It's Always Something.

Gilda Radner, the brilliant comedienne from the early days of Saturday Night Live had it right. Her ridiculously funny news reporter, Rosanna Rosannadanna, used to quote at the end of every editorial she ever did, "It's always something!" Well, although she's no longer with us, the wisdom of her words lives on.

I'm a verdant believer that God gives us the strength we need to get through each day, each problem, each crisis that the curveballs of life throw at our heads. But with that blessing, comes a "but". The "but" is that each day seems to avail a new issue to conquer. Strategies must develop, plans must be formed, the war room of our psyche has to start the cogs churning again to get past the next life or death ordeal headed our way.

I think about this as I lay in my bed watching the Oregon/California football game after a long, but rewarding day of choreography at Grosse Pointe High School in Detroit. An apparently pulled, strain or torn muscle near my collar bone is the new culprit, making any position I lay in seem awkward and unfriendly towards sleep. Some days it's money, worries about family, a speeding ticket, the state of our country. Other days it's stuff that can only be described as dumb and ridiculous. Let me rattle off a few of the things that have kept me up at night over the past few weeks:

-Misplacing my car keys

-Wondering if I set my alarm clock properly!

-Thinking I heard something downstairs (yeah, the CAT!)

-A $40 modeling check for my daughter

-Our dog Fizzy exhaling too loudly over and over

-Forgetting where I work the following day

-The pillow won't stay cold enough

-Too much garlic for dinner!!

See, it's just dumb, a'int it? But it's this omnipresent, ever-changing, morphing carnival of concern. One day serious, the next irrelevant; vacillating between the real and imagined, strange and comical, and the boring and peculiar.

I need to do a better job of letting go and giving these things over to God, but it's tough when they've been your companions for so long. If I don't have this stuff to think about and fixate on, will that make me lonely and isolated,.......ahhh, now I have something new to stew over!

POST SCRIPT: 2 days after making this entry I was dancing at Viterbo University and did a layout,....MAJORLY pulled abdominal muscle!!! Say it with me,...."it's always something"!! Sometimes ya' just gotta' laugh.

Days Off

It lays out in front of you like the horizon of a California highway at sunrise. Full of possibilities, driving into a glorious unknown that you can't wait to discover, yet assuring you of a beautiful journey on your way there. Calling at you like the Sirens beckoning Ulysses,...."Approach sailor,....approach and enjoy. Bask in our glory,....."

Ahhhhhhhhh. Days off.

Days off are NOTHING like vacation. On vacation you're required to have a good time, whether you like it or not. "Must sit by pool. Must order fruity drink with rum and an umbrella. Must squish toes in sand. Must lay in chaise lounge and listen to reggae music. Must get sunburn and mosquito bites on ankles. Must, (grunt) wear (heavy breath) Hawaiian shirt." Days off present an unadulterated freedom from expectation, liberating you to do what you want WHEN you want, or not even do it at all.

This week I have a couple of those days, and I'm experiencing an unusual phenomena. What is often considered work becomes an anticipated chance at unfettered productivity. Here's some of the stuff on my list:

-Clean the house

-Get ahead on some later choreography I need to prep

-Mow the few strands of growing grass in my thirsty, dead yard

-Pull weeds, which seem to be the only remaining things that grow!

-Make travel reservations for upcoming business trips

-Make supper (Ramen noodle soup and crackers, perhaps?)

-Run to the grocery, bank and post office

-Give myself a haircut (Yes, to save $$ I actually DO THIS!!)

-LAUNDRY!

Point is, when it's optional, it's more fun. No gun to your head or deadline. No penalty for failure to complete the assignment. No one standing over you, lauding your achievements or dissing your laziness (Yes, I'm a 45-year old man who just used the word "dissing". If you don't like it, then get out my grill homey!!!) I have a feeling that today will be gloriously and unexpectedly productive and acheivement-oriented, just because I want it to be.

And now,....preparing myself for the work to come,....a nap.

done

There were a few tears, a little pausing to make the moment last, and hugs that seemed to want to keep holding on without letting go. My baby,....my first child,.....my princess,.....has been dropped off and surrendered to the care and loving arms of California Baptist University. I've been steeling myself for this cord to be cut for a couple years, but just like when a relative dies after a bought with a terminal illness, you can never be fully prepared for the goodbye. The preparation helps with the logic, but not with the hurt.

I'm so blessed that my youngest daughter still has 3 more years at home before a similar, albeit distinct, pilgrimage will take place. Independence will be grudgingly granted. An alcoholic surrendering the last precious bottle they've kept hidden from the world. Knowing it has to be done,....needs to be done, but hating every moment of the surrender as it occurs. Fully aware of the beautiful life spreading it's wings and flying with newfound freedom away from the comfort of the nest, but wishing it didn't have to be that way. God's logic. God's pattern. God's challenge to every parent. "Did you raise them right, my son? Well, let's see."

There was a final glorious day for the 4 of us today. Newport Beach, Crystal Cove Park. Hiking, tidepools, laughter, Peet's Coffee, a picnic on the beach, and Pinkberry. We bought an ethernet cable, met her sweet and spunky roommate Cece (who seems to be a very together young lady), and bought them supper at Cheesecake Factory. At some point I became numb. Maybe numb is the wrong word, as numb isn't accompanied by nausea, sadness and loss. Numb is numb, and I suppose in hindsight, this wasn't it.

She's had an amazing music camp, practicing just south of 30 hours in 3 days, and learning more than 20 songs in that time. She's made friends and already started to fit in, as I knew she would. Thankfully, she was also picked from many auditionees, to be in a small feature group named "Joy!" that travels to churches across southern California performing. She's developed the beginnings of a new rhythm to her life on the west coast, and I know she's gonna excel magnificently. This knowledge both pleases and hurts at the same time. Is that strange, or normal?

There will be millions more memories with her, God willing. Memories of saying prayers before bed and playing frisbee with the dogs. Memories of frozen yogurt, car sing-a-longs, pointless family laughter, vacations, board games, and trials. Memories of standing next to her singing in church, and watching with unabashed pride as she lifts her voice to the heavens in her new choir.

But today was goodbye to the way we've known her up until now. Our girl is now our lady. Our baby is now our adult. She who once depended on us for every morsel of her life now is starting a life of her own. It is right. It is normal. It is what should be happening. But dear God, it still hurts.

Vegas baby!

