months of training, I was stationed in the middle of Texas, at Fort Hood. Although I kept in touch with family over the phone, I rarely saw anyone until I came back to Florida on my annual Christmas leave.

Except for my grandparents.

Every year, along their trek to Las Vegas, they would make a detour to Fort Hood to see me. Sometimes we went out for lunch or dinner, and other times we would see the sights of Fort Hood. I remember the first year they visited.  One of my commanding officers was kind enough to drive me to a landmark to meet them. Along the way, he asked if they were going to Vegas to get hitched. I laughed and told him how long they had been married (just short of 50 years at that point). He was quite impressed with both their longevity and their sense of adventure.

After my stint in the military, I came back to Florida for college. Although being back in the state meant family was only a drive away, Florida State University was a long five hours from my parents’ house. But it was only two and half hours from my grandparents’, whose house was conveniently located along the way of my drive.

Almost every time I went to my parents’ house, be it for a holiday or just a long weekend, I also visited my grandparents. Sometimes it was for a quick hello, and other times it extended into an overnight stay. More often than not, however, it was for dinner. And despite Grandpa’s insistence that the kitchen would be closed when I got there, or that there would only be bread and water available, my grandmother always had something cooked up for me to eat.

And my grandmother waited up no matter how late I was. With my habit for never being punctual, it got to the point where if I said I would be there for dinner, I think my grandmother would say they were eating an hour earlier than they actually were. This way when I walked in an hour late, I arrived right as dinner was being served.

I remember one time my friend Jamal and I didn’t get to my grandparents’ house for dinner until nearly 10pm as we – wait, no, just I – decided to take the slower backroads down the west coast of Florida instead of taking the much quicker interstate. While Grandpa was retired to his room for the night, it was my grandmother who stayed up, re-heated our dinner, and sat at the table talking with us while we ate.

Jamal wasn’t the only friend my grandmother made feel at home. She also provided beds for my college roommate and me so we had a place to sleep after seeing a rock concert that played an hour away from Inverness. Because she let us stay there, we only had to drive an hour to get some rest after a night of rock’n’roll festivities instead of driving nearly four hours back to Tallahassee in the dark wee hours of night.

Seeing my grandparents as often as I could has always been important to me. While they were always both very interested in my education and then my pursuit of a career, my grandmother would also ask me questions about my investments and whether or not I was saving my money. I would not be as smart with my money as I am now if not for my grandmother.

When I moved to Tampa in 2006, visits to my grandparents decreased in frequency but increased in time. They were no longer along the route to my parents’ house, but they were only an hour and a half away. That meant I could talk and hang out with them for as long as they would have me, or as long as Grandpa kept the kitchen open.

In 1991, my father was in Saudi Arabia working with the US government doing a job similar to what I am doing now in Afghanistan. A short time after he left, my brother Eric succumbed to his long battle with cancer. I’ve thought about my Dad’s situation a lot since hearing the news of my grandmother. I can’t imagine how tough it was for my Dad to lose a son while thousands of miles from home. For me, losing a grandmother is difficult enough.

Rest in Peace, Marilyn Walicki. I’ll miss you, Grandma.

The Man and his Citi Field

Well, it's official. Shea it ain't so, Shea no more, etc., etc. My beloved Mets will be playing in the yet-to-be-built CitiField in 2009. Now I am no fan of corporate-named stadia (or stadiums, if you prefer), but this one is not as bad for personal reasons. My grandfather, who was a longtime Mets fan, worked for Citibank for years and I have some pretty fond memories involving him, I, and the Mets. So as long as its not I_love_my_dog.com Park or some equally trendy corporate sell-out way to make a dollar, I can live with CitiField as sort of a tribute.

Now on to more pressing matters. What does CitiField have to do with The Man? How kind of you to ask. In this recent article in the New York Times, Andy Sernovitz, chief executive of the Word of Mouth Marketing Association, said New Yorkers might think The Man has bought the rights to Mets baseball in New York. As much as I hate to say it, that's already the facts Jack. I have already written about how much The Man has his tentacles all over baseball. And with New York being the corporate capital of the world, it's a natural evolution.

But far be it for The Serious Tip to take any actions by The Man passively. Emotional attachment for CitiField aside, The Man must cease and desist all further corporate intrusions. Perhaps The Serious Tip should sit down and chat with Mr. Sernovitz and see what he knows about The Man. Could he be of assistance in foiling The Man? He seems to have a good feel for The Man's pulse. If you read this, Mr. Sernovitz, drop us a line. Have your people talk to my people. We'll do lunch.

But back to The Man and his ballpark obsession. Is it too far off to expect The Man to reveal himself and name a stadium "The Man Park"? Maybe that's a little too sexist. What about "The Man Field at XYZ Stadium"? What do you think, Mr. Sernovitz? Personally, I think that's his plan. Soon enough, my friends, it will happen. Probably in Green Bay.