Word to Your Mother

If there is one thing I have never, ever taken for granted in all of my nearly thirty years, I’d have to say it is the random good fortune of having been born male.  I could easily give you a laundry list of reasons why I’m so thankful for my Y-chromosome — $50 bras, $100 haircuts, all that time spent putting makeup on in the morning — but all of those pale in comparison to my #1 reason, which I was reminded of in dramatic fashion not too long ago.

It was a late night seven weeks ago, and I was sitting in a small room adjacent to the birthing suite at the home of the local midwife while my sister was preparing to give birth to yet another baby girl, Aubri Jean.  For reasons I’ll never quite understand, she had decided to go with "natural" childbirth this time around, a term which quickly started to feel like the ultimate oxymoron as the night wore on.  Because, I tell you what, there was nothing remotely natural about the noises emanating from the other side of the thin wall I found myself staring at in wide-eyed horror.  Why do we do this to people? I couldn’t help but wonder.

You see for me, the act of childbirth has always seemed like something straight off the sci-fi channel or maybe an internal CIA interrogation memo.  I’m sorry, but spending equal parts of nine months puking your brains out and having your insides used as a punching bag until one day, this slimy little extraterrestrial-looking thing — that could almost pass as human, if only it’s face wasn’t so scrunched up — manages to claw its way out with very little regard for the damage it does to your body sounds a lot less like a "miracle" and more like something Dick Cheney should be justifying on Meet the Press each Sunday.  And yet, millions upon millions of women all over the world do it every year like it’s no big deal, making the voodoo we call motherhood seem effortless even though it’s anything but. 

But that’s just the tip of the iceberg in a life of constantly putting someone else’s personal comforts/needs/dreams/hunger/problems ahead of your own — day in, and day out — with no real expectation of even a simple "Thanks, Mom."  It’s being woken up at 4 a.m. to clean up some ungodly mix of bodily fluids that couldn’t possibly have come from the tiny person staring weakly back at you, dropping everything at work to race across town to hand-deliver a third permission slip for The Centipede Exhibit at the Museum because someone misplaced the last two and the bus leaves in 15 minutes, and long nights digging relentlessly through not one, but all three dumpsters behind the local pizza place with archaeologist-like scrutiny, in desperate search of the holy grail known simply as "The Retainer" — sometimes all in the span of one day.  For some, it’s five years without a full night’s rest because you’re 30-year-old baby boy needs his eyebrow scratched in the middle of the night.  No wait, his nose.  Now his head.  Up a little.  Over a little.  Back just a hair.  Down some.  Right there.  A little more.  That’s good.  Oh wait, the eyebrow again. 

So, to all the amazing moms that I know personally, and the dozen or so (maybe) out there who still manage to drop by my lowly corner of the interwebs here from time to time, I just want to wish you the very happiest of Mother’s Day filled with whatever you desire — be it an all day spa sesh or just 15 minutes to sit down and catch your breath.  And to Mad Dog, whose strength, love, patience and compassion are downright legendary in the eyes of all those lucky enough to know her, I just want to say thanks for doing all that you do every day to make this life just a little bit easier for me to bear.  If I could somehow find a way to obtain and wrap a thousand or so hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, that would be my gift to you.  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom… I love you.

Now, for the rest of us, yeah, give Mom a big hug because today is her day.  But then do it once more, a) just because you can but, more importantly, b) because she actually grew your funky, alien-looking ass inside her body for nine months, and she did it with relatively little complaint.  I’ll say it again:   Inside. Her. BODY!!!  Take a minute and let that sink in… and give her one more hug.  It’s the least you can do.

Stealing someone else’s words

Hey, I’ve said before that I’m not above it.  I have spent the last couple days (without sleep) trying to find the right words to commemorate today.  I never would have thought they would show up secondhand in an e-mail my mom sent out to friends and loved ones this evening.  Enjoy…

 
Hi There,

I wanted to take some time to thank each of you for all you have done these last 5 years. (Hard to believe!) Whether in person or from afar you have helped all of us go through this journey a little easier.  We have come a long way since that day, we all remember where we were when we heard the news.