Las Vegas is a city of total contradiction. Some of the nicest hotels anywhere built for some of the sleaziest purposes. Amazing, expensive restaurants sitting next door to abhorrent $3.99 "all the salmonella you can get" buffets. Mountains interrupted by skyscrapers, family entertainment next to a strip club, street ministers preaching beside people handing out cards to get you a hooker in 20 minutes or less, stifling heat with no humidity, friendly and warm people standing beside drunk jerks. Contradiction.

Morgan and I have had a blast in the midst of all this. A beautiful suite at THE hotel at Mandalay Bay (they capitalize the letters for some odd reason) was home base four our 2-day adventure of food, fun and relaxation after our monster drive west.

Le Reve and Phantom were 2 of the most spectacular shows I've ever laid my eyes on. Every detail carefully crafted with amazing athleticism, tremendous God-given talent on display, and theaters perfectly befitting of such amazing presentations. We literally could not take our eyes off of these shows, and I treasure the fact they were both family-friendly and very tastefully done, proving you don't have to be vile to entertain folks.

Okada sushi restaurant at the Wynn and Canaletto at the Venetian were wonderful culinary setting to stuff ourselves with delicious foods. Okada gave us memories of one of the best waitresses the world has ever seen, fire-roasted veggie skewers and hand-held sushi rolls. It also gave Wooda her first taste of sake', which she unfortunately liked. Now, I'm faced with the proposition of her lying in a gutter holding one of those tiny sake' cups out as people pass by, begging for some Sumayami Plum, vintage '66,...oh, the humanity!

Canaletto saw us being crooned by strolling singers as we sat in St. Mark's square in the heart of Venice. Sheep and goat milk cheeses, with pear chutney was our appetizer. We ate as a stilt-walker passed, trying to make human statues break their poses and laugh. Supermodels from around the world were walking by talking about the World Fashion Expo being held this week, looking at us and our food longingly,......for they cannot eat. "Shame",.....sigh.

Fjording our way back from the shows each night, we saw the neon lights of the Vegas strip. Speaking of strip, we passed about as many ads for strippers and hookers as there were people in the street. That's part of this city's great shame. Other cities seems more able to conceal their darkest sides, while Vegas embraces and promotes theirs.

Other highlights included our spa day at the Mandalay Bay, where Morgan got the pedicure/manicure special for FREE!! Walking the Venetian and Palazzo grand canal shoppes listening to gondoliers row and serenade their passengers, spending an hour at the wave pool beach where Morgan got hit on the second I left her for a chaise lounge, and losing $48 in the casino just add more layers to the onion of memory this trip provided.

Today we head to Cal Baptist. Bed, Bath and Beyond and Wal-Mart stops along the way to pick up dorm room essentials, then off to the airport to pick up Tina and Madeline, as they arrive from Indy for tomorrow's drop off of our oldest. The finality has hit me like a ton of bricks, but I know she's ready for this. I can't begin to think how I would've felt without this special time to spend with my first-born on her excursion into a new frontier of life. Every memory of the trip, from the trivial to the terrific, will be etched in my mind with appreciation that's unspeakable. Thank you, God. Thank you.

Notes, Tears, and Teachers Past

The president of the group stood there in the hall after chasing me down as I left the choir room, headed to the Albuquerque airport. She seemed a bit awkward and not knowing what to say, but got it out anyway:

"Mr Brown, I just wanted to,...um,...you've really made a difference for all of us. Here's a card we wanted you to have. You don't have to open it now. This was so much fun and our group wants to thank you. Even though you don't like Katy Perry! (I teased her mercilessly for 3 days about her confessed obsession.) Dang it, I feel stupid, (starts to get teary-eyed). I just wanted you to know how much you mean to our group,..(hugs me)"

Don't know why, but this has been the summer of notes and tears for me as a teacher. I've always tried to be a mentor, coach, comedian and motivator to my students, as I think too many teachers just don't care enough. Mind you, there are THOUSANDS and THOUSANDS who care exceedingly, agonize when they know kids are struggling with health or emotions, and dedicate their lives to making the lives of others richer, happier and fuller. It's just that too many don't.

Dr Sharon Seager was one of my history profs at Ball State back in about 1984. Perhaps the worst teacher in the world! Each day was filled with the spell-binding proposition of her walking into the classroom with her gaze thrust into the floor, as if a naked man she lusted for was laying there waiting for her. She'd take a cursory glance up at the class to make sure she wasn't alone (or more accurately, in hopes that she WAS!), sigh with disappointment, then she'd pull out an American History book that looked like the Yellow Pages of Greater New York City. And then,....breathlessly,...wantingly,....with a monotone that can never be duplicated by even the most perfect machine-generated operator tone at the welfare office,....she would read directly out of the book for 55 minutes! My bosoms still heave in sweaty, erotic passion as I recall her voice,.....NOT!

No, is the answer to your question, she didn't look up,....EVER!!!! In fact, I'm not even positive that she stopped to breathe. Perhaps she did, or legend has it that she may have had gills that made it unnecessary. Point is, the lady read from a book without pause, voice fluctuation, chalkboard usage, point stressing, or question-asking until a group of young adults in the prime of life, were stifled into a zombie-like catatonia. Praying, in-fact, FOR nuclear war to ensue at that very moment to bring an end to the suffering we all endured. No joke, when I cleared my throat one time to ask a question, she looked up, sighed heavily,.....and read the paragraph over again!!!

I reported her to Morton Rosenberg, dean of the department, who didn't believe me. After convincing him to check it out for himself, he sent a "grad ass" to class one day undercover. True to form, she didn't even know that somebody else was in class that day, even though there were only about 25 of us. After reporting back that the class had made them contemplate imaginative ways to commit suicide, Dr Rosenberg had a meeting with Ms Seager (I only assume she wasn't married. Simply not possible!) Next class, CHARTS,...HANDOUTS,...Q&A...and all the FALSE enthusiasm one could ever desire! I hope she's locked in prison now, being submitted to the torture of listening to audio-tape replays of herself teaching,....until she dies.

Thank God there were some brilliant and inspirational teachers mixed in there along the way. Fritz Mountford, Larry Boye and JoAnne Keesling are largely the reason I do what I do for a living. They instilled passion for music, laughter and dedication to the art in my soul. They taught me so much about the intricacies of performance, but even more about love of the craft that is entertainment.

Terry Nelson was another. My yearbook advisor and journalism teacher from Yorktown High School. She was filled with daily giggles and jokes that always put everybody around her in a good mood. She LOVED news, LOVED debate, LOVED controversy, and LOVED her students. Class with her was always an adventure of discovery, with her pushing you ever deeper into the journalistic jungle to discover more than you'd known the day before. Although my grammar and syntax have suffered from severe atrophy over the years, I still love to write. This blog, for better or worse, will always have a mental image of Terry Nelson standing over it offering thoughts on how it could be even better.

