I stood on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Inside, the blow-dried, TV talking-heads on L.A.’s news leader blared breathless accounts of a pending tsunami, destined to swamp the Southland at any moment. To their unconcealed disappointment the Breaking News Event didn’t happen: Outside, it wasn’t different than any other sunny Southern California morning. Waves crashed on the rocks. Seagulls squawked overhead. Sunlight warmed the horizon. Tomorrow I would be swimming in that ocean, in the aftermath of a tsunami thousands of miles away.

In February, I agreed to be the swimmer for my friend Kristi’s triathlon team. 1500 meters in Tempe Town Lake. I have never claimed to be a fast swimmer – but I am a strong swimmer. I can cross great distances without tiring, probably because I’m so slow. Wanting to be a good partner to Kristi’s significant fitness, I signed up for an ocean swim lesson, taught by Brett Sanson of Zuma Surf and Swim Training. He has more than 20 years experience as a swim instructor and lifeguard on Zuma Beach in Malibu.

Brett is that good: He taught me how to swim in the Pacific Ocean.

Continue reading Open Water →

Or How We Rode Our Bikes to the Waste Management Phoenix Open and Avoided the Stupid Bowl… and Ended Up in the Xerox Sponsor Tent on the 18th Green.

This is why I’m in sales.

Continue reading Adventures in Awesomeness →

Today I am 39 – entering the final year of my fourth decade – and I’m falling apart. It’s enough to have the antenna-field of gray sprouting from my noggin, but now I’m faced with a life-altering diagnosis: Shortness of Arms.

So I’m rocking the prescriptive eyewear for the official affliction of Presbyopia. I thought it only happened to Presbyterians, but apparently it strikes lapsed Methodists as well. The heartbreak of farsightedness, caused by loss of elasticity in the eye with onset in middle age, knows no religious bounds. It strikes with random fury. Now I’m wondering what other parts may fail before the 40-year warranty expires.

Actually, 39 is a cool birthday – not as momentous as most of the decade-markers, but beating all the speed-limit birthdays ending in 5 and coming in a close third or fourth to 21 and 18. 39 beats 20, but shares with it the thrill of anticipation: There’s something cool to look forward to next year – the big 40-ounce year of awesomeness.

I revel in 39ness – as 38 carried with it no cachet – it was just another number, a milepost on the highway of age. 39 is the product of two prime numbers and it is the reverse of my anniversary date 9/3, as well as the reverse of my Texas A&M graduation class ’93 and Pat’s racing number #93. 39 is also the last exit before the Year of Reckoning. 39 is the year where I say, ” Well, I only have 365 days to achieve everything I said I was going to do before I turned 40 – TIME TO GET BUSY!”

So among those things still on the list…

Continue reading Day of Stacy, Chapter 39 – Shortness of Arms →

What would you do for $5?

My 27-year-old cousin Ross is, well, 27… and Saturday, he drank Bud Light Chelada, 24 fluid ounces of Bud Light and Clamato with Salt and Lime – The Perfect Combination™.

Pat had called to say he was stopping by the store on his way home and asked if we needed anything for our weekend entertainment? Ross asked him to pick up some beer, which we now understand (but have always known) to be anything but a giant, soulless, corporate brew. Ross prefers something in a bottle and derived from an earnest microbrewer toiling in service to his precious craft – something that usually costs $5 per bottle instead of $5 per six-pack… and that’s $5 he doesn’t really have right now as a lowly advertising intern.

Pat showed up with a can of Chelada – a 24-ounce tallboy of Bud Light Beer with Natural Flavor and Certified Color.

Continue reading Los Verdaderos Hombres de Genio →

Our home is being terrorized by Little Birds.

It started a little over a year ago when “Little Bird Family” moved into our free-standing, stainless steel patio heater. It was late summer when these hardy cactus wrens began unloading the tall grasses, random twigs and bits of plastic that were their worldly possessions into this de-luxe apartment in the sky.

When you think about it, the free-standing, stainless steel patio heater is the penthouse of avian condominiums – especially when compared to the outhouse of birdie living: the multi-family dwelling in a random tree, shrub or buckhorn cactus. The patio heater sits under our porch, protected from the rain and sun; it’s tall and slippery enough to deter climbing predators; and it’s owned by two big-hearted sapsuckers that couldn’t bring themselves to incinerate a pair of fine, upstanding examples of the State Bird of Arizona and their fledgling family – especially since it was 104 degrees out and the property was essentially vacant.

Continue reading The Birds →