We have learned so much and Kenny is doing well – considering all that he has been through. We continue to hope for progress in spinal cord research and hope that someday it will help him in some way.  Today I find my emotions a little less in check, I remember the physcial guy he was, so proud of the guy he is – I will be conscious more today of those "things he misses most". I will rub his sister’s belly (she is due in 4 weeks) and hug Ali and Abi just a little longer – for him.

I know each one of us has come through this thinking a little differently about our lives, we all look at the disabled just a little different and not one of us can pass by a wheelchair without thinking about "what" put this person in that chair.

We will forever be greatful and truly appreciate you all, please continue sending good thoughts our way. We do lean on your shoulders from time to time. You hold us up when we need a little help. We are so fortunate to have wonderful people around us.

With much love,

Jeanne, Skip and Kenny

… yeah, you can say it.  My mom rocks.

Reason to Believe

I’ve been trying hard to wrap my head around what happened this past week, so please excuse my upcoming long-windedness.

George Carlin once said that, "inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist."  Well, after spending the near entirety of my adult life in The Bush Era, governed by the politics of Dick Cheney and Karl Rove, it should come as no surprise that I have viewed government, and our system as a whole, with a cynical pair of LASIK-corrected eyes.  But after witnessing what went down in our nation’s capital on Tuesday, it’s hard not to be slightly buzzed on a cocktail of pride and optimism over what took place.

This election was a statement.  It was the long-overdue acknowledgment, and rejection, of the hypocrisy in our actions not matching up to the rhetoric this country was founded on (hmm… maybe now the words declared by our forefathers that "all men are created equal" can actually become the Mad Lib they are supposed to be, only this time without the preceding adjective blanks for race, gender, religion and – hopefully much sooner than later – sexual preference already filled in like when they were first put on paper).  It also rejuvenates the promise of The American Dream® in the eyes of the world, and serves as a reminder that America isn’t just a series of fast food chains and department stores, plagued by an ethnocentric anti-intellectualism that feeds on gluttonous overconsumption and celebrity obsession.  No, within these borders you’ll find that, for those willing to put in the effort, this is the land of unlimited possibilities.  And can we please put to rest the absurd notion that the further down the family tree our immigrant ancestors reside, the more American we somehow are?  Because, lest we forget, most of us wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for someone X-amount of generations ago buying into the idea that the grass was greenest in the US of A.

And if you just look at a few of the steps the president has taken in his first week alone, you’ll see the potential to do more for our homeland security than anything the last administration put into place.  Initiating the shutdown of Gitmo can finally put an end to the do-we-or-don’t-we torture argument for good (because let’s face it, citing a lack of terrorist attacks since 9/11 as justification for the suspension of basic human civil liberties is like saying that, since I haven’t broken any bones in the last five years, my paralysis has been worth it: it hasn’t kept us safe, just further cultivated the hatred of our enemies).  And making his first calls as Commander in Chief to the various leaders involved in and around the current conflict in Israel instead of wasting time schmoozing a few allies sends a clear message that our foreign relations will once again be rooted in diplomacy instead of unwavering ultimatums.

And I realize that the man has been lauded by the left (and mocked by the right) as the second coming of Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Dr. King, Gandhi, Ted Williams, Walter Payton, sliced bread and Jesus himself all rolled into one, but I’m not quite that naïve nor that arrogant.  I’ll tell you what I do see, though; an intelligent, articulate and pragmatic leader with a deep sense of history and a clear picture of the future he wants to mold.  He’s humble enough to know that he can’t solve all these problems by himself, wise enough to surround himself with some of the strongest minds available to him and has the backbone to make the right decisions when it comes down to it.  Now, I’m not suggesting we’ve entered some sort of post-partisan utopian age, but the ability to be ambitious politically and still remain inclusive of all perspectives is crucial given the challenges we face.  2008 wrapped up in hellish fashion with the loss of 2.6 million jobs, the national debt rocketing past $10 trillion and our military entrenched in two wars with no real consensus on how to end one while simultaneously ramping up the other.  All in all, I guess it’s pretty safe to say that collectively we are in some pretty deep shit.