But back to my point in this entry,....finally! I've always had grateful students. Facebook messages, handwritten notes, hugs at concerts, notes from parents, occasional tears of gratitude, e-mails are so appreciated and often saved in a rainy day file I keep. But this summer has been different and more intense. Probably three dozen notes, and at least half a dozen kids clinging to me crying and thanking me. Why!? Is it the difficult times we live in? Is it coincidence? Is it the fact I've been in some new locales around the country? Is it the fact that music is stupidly being removed from curricula around the nation and kids sense the end of an era approaching? Is it the fact that I'm unashamed and unafraid to share the fact that I'm a Christian, even in public schools? Is it empathy from having 2 teenage daughters of my own? Am I learning more about teaching? I hope so, but I frankly don't know.

Whatever it is, I hope the flood increases. It makes me feel whole as a teacher. There are things about my job that I honestly detest. The nightly staring at music wondering "What the hell do I do now?", the 140-150 days spent in motels eating continental breakfasts that suck every frickin' morning, or the days and days and days spent away from my family. But teaching is still awesome. At its core, it's still about shaping lives, role modeling, and inspiring. Though some would disagree, those are all more important than the course material. Igniting a hunger to learn and making kids know you care about them,.....that's the point of it all.

Little Miss Model

***The 1st photo is from Madeline's first runway show. The 2nd photo is her just 4 short years ago on a daddy/daughter trip to the American Girl Store in Chicago***

There sat the contract for me to read. Lying on the table at Moe's Irish Pub, just south of the sweating glass of ice water and east of the Splenda and salt shaker. Five pages that marked a new journey, fraught with uncertainty and excitement. Pages that could be written in unlimited potential or disappointment. Pages that could launch a career, or become a quickly burned out hobby.

I can't imagine it's happening, but my youngest daughter has been sought after by, and is now signing with, a modeling agency.

L Modelz and its owner and "mother agent" Leslie, have signed my Duchess to a 2-year contract to work runway shows, catalogs, do local tv modeling appearances, and any other type of thing that these ladies do. The signing takes place after her 4th modeling gig (2 costuming catalogs, a runway bridal show and a tv appearance for back-to-school wear), several meetings and a couple lessons on how to walk on the runway. I guess she doesn't want me, as my curves are inadequate and have started to sag!

Ever since I can remember her having aspirations of any kind, she's always wanted to model. Always careful of her make-up, triple checking her clothes to insure they work in harmony, and accessorizing, hair fixing, and shoe choosing with painful consideration. Even to the point of taking a fashion class, buying a sewing machine and asking for a mannequin for her birthday so she can see just how an outfit will look before it goes on, fashion has been the passion.

While I worry about her getting used or burned, my wife assures me that this business is truly on the up-and-up. We've listed a litany of "prohibited activities" for Madeline that include any use of sexual situations or nudity (even implied) and stretched it to even include political or organizational causes we do not agree with (PETA, promoting pro-choice or gay marriage advocacy, pro illegal immigration, etc).

I'm so proud of her, the class she shows when she models and how easy she is for designers to work with. Her beautiful complexion, eyes and figure are gifts from God that we're so grateful for, but one of my main hopes is that through this foray into the world of the superficial, that others will become better people by having the chance to work with a sweet, wonderful, silly girl that makes others happy just by being around them. Now, smile for the camera and work that thang!

Project Wichita!

Just finished a 6-day marathon of a show choir camp near Wichita, Kansas. The culmination was a 2-hour performance by nearly 250 kids that we all worked with for the past week putting together full-length shows. While some kids certainly struggled, as is always the case in these camps, I was completely knocked over by the level of talent we witnessed onstage!

Butler Community College is never going to be on a "most scenic campus" listing, but this campus in the middle of virtually nowhere hosted one of the best events of its kind in the USA. It wasn't just lip service, the focus at this camp was genuinely on the kids and their growth. Growth as singers, growth as dancers, growth in confidence, growth in respect, and growth toward becoming confident and more mature young adults.

I've never been thanked so many times, had so many pictures taken with students, had as many kids come up to me with tears in their eyes to say goodbye, or handed as many heartfelt thank-you notes. And I was just one of the clinicians this was happening to, as everywhere you looked after the final show stood a clinician with a line of sweaty, teary-eyed students waiting to thank and hug them.

Too many times I become a bit jaded and hardened in my profession. Yes, the focus is on kids, but it's also on winning, making finals, getting recognition, enhancing my "street cred", whatever that means. This week reminded me that I LOVE to teach kids to perform and get excited about lights coming on as their souls awaken. This week there was no competition or awards, but simply a bunch of professionals coming together to bring some magic to kids' lives.

In addition to me, the elite staff of clinicians included a well-known professional a capella singer, a dance instructor with Duke University, the organizer of the FAME competition series, a doctor of music from Temple University, a former Miss Kansas, 2 of the top show choir directors in America, a recent inductee to the Nebraska Music Hall of Fame, and a Radio City Rockette!!! In addition, the entire week was kicked off by a concert by Christian singer Mark Schultz (Letters From War, He's My Son), and a luncheon with NY Times best-selling author Gracia Burnham. I'm humbled, blessed, and appreciative to have been deemed worthy of calling these folks my colleagues for the week.

I was a pebble tossed into the pond with a lot of pebbles more impressive than me. I pray that our ripples carry through the water of these children's lives, and that lifelong memories of joy and inspiration came from all of us. Some of these kids WILL be heard from someday as singers and dancers, and I'm privileged to have played my tiniest of parts in bringing them along.

Skygirl and the Dreams of Flight

I dream of a retirement full of bike rides, hikes, helping my church, a little golf, spoiling grandkids and hanging out with my wife. My wife dreams of not having to get up every morning at 4:30 to be able to workout before a shift at the hospital. My youngest daughter dreams of posing for the cover of a magazine and walking the runway of a Paris fashion show.

My oldest daughter decided that jumping 13,000 feet from an airplane might be a good idea!

Now that she's 18, my princess decided to ask for the second time (once last year) if I'd offer my blessing for her to skydive. My feeling was "No way! Are you kidding?" Both my heart and head were in glorious, harmonious agreement on this sentiment. But then she said probably the only things that would EVER have gotten me to reconsider.

"Daddy, I've talked to our pastor about it."

"Even though I'm 18 and could do it anyway, I won't if you don't give your permission."

When your biggest goal in your life has been to raise your children the right way, these words simply melt your heart with pride and love. Let me be clear (which, ironically, is what Barack Obama always says before he tells ANOTHER lie!), but let me be clear anyway. I'm a total screw-up failure sometimes as a parent. On various occasions, I can be a pouty child, the king of over-reaction, a brought-to-life drama skit or a bit of a manipulator. But I've always worked hard as a team with my wife to raise our daughters to love Christ, respect adults and be good young ladies. This is one of those times where God said, "Damon and Tina, pretty decent job with the girls". Please note, it's 99% God's grace, and 1% us, so I'm not taking credit where it a'int due!

After doing a bit of investigation, having a few conversations, talking to our pastor myself, and doing a whole lotta praying, I consented and off she went with one of her best buddies, Nick. She went through a short lesson, strapped herself to an instructor, took a few deep breaths,.......and jumped!!! At this point, I would've showered the ground below with a colorful and astounding pee/poop fireworks display, followed by random clicking and gurgling noises, a massive aneurism, and finally become a 190-lb dead weight for the instructor to negotiate to the ground in preparation for my funeral.

But not Morgan, SHE LOVED IT!!! The free-fall lasted about a minute she thought, then the jerk of the parachute and the refocusing of her eyes on the ground. Wind gloriously ripped through her hair like a dog with it's head out the window of a freeway drive. Dots became colors, checkerboard farmland became easily defined red barns and grazing cattle, and the ground slowly came into focus. The only thing that got to her was all the dizzying steering that had to take place with the parachute. She's ready to do it again! Let me be clear, I'm NOT!

Now she has a story to tell her friends, kids and grandkids. A story of daredevil proportions that had to be inherited genetically from her mom, as her dad never possessed any gene that extended beyond the occasional zipline or rollercoaster. A lesson, though, has also been taught to me. It's a lesson I knew already, but needed to be reminded of.

God will protect us. He'll protect us because he loves us and wishes joy for each of our lives. For some, that joy is a quiet lemonade on the front porch or peaceful sunrise fishing on a secluded lake. For some it's a Paris fashion show or a day at Disney World. For some, it's yelling "Bonzai" and taking the ultimate leap of faith.

Damon's Little Tune-Up

Not that I want too many days like today in my life, but I guess it went okay for what it was.

Since I was a kid, I've had a pretty big cyst on my head. Never caused any trouble, just minded its own "cysty" little business. Barbers have noticed it for decades, and always thought they were unveiling some heretofore unknown, mystical, cystical newsworthy event. "Hey buddy, did you know you got a big bump on your head?" "Why, no Sherlock! Thanks for discovering it for me. I've never actually combed, washed, brushed, moussed, towel-dried or TOUCHED my own hair, so how would I have ever known without you!!!!!" Actually, that's the INNER monologue. The actual response is usually more along the "Yeah" lines, which simply doesn't sound as funny or creative.

But there I sat today, in the office of a PLASTIC SURGEON (you should see my new boobs!) After pin-sticking my scalp about 6 times to numb things up a bit, he started carving into my scalp, digging for gold,.........or a puss sac, whichever. Amazingly, no real pain at all, but I got totally weirded out by the sound of a scalpel SCRAPING MY SKULL!! Freaky-deaky is a term designed for such occassions! All's well that ends well, though, and when he asked me at the end of the procedure if I'd "like to take a look at the culprit", I stupidly said "sure".

IT LOOKED LIKE A BLOODY PEANUT M & M WITH A TAIL!!!!!!!! EEEEEEWWWWW!!!

Did I mention that I was flossing yesterday and popped a filling out? (Funny slip of the keyboard, as I originally typed "pooped" instead of "popped" on the 1st try. That woulda stung!) Point is, I'm walking the dogs while we had an open house and decide in my boredom to floss my teeth. Why I was punished for this responsible behavior is beyond me, but I was.

So, hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to the dentist I go about an hour after leaving the plastic surgeon, with my brand new boobs tantalizingly bobbing along in front of me (PLEASE realize I'm kidding!)

Another 45 minutes in the dentist chair, a few shots of novocaine, a new filling, $400 in out-of-pocket expenses, and I was off to pick up prescriptions for pain killers and antibiotics. Next week, it's time to schedule an appointment for new contacts and glasses, but I'm glad the tune-up is done for now. Colonoscopies are gonna have to wait for awhile!!

The Cedar "Pointer Sisters"

Rollercoasters are a bit of a marker in my life.

-As a little kid I wasn't allowed to ride because, as everyone knows, I would die.

-A bit older, and the rush of the wind across my virgin rollercoaster hair allowed me the thrills of my first exciting coaster at King's Island,....THE SCOOBY DOO!!!

-Teenage life brought me great ride memories that included trips with friends and school groups to Kings Island, the Delaware County Fair, and Santa Claus Land (yes, a REAL place for many years)

-College Damon became the rollercoaster expert as I worked in lots of amusement parks as a photographer and Papa Berenstein Bear (Cedar Point, Opryland, Six Flags in St Louis and Atlanta, Magic Mountain, and Sea World). There wasn't a coaster I wouldn't go on or thrill ride I wouldn't stare in the face and yell a defiant primal scream.

-Married Damon took the wife and little kids on the mini-coasters to introduce M & M to the joys I loved.

-Nowadays, I'm cautious, middle-aged Mr. Brown. Willing to still reclaim fleeting moments of youth, but afraid of what might happen if a loose bolt catapults us to our death as we ride. Still able to do it, but with a slight increase in nausea with each passing year.

Yesterday was one of those days. I took my gorgeous girls on a two-day trip to Cedar Point. The first night spent in Lima, where we had a wonderful evening of frisbee, basketball, trail walking, Cracker Barrel and "So You Think You Can Dance" audition watching. The next day found us at my old stomping grounds of Cedar Point, where I've faithfully brought my girls for about 8 years now for a complete daddy-daughter getaway that we all treasure.

Proudly I proclaim to all that I successfully rode, without vomiting, four large rollercoasters. Millineum Force, Magnum, Wildcat, and the Maverick all fell victim to my courage, and we had a ball. Morgan took her first ride on the Top Thrill Dragster, while Madeline and I debated over how much money it would take for us to ride it with her (I decided on $50,000, so if any of you want to ante-up,...I'm just sayin'). 126 mph and the height of a 40-story building, with a 90 degree fall over over 300 feet,.......I just threw up in my mouth a little, sorry!