And the last year or so hasn’t exactly been all puppy dogs and pixie dust for me personally either.  I’ve spent the majority of the last 10 months relegated to bedrest from a pressure sore I could have easily prevented.  So much time in the dungeon hasn’t done much good for the psyche, trust me.  Then in a freak accident at a monster truck show a little more than a week ago, a large piece of metal debris shot into the stands, tragically killing a six-year-old boy, and striking a close family friend square in the face, shattering the majority of his jaw.  Actually, "close friend" is a severe understatement, since he is the closest thing to a big brother I will ever have.  He was one of my first wrestling coaches and the person who fed me my first meal in the ICU after my accident.  So seeing one of my heroes brought to his knees like this has been a struggle to say the least.  The inability to help is maddening.  And though his oxycodone-hazed thumbs up gave me immense hope that he will be okay, I still left the hospital last Monday with a great amount of anger towards the world in general.  But as I watched the hundreds of thousands of people converge on the capital the next morning, I could feel my boiling blood slowly begin to cool.

It was strange, because the larger the crowd became, all I kept picturing was that scene from Forrest Gump where Tom Hanks and Robin Wright Penn’s characters reunite in the Reflecting Pool amidst the sea of war protesters.  And that led my tangent-prone mind to wander to the 60s in general; an era I’ve always been curious about because of the almost palpable sense of social and political activism that seemed apparent at the time.  Or at least that’s the impression I’ve gotten from things I’ve read, seen on the History Channel, etc..  And that simple fact – that the only personal experiences I could relate to the moment have come from the wistful words of dead authors, the grainy images of documentaries and the special effects of blockbuster films – helped to reinforce just how rare and monumental the day actually was.  And that really got me thinking.

This could be our moment; that once-in-a-generation opportunity to leave an indelible mark on the course of history.  It’s a chance to usher in a new era where we take the power back from the megacorporations that have been distracting us from what is really important with Cialas commercials and iPhone apps or whatever else.  It’s going to take our own brand of vigilant activism similar to those of generations past, where we decide that our idealism will not be written off by the cynicism of others as a weakness or a blind faith, but recognized and respected as a measured optimism tempered with the resolve that we can do better; we must do better if we’re going to weather the storms still gathering on the horizon.  But in order to do better, we first have to recognize that this change won’t begin on Wall Street or in the halls of our capital buildings.  It has to start in our living rooms and backyards and spread from there. 

Everyone of us could make a better effort to conserve energy, manage our finances and educate our children as well as ourselves.  I mean, how can we rightfully expect our elected officials to be held accountable if we aren’t individually attempting to walk the walk first?  That being said, the former just might be a little easier this time around given this president is breaking the stranglehold the last administration had on the Freedom of Information Act.  We can no longer avoid the path of the road less traveled for fear of the unknown, paralyzed by threats from the outside world and wallowing in self-pity over our various plights. 

Because make no mistake, Barack Obama is not some sort of savior, and he’s not going to pull us out of this ditch with the snap of a finger.  But who knows, perhaps with a little help, he could one day be looked back on as the catalyst that helped motivate a generation to reengage in actively shaping the future of those that followed.  Or maybe he won’t.  Maybe in four years I’ll view this post as my very own Jerry Maguire moment.  Either way, I think it is a lot less up to him than it is up to us, so I’m going to try to work a little harder than I did yesterday.

The truth is, my friend’s face will heal.  My ass will heal.  This country will heal.  Will any of it be easy?  Hell no, and it will probably get worse before it gets better.  But we are a resilient bunch (with my buddy pretty much topping the list) who can overcome this and anything else that gets thrown our way if we can somehow keep a white-knuckled grip on hope.  It has been a crazy week, a tough few months and an arduous eight years.  But after seeing what a little "community organizing" did to this country last week, I can finally say I have reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, this year will be better than the last. 

Now…… who’s coming with me?