Cobb's Drive-In provided slushies with gummy worms and 32-ounce root beer floats for the drive home, $5 was lost on basketball shooting, walking tacos were devoured, dippin' dots munched on, and I can look back on a wonderful, albeit too short trip with the 2 coolest teenage girls in the world! Hope I can do it again in a year, but first I gotta let my stomach calm down just a bit.

Running the Mini!

26 miles per hour sustained winds in our faces for the first 5 miles! A WIND CHILL IN MAY! 37 degrees after it was figured in. Everyone around me complaining, making me feel colder and colder with each pronouncement of "Wow! It's cold!!!" DUH, I SAY,.......DUH!!!!!!

And yet the Star-Spangled Banner is sung, the port-o-potties are dutifully filled to overflowing with,...I digress. Gatorade is guzzled, sipped, slurped, puked, spilled, poured and inhaled like power gels and energy bars we all think will miraculously catapult us all to the finish line in record time, or at the very least keep us from keeling over.

Through a maze of blowing paper bags and 5th grade heavy metal boy bands playing "Werewolves Of London" so disgustingly that they had the inadvertent side effect of speeding up everyone's time who came within earshot, we ran. Through 70-year old Circle City Cloggers stamping their way to the shrill sound of Alvin and the Chipmunks, regaling us with their version of "Single Ladies", we trudged. Through puddles and potholes and pain, (OH MY!), we soldiered on. Around the Indianapolis 500 track we ran,....and ran and ran and ran and where the hell do we exit, huh?

When the wind hit our backs instead of our front, we knew we were gonna be alright, and we sensed a great finish over the last 4 miles. The great part didn't really pan out, but we sure did finish. Out of almost 35,000 that started, almost 31,000 finished (the rest are obviously strewn about the streets of Indianapolis, waiting for the street cleaning crew to sweep them up come Monday). I ran a 1:59.32 and finished in 6,933rd place. Beaten by a town, but victorious over a small city!

And now I hurt in places that don't like hurting. Sore muscles, blistered feet, a 2-day headache, and a day-long argument with my left calf concerning whether its decided to go into full spasm or just keep the low "maybe" tension going for a few more days. Problem is, I've been dumb enough to do it 20 times. Next year, count me in for number 21.

Senior Prom

As she glided down the stairs to meet the awaiting Prince Charming

I saw eighteen years pass in a flash before my eyes.

Gone was the little girl watching Barney the Dinosaur and using the show to measure time.

Replaced, in bittersweet reality, by a beautiful, golden-tanned member of the prom court.

What happened to the 3rd grader who stuffed homework in her desk until it over-flowed?

The giggling girl who wanted oatmeal and called it "al-pee-no"

She's pinning a white orchid on her special man, ready for a night of laughter and slow dances

In a gorgeous blue gown, with fancy new heels and perfected hair and make-up.

Pictures are taken,......and taken,....and taken,...as if these precious memories could ever

be in danger of fading away into a fog of no remembering.

Each smile must be caught. Each look preserved. Each friend recaptured on a camera

that will serve as a tiny porthole into never forgetting the night.

Mommy presented a special touch, as fresh strawberries and sparkling juice in wine glasses

served as couture embellishments to the two-hour getting ready processional.

Daddy kept dropping by to watch the lady becoming a princess, then ducked out to avoid

being a distraction to a series of moments best shared by the ladies of the house.

And then they were off to Senior Prom. To memories that will be all her own.

I used to be a bigger part of those moments, but my role as caretaker became provider.

Provider became advocate. Advocate become disconnected father looking for ways to talk.

And finally assuming my role of friend, advisor, and shoulder that will always be there.

The shoulder of a father that will always long to stay close to his little girls.

Lance Bass!

We interrupt our fascinating adventures of cruiser hijinks to bring you a special insert bulletin!

Last Friday and Saturday were pretty darn cool. I spent a day prepping my Burbank show choirs, a day prepping my Carlsbad show choirs, then onto the Southern California State Championships.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear but,......LANCE BASS? Yep, the former member of In Sync, auditioning astronaut, Hairspray actor and out-of-the-closet spokesperson was a show judge at the competition. Turns out he was a very nice guy, as I got to shake his hand, listen to him give a speech and pass out some trophies, and be one of the 500 people that clicked a photo with him. Friendly, unassuming and seemingly humble. As celebrities go, that equals a good guy. The photo I had taken with him was courtesy of my friend, Christy Owen. Unfortunately, she was so excited by the utter "Lance-ness" of the moment that the picture is a bit parkinson's disease-y.

Oh yeah, and my group won!

Old Photographs

At auditions today, one of FC's directors commented that my wallet was too fat. "Not with money", I replied quite seriously. No, it was full instead of every frequent travel club, discount club, gift card and library card I've ever filled out a form for. While I was fishing around for my Cub Scout Membership, AARP application, room key from my anniversary trip, and free pass to a tanning bed that expired in 1986, a bunch of old photographs fell out.

Some nerd-looking dude stared back at me with a stupid grin, as he held the hands of a silly-looking girl that was beautiful, yet a bit geeky herself. I winced,...it was my engagement photo from 1988! Another photo fell out, this one with the same couple. He'd grown a beard and she'd gotten a promising new hairstyle, yet there were these 2 tiny aliens they were holding, recently hatched from some mysterious pod in a wheat field or cocoon hunkered down in a damp cave somewhere. Our first family photo with our 2 daughters,.......WOWZA!!

Old photographs capture just one second in the billions of seconds we all live, yet they say so much about "who we were when". Our tastes of that "when". Our styles of that "when". Our relationships of that "when". So much is captured in that millisecond, and so much is remembered. The studio we went to by the Delaware Cinema for our engagement photos, cause they were having a sale. We ate at Duff's Smorgasbord afterwards, then decided shortly thereafter,.......we don't like Duff's Smorgasbord.

Our first family photos taken at the Sears Portrait Studio in Lafayette Square. A mall that barely even exists today, except for a food stamp supermarket, a 99-cent store, and possibly a store that sells cobwebs or something. We'd had Madeline a few months earlier, and Tina decided that 17 hours after giving birth that Chinese food sounded good, so we went to China Coast with a 17-hour old baby in tow. Think that's bad parenting? With our first, I decided on our anniversary that 3-month old Morgan should celebrate too, so I dipped my teaspoon in champagne and let her lick it. The 30 minutes of shuddering, wincing, puckering, shrieking and bawling that immediately ensued (compounded by Tina's dirty look) let me know that wasn't my finest moment of parenthood!

We all have thousands of photos stuffed in scrapbooks and mounted on walls. Lost in kitchen drawers, shut up in desks, left at people's homes, or even undeveloped from years gone by. I challenge us all to stop sometimes and just open a few packets of these old photographs:

Let them talk to you like they did to me. They're great conversationalists.

A Day In The Big Apple

Follow me through a pretty fun and exciting day that just finished. It was a really great day that I just want to relive for my own selfish reasons, and isn't that mostly what blogs are for, anyway?

*3:45 a.m. wake-up call and out the door at 3:58.

*6 a.m. flight to Chicago, smooth as silk

*6:45 a.m. stop for a quick trip to Admiral's Club, then board my 747 for NYC

*8:30 a.m. boring, headache-inducing cab ride into midtown Manhattan.

*10 a.m. checked into Roosevelt Hotel (NOT too nice, but air conditioner worked!)

***11 a.m. spent 45-minutes watching part of the NYC St Patrick's Day Parade (which lasted FIVE HOURS!!!!!) The single greatest collection of drunks the world has ever seen, replete with passed-out teenage girls, guys yelling "F@#* YOU!" over and over as they walked through the crowd, and people that constantly bumped into me because they truly had no control over their own balance!! Cool bagpipe troupes, some great marching bands, and lots of genuine patriotic pageantry, but finally got sick of the alcoholic nonsense.

*11:45 a.m. The next 2 hours were spent walking through Times Square, Flatiron District and Hell's Kitchen. Discovered "BisCo and Latte", a lemon-yellow hippy joint with it's own biscotti sampling bar of 25 biscotti flavors and large latte's served in fiestaware cereal bowls. COOL!!

Also on the walk, spotted a club called "Birdland", that was featuring a concert last night by my favorite Broadway songwriter, Jason Robert Brown! (more on this later)

*2 p.m. MEMPHIS, THE MUSICAL Wow! Just plain WOW! I mean, in the most sincere context of the word, WOW! Great commentary on society in the 1950's south, with amazing acting, a terrific soundtrack, creative sets, and a really well-paced script. Two and a half hours of pure, unbridled musical-junkie overload,...I LOVED it!

*5 p.m. 4-mile run through a very crowded Central Park. 71 degrees and sunny, and the parade was STILL wrapping up! Beautiful run through the elms and horse-drawn carriages. If it wasn't for hearing yet another drunk slut of a girl yelling racial slurs at a jogging African-American, the work-out would've been just about perfect.

*6:30 p.m. Met Chad Alexander (a friend from my business) at Birdland Supper Club, and were seated IN THE FRONT ROW for supper and the Jason Robert Brown concert. Very solid supper, though not great, but the concert was totally thrilling. He did about 10 of his Broadway "greatest hits" plus a couple new ones I love about Vegas and Millionaire's. Halfway through the concert, he brought Aniki Nonni Rose (Dreamgirls movie, Princess Frog) to the stage to join him for 6-7 additional pieces that were total highlights. If he'd have just not cussed out (literally) a lady who tried to take a picture of him and stopped to pout in the middle of a song, then the concert would've been even better. (Learn from this Jason, you looked like an impudent little tantrum-throwing baby!)

9 p.m. An unexpected surprise. Got a call from friend and client Christy Owen. I was informed that my Carlbad, CA group's medley from Next to Normal had been uploaded to Broadway.com, and that the entire cast and crew of the musical had been watching it, AND LOVED IT. Though some purists had been trashing it online, one of the show's stars went online to defend the group, my interpretation, and their artistry, calling it "awesome".

9:30 p.m. Standing on Times Square had a 10-minute talk with my oldest daughter about my day. She informed me that she'd gotten the soprano solo to the song I wrote for next week's Evening With The Ambassadors! Go Wooda!

10 p.m. After a quick trip to M & M world for some much-needed peanut butter M & M's, I trekked through the land of Drunkard Irish Pubs and back to my hotel.

11:30 p.m. A bit of tv, checking the Broadway Dance Center schedule for tomorrow, going over my judging itinerary for Friday, and off to slumberland.

Thanks God, for a great day of life!

Time To Be A Daddy!

I've waited eighteen years for tomorrow. Well, actually 17 years, 9 months, and 6 days, but who's counting? I was already 11-12 years into my career when my oldest daughter was born, and tomorrow the wait is over,.........SHOW CHOIR CONTEST WITH MY DAUGHTER IN IT!!!

Unless you're a certified junkie like me, you'd never understand. Show choir, high school students, music and choreography fill most waking moments of my entire life. My wife and I talk about it. I write music while I'm jogging and driving. I constantly am on some sort of double-secret lookout for the perfect song that nobody else has heard yet. And to top it off, I do it for a living over 300 days per year. Show choir has fed my family, purchased my home, taken my family on vacations to amazing destinations, gotten my car, built my reputation, kept me in shape, driven me nuts and made most of my hair turn grey and start falling out!

But tomorrow will be grand! My princess in her gorgeous costumes, performing with the Carmel Ambassadors, one of America's finest high school groups. Grandma Dixie, Pepaw Jim, my wife and I will all be up front with a mix of tears, laughter, pride, amazement and nostalgia hitting us full force all at once. We'll yell like fools, cheer like idiots and throw rotted tomatoes at the other groups,..........perhaps not that last thing. Most of all, I step away from the weekly routine of judging and critiquing, of firing everybody up for the big push into finals, and I just get to be,....a,.....dad!! SWEET!!

The next morning it'll be an all-too-early trek across Indianapolis on virtually no sleep to watch my youngest daughter swim her heart out at the yearly divisionals meet. Trying her hardest to make state cuts, drop best times and raise her "street-cred" within the Carmel Swim Club to new heights. I'll be sleepy, semi-delusional, and in a quasi-trance state from lack of rest, but it's just so freaking worth it!! My duchess has swam better than ever this year, and has even been conquering the world of algebra, which HAD been conquering her until recently.

2 daughters, 2 days, 2 big events, and 2 chances to take some time to just flat out be a daddy. Very, very cool indeed.

Olympic Reflections

They're over, and I simply hate it. I need more events, like long-distance curling, ski jumping over cars, cross-country skiing with random wildlife attacks,......SOMETHING!!

I love the fact that the Olympics are every 2 years now, instead of happening with the regularity of leap year. People whom we've never known become our new heroes, with stories of obstacles overcome and odds triumphed over. They're our heroes, they appear on Jay Leno, then they politely disappear into the ether of athletic lore, with only grainy highlights to remind us of them. True, they might do an Old Spice commercial or get a DUI down the road, but they pretty much vanish until the next Olympics.

Although I don't care about most of the events, I watch them anyway and feel a tug of patriotism when we show the communists who's still the boss. I sit on the edge of my chair while the ladie's figure skaters try to pull off a quadruple, super-duper, spread eagle whatever and my heart goes out to them when they accidently do the splits and quickly get back on their feet, hoping through fake smiles and real tears that nobody noticed. (By the way, what's the difference between a triple axel, a triple sow cow, a triple lutz, a triple toe loop and a triple scoop of fudge monkey ripple on a sugar cone?!?!) All this being said, though, I HATE MEN'S FIGURE SKATING!!!! Johnny Weir in a chinchilla tutu and mink bra is frightening!

Once in awhile, I even cheer for another country and hope they do well, as their story is so compelling I can't help but pull for them. Joannie Rochette, the Canadian figure skater who bravely persevered through her mom's death a couple day's earlier to win Bronze. The 57-year old Mexican downhill skier who just had fun and finished almost a minute behind the leaders. The European cross-country skier, who's legally blind and has only peripheral vision as he treks rapidly through 50 kilometers of mountainous terrain. If you don't pull for these people, you're just not human. Thank you Morgan Freeman for pointing out their stories, even though VISA paid you to tell us!

So, as I fall asleep to curling for the last night and quietly wonder in my dreams how the hell short track figure skating relays keep track of who's going next, I bid adieu to these two weeks of athletic spectacle and look forward to the next one. The celebration of brotherhood, peace, kindness, triumph of the spirit, soaring of our souls,...........AND WINNING THE MEDAL COUNT!!

The Colts

Funny, how none of them know me, not even that I exist at all on the face of the Earth. If I were to be incinerated by a stray meteor and flattened by a steamroller, ala Austin Powers, I doubt they'd send a card or show up at my funeral. Yet, they just broke my heart into tiny, horseshoe-shaped pieces.

I'd made brash predictions (which I actually believed, by the way) of a 37-17 Colts victory. The Saints 23rd ranked defense wouldn't even be able to put up a fight in the second half, yet there they stubbornly were, hanging on. A wide open dropped pass by Pierre Garcon didn't help, and neither did a riverboat gamble of an onsides kick that paid off with a touchdown jackpot for the Saints. Drew Brees threw, and dodged, and scrambled, and connected time after time after time on a Colts defense that looked like EVERYBODY IN THE SECONDARY had a bad ankle! You know something's going horribly wrong when a 2-point conversion is made by a guy literally standing on his head backward on the half-yard line with his outstretched arms cradling the ball over the goal line!

But it was my hero of athletics, my champion of the gridiron, and the Goliath of NFL quarterbacks, Peyton Manning that brought a tidal wave of nausea to my belly, and sent me reeling back in my chair with weak knees and surrender. A "pick six" to a Saints cornerback, who ironically went to college at Indiana University, was the dagger in the heart of the Colts. He's still gonna be my favorite player, as he DID let the city of Indianapolis taste the sweetness of Super Bowl glory in 2006, but he basically tossed the game into the hands of an awaiting opponent who had read his eyes, and attacked.

So I come full circle to my first point,.....WHY DO I CARE SO MUCH?!?! I have no vested interest, other than living in a bordering town to Indianapolis. If I knocked on the doors of their homes, any of the Colts would call the police about a trespasser. Why, then? If I knew, I'd type the answer. Right now, however, I just want to go somewhere quiet,......and puke.

Ending A Phase

Yesterday was my oldest daughter's last swim meet. There was no coverage of the event, no banner headlines in the paper, no records set and no formal announcement of any kind. But to her it was a big deal, as it was a torch being passed from one phase of her life into the beginning of another.

I wasn't there, as has been the case far too many times in her life. Mind you, I think I'm a pretty great dad, as I'm monumentally supportive, loving and involved in a great many things she's done, but I wasn't there yesterday. My job involves travel, which makes it also involve prioritizing WHEN I'll be there. Because I'm on the road about 35 weekends a year, I have to figure out which concert, recital, meet or event weighs more heavily than another. This year, showchoir and orchestra take precedent over swimming for my girls.

In a few weeks I'll be a parent chaperone on a four-day trip to Chicago. Later, I'll be a "proud as can be papa" at orchestra concerts and scholarship banquets, take my daughters on a getaway day to ride rollercoasters at Cedar Point, and eventually drive my oldest on a 5-day cross-country sojourn to California Baptist University where she'll begin a tremendous adventure in her next phase.

But yesterday was her last meet,....perhaps ever. Swimming had early on been a passion, then a job, then a source of tremendous stress for my princess. One of her favorite parts was always singing the national anthem at home meets (beautifully, I might add) then being one of the team's loudest cheerleaders for her compadres. The greatest compliment her teammates ever gave her happened earlier this season. Although never one of the fastest members of her team, her sportsmanship, supportiveness and leadership abilities got her voted as one of three team captains!

But yesterday was her last meet. I remember her being the crying 6-year old whose illegal starts, strokes and turns got her disqualified from every event she entered in her first meet. I remember the excitement in her face the first-time she broke 5 minutes in the 400 IM. I remember how funny she looked and how proud I was when she was the high-scorer at a divisionals meet a few years back, clad in a turquoise and black polka-dot full-body suit.

My wife had her coaches and teammates talk about Morgan on a videotape yesterday. They love her and will always remember her as part of what made the team fun to be a part of, beyond the 24 state titles and Olympic trial qualifiers. Her little sister (a vastly improved freshman on the team) will always remember the early morning rides to practice with her, primarily spent in silence with both trying to wake up for another grueling work out.

Even though she's not moving to college until August, my heart aches and I miss her almost unbearably already.

As one phase ends, another begins.

Insomnia

"Why do I tire of counting sheep

When I'm much too tired to fall asleep?"

Owl City has it right, don't they? I mean, what is this whole insomnia thing, after all? It's 4:04 a.m. my computer screen tells me as I type this. Sleep never comes easily for me, but when something's on my mind, good OR bad, it's a Holy Grail I seem to search for in vain.

It started when I was a kid, and that demon was WEREWOLVES! My grandma let me stay up late once when I was 7 to watch a midnight movie, and the rest was history! They were under every bed, infesting every closet, and probably in the kitchen making preparations to saute' and eat me.

Then, of course, it turned to girls,....and girls,....then girls,....followed closely by, you guessed it,....MATH! (no, girls actually). Even the nights of insomnia not filled with girls were filled with girl-related items like zits, braces, and evil school gossip. Even when thoughts turned deeper to subjects like marriage (girls again) and having children (MADE by girls, right?), my insomnia continued to resonate its nightly parade of reasons why I couldn't drift into peaceful slumber.

Today it could be anything. As the Harry Chapin song says "I've got planes to catch, and bills to pay" (then something about a cat with a baby bonnet stealing silverware,....can't remember exactly). It could be my anxiety in waiting for show choir competition results, fear of family members' health, waiting for my daughter to get home from an evening out, too hot, too cold, upcoming choreography I have to do, or even a superfly infomercial about the P90X body-building system that leaves me wishing for youth, muscles,....and less back hair!

Amazing, a'int it, that you can go to bed so sleepy, so barely able to stand you're so weary with exhaustion, then wake up at 2:09 a.m. and not sleep the rest of the night. In fact, I now officially offer my protest against that very phrase, "the REST of the night",.....what rest?

Haiti

The words flash across my television screen with scant notice,..."Possibly a half a million people dead in Haiti's devastating earthquake." Huh, I think to myself, that's really sad. Now I need to make myself a sandwich or something.

Then it gnaws at you, a half a million, a half a million,.....A HALF A MILLION!!! That's the entire population of Muncie, Tuscaloosa, Cedar Rapids, Pensacola, Boulder, and Walla Walla added together. Dead. Crushed under collapsed walls, falling debris, and bridges. Dead. Total families, entire towns, complete staffs of businesses that thrived earlier that day. Dead.

I know, love and believe in God with every fiber of my being. I know he mourns these days, yet doesn't stop them from happening. I want to ask him why, I want to know the reason, and I long to ask him what his plan is to bring glory out of devastation like this. As Americans we cried and screamed at God and the television when the Twin Towers fell and 2,500 people needlessly perished at the hands of pure evil. Our hearts sank as so many homes were washed away with the dreams and histories of families during the events and aftermath of Katrina. But Haiti isn't us, is it? It's sad, but far away. A distant trouble for distant people in a distant land.

C'mon folks, we need to do better than that. As I realized my own callousness, I went to redcross.org and donated. YOU need to also. It isn't much, and it doesn't change the devastation, but it affirms our humanity. It affirms that we're all God's children, so we need to do something for each other, even if the gesture is small.

My prayers are with the people of this poor, troubled island. I hope yours are too.

POST SCRIPT****It's a day later, and estimates have gone from half a million to around 50,000 casualties. 450,000 fewer deaths than feared! A miracle in a sea of sadness. A country surrounded by water on every side, yet people are dying of thirst. I'm happy, truly happy, that the numbers have dropped so dramatically. The images, however, are hard to look at without feeling repulsed, helpless, and filled with a depth of sympathy hard to get your head around. It's a better day for Haiti,....but just barely.

Growing Up Too Quick

My littlest girl is closing in on 16 years old. The summers of "Daddy, can I walk across the street to get ice cream?" and "Can I ride my bike down to Subway?" will soon be replaced by requests for car keys and young men I secretly loathe coming to pick her up for her first dates. Often times I pause to thank God for the honor of being blessed with the gorgeous daughters my wife and I have,....gorgeous not only in their physical appearance, but in their hearts and intentions as well. Far from perfect,.....filled with human frailties,....but gorgeous nonetheless.

I remember the strangest little things about my youngest. A two-year old running naked through the house laughing after her bath,.......a three-year old biting her big sister's arm because she didn't want her hand held crossing the street, the pillowcase that for years was her protection from thunderstorms,......the 3rd grader who walked onstage to sing in choir and waved at us from the stage while we smiled,...and smiled,...and smiled.

I barely recognize the wondrous things she now becomes. She's a rapidly improving high school swimmer, an accomplished viola player, and an avid reader of novels. She and her sister excelled at their first attempts at professional modeling, and looked like lovely and classy 20-year olds in a nationally circulated catalog for choir costuming. With a true flair for fashion, make-up, and style, she's learning to handle herself as a graceful, and still humble, young lady.

I'm SO glad that some things haven't changed, though. She still has my silly sense of humor, gets scared and excited by big rollercoasters, still loves having sleepovers with her best buddies, and still has a little girl's sweetness at heart. I love watching her grow up,.......and I HATE it with all my heart.

Why is being a parent so conflicting? We want them to become mature, productive and responsible adults, yet we always want them to be mommy's little girl and daddy's little duchess. As parents, we train them to become self-reliant, yet die a little inside each time they don't need our guidance and advice. It's as if they'll somehow forget us,........will they?

My brain says of course not, and I truly believe my brain in this case. But, you know what, that little seed of doubt that grits like a grain of sand in my teeth, fears it happening. And I pray,..and pray,.. and pray,....that there'll always be a part of them that wants us, needs us, seeks us, and longs to stay close. Please.

Competition Season

Here we go again. The merry-go-round is starting to spin, the sleepless Saturday nights are preparing to unfurl, and the rollercoaster of highs and lows are preparing to unleash weekly havoc on my nerves,........it's competition season!!!

To the 99.9% of the world that has no idea what I mean, it's the beginning of show choir invitationals for 2010, and all the work I've been doing since May of 2009 is about to be put under weekly scrutiny by panels of judges, some very fair and some very not! It's the quest for the golden chalice of show choir, championship trophies and caption awards. While I wish these things didn't matter, my livelihood, reputation, and HOUSE PAYMENT depends on success in these endeavors.

I once heard a fellow pro in the business say that each championship is like the ringing of a cash register. While I certainly understand that opinion, I'm not quite that jaded yet. I still get nervous when the phone rings, when results are posted, when scoring envelopes are handed out, and when I see kids I work with holding hands and closing their eyes as finalists and placements are announced. It's as if all matters of world peace, nuclear disarmament, third-world hunger and economic tsunamis mean nothing. The results,.....the announcements,......the tension and subsequent release of either joy or disappointment are all that matter in the world to these kids.

I want them to be proud,....to be happy,....to be successful. I want them to feel as if the investment of their time, talent, and sweat has been justified and recognized. Seeing them disappointed is agony for a teacher that cares, and I (we) feel as if we've failed them in the process. Why didn't I choreograph that better? The song I wrote isn't touching the emotions of the crowd in the way I wanted, how did I screw it up so badly?

But when triumph roars, the emotions are oh so sweet. I feel like a hero and a role model, though the hero part is far from true. It's just like the sweet golf shot you hit every so often, you watch it flying perfectly through the air and land directly on target, and you think "I could never stop loving this". Well, that's me and show choir. Although I despise some of the moments and dread some of the days, the sweet shots that are occasionally hit, the rising applause of a satisfied audience, and the hug of a kid you love that just achieved a dream performance makes it all worth it. Now teeing off,......competition season.