Smalls attempts to talk politics…

I don’t know how long I’ve been trying to put together my thoughts regarding the upcoming presidential election, but each time I’ve tried has just left me all fired up with nothing to show for it.  Nearing my breaking point, I remembered a technique that got me through many an English class back in the day: steal someone else’s work.  Just kidding, Mom.  Maybe.  So when I came across an entry on Jason Mraz‘s blog not too long ago that not only echoed my thoughts, but delivered them far more poignantly than I figured I’d ever get to, I decided I was going to post a quick blog with a link to it and a little "Hey, check this out" and be done with it.  (side note: the guy puts out bitchin’ tunes AND writes exceptionally? I think I hate him. Okay probably not… but maybe) 

But then last weekend I started reading a book called America: Our Next Chapter by Nebraska Senator Chuck Hagel and, I have to say, it really struck a chord.  On page 18, I stumbled upon this tasty little nugget of wisdom: "For Americans to believe once again in our political system — and by believe in, I mean participate in it with their votes and their active involvement — they have to believe their elected leaders."  Shocking concept, no?  Now, I’ve written briefly on my political history, or lack thereof, once before, but perhaps I should expand a little.

A decade ago I was an 18-year-old high school kid whose closest thing to a political thought was either, "Cool, I can buy scratch tickets!" or maybe a joke about what the definition of is… um, was.  I justified my political apathy with standard slacker rhetoric; "I don’t want to throw off the system with my uneducated vote."  Flash forward five years, and my teenage ambivalence had long since given way to a feeling of complete disenchantment with the system as a whole after having watched a man who lost the public vote move into the White House a few years earlier.  I remember sitting in the student union building at school, watching CNN’s tickertape coverage of bombings in Iraq, silently thinking to myself, I thought Al Qaeda was based in Afghanistan. 

Another five years later, and here I am: a 28-year-old in a wheelchair with a president I voted against whose administration we now know used 935 false statements to convince the American public to send their sons and daughters to bravely give their lives in a war that should never have been waged.  Let me see if I have this right: we hold impeachment hearings regarding the happenings in Old Billy Boy’s pants, but then 10 years later a president falsely leads us to war and we shrug it off, allowing him to simply mail-in what remains of a second term worse than I did my last quarter of college??  (Seriously, dude… I tried harder in springboard diving class.)  WTF??  Shouldn’t someone be doing something about this??

Like who, the media?  Fifty-some-odd channels of "political commentary" that has devolved into a brand of partisan hackery that is more concerned with the Kevin Bacon Factor of our presidential candidates than their stance on the environment, especially if someone’s dog walker’s cousin was caught with socialist reading material in high school?  Right.  All they’ve managed to accomplish lately is allowing words like dishonesty and accountability to be replaced with more spin-friendly terms like "mis-spoke", "misremember" and "truthiness."  Sorry Stephanopoulos & Co., but who wears how big of a flag symbol for how long is not exactly one of the issues my vote hinges upon.  Oh wait, did another poll come out??
 
Fact is, if we can’t rely on the media to keep our politicians honest, the responsibility falls squarely at our feet, my friends.  And yes, it may have taken 10 years to fully get my act together, but this time I’m not willing to sit idly by and let the pattern of mistrust that has infested the Oval Office continue any longer.  And that’s precisely why my vote this year will not be going to someone so willing to blatantly and repeatedly lie about her foreign-policy experiences to secure a nomination she doesn’t seem to even have a true mathematical chance of winning outright except for what would only be seen as the backrooming of superdelegate votes that will do nothing but disenfranchise enough of the party to lose her the general election anyway. 

No, I’ll be casting my vote for a candidate (gasp!) I can actually believe in.  A candidate whose biggest criticism seems to be that he lacks the type of lengthy, hypocrisy-laden voting resume that most politicians spend the majority of their campaigns selectively claiming based on which vote they are trying to win at that specific moment.  I want my next president to be the man with the vision, tenacity and passion that not only have the ability to re-inspire the disillusioned people like I once was to get back involved in the future of their country, but the potential to unite the public in such a way that will start making the kind of changes that could make me honestly utter the words, "I am PROUD to be an American" for the very first time in the 10 years I’ve been eligible to vote.  This November I’m voting for change.  I’m voting for hope.  I’m voting for Obama, and I hope you do too.

"This is our moment.  This is our chance.  There is a moment in the life of every generation where that spirit of hopefulness has to come through.  Where we cast aside the fear, and the doubt and the cynicism — the cynicism that so often passes for wisdom but is actually just being afraid to reach for something higher — were we shed that and, arm in arm, we decide we’re going to remake this country; block by block, neighborhood by neighborhood, county by county, state by state… THIS is OUR moment.  THIS is OUR time.  And if you stand with me… if you will vote for me, we will not just win the nomination, we will win the general election and you and I together will transform this country, and we will transform the world."  — Barack Obama in Virginia on February 9, after sweeping contests in LA, NE, WA and VI

Hey… where’d everyone go?

Ohhhhhhyeeeeaaaahhh… it was ME that disappeared, huh?  Well, I suppose I’m a smidge overdue in the update department, so here goes…

Yes, I am in fact still alive.  Still paraly… wait, quick check – yup, still paralyzed.  I’ve been staying pretty healthy, thanks for all the e-mails.  Those main questions having been answered naturally beg the question: how’s the book coming along?  Well, I’m only a few chapters short of my masterpiece… say 30 or so.   Well, I’m about three quarters of the way toward starting it.  Translation?  You betcha — it’s still in my head, but trust me it sounds AWESOME in there.  It’s been a rough year in the literary department.  Come to think of it, the year has been a bit of a roller coaster as a whole.

 

For some reason, lap number four of this crazy journey called paralysis started off as one of the most difficult for me thus far.  Maybe part of it was turning 27; the same age my parents were when they had me.  You see, when I was little my parents were my gauge for all things "grown-up" because they were so freakin tall… and because my dad was in charge of the remote.  I remember when I was about six, I and asked my mom if, when I turned 33, I could say the words I had heard Dad saying in the garage earlier and she said, "Yes, when you’re 33 years old, you can." So by little kid logic, I naturally assumed that by the time I was 27, I would have it all figured out.  Well, as you can imagine, this wasn’t quite where I pictured myself at 27, so it was a little tough.  Also, there was a little event in May that proved to be a major speed bump for me.

 

As many of you already know, I made headlines for something other than this little corner of cyberspace I’ve inhabited the last few years.  A quick Google of my name no longer results in links to my blog and a few old wrestling match scores, but countless newsfeeds and press releases with words like "lawsuit" and "terrain parks" and "millions."  Unfortunately, halfpage press releases and thirty-second news blurbs only have the capacity to tell a fraction of the story, inevitably leading the average reader who doesn’t know me with an image of a reckless, inexperienced skier that screwed up and became sue-happy… even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.  Needless to say, I instantly became Public Enemy #1 in the eyes of many skiers and snowboarders, and my inboxes and comments sections started filling up with hate mail.

 

I have to say that, initially, those messages really started to take their toll, and I found myself second-guessing things quite a bit.  Were they right?  Am I just some hypocrite out to ruin the sport?  After all, as one of them so kindly pointed out, I did once write that I would go back to that jump and "do it right."  I struggled with this for much longer than I probably should have because the truth of the matter is, I wrote that before I found out just how horribly designed that jump truly was, which led to more than triple the amount of serious injuries of any of the previous few seasons, all within only two months of being open that year.  And while I readily accepted my share of the responsibility for what happened to me, I cannot accept that, after a hand delivered a letter from a friend I was with that night imploring the mountain to reassess their terrain park went ignored, a 19-year-old kid from my alma mater lost his life barely a week later. 

 

The way I see it, I don’t think it is too much to ask a business making millions if not billions of dollars, of which a fairly decent percentage is from these terrain parks, to spend a marginal amount of time and money to develop at least some sort of basic industry standard that could apply some basic physics and a little common sense in order to cut down on the UNNECESSARY RISKS riders face from poorly built parks.  Skiing into a tree and getting hurt is one thing, just like falling off a cliff out of bounds is another, but when it is on something intentionally put in place that is being profited from, that’s completely different. 

 

Every industry does this… or maybe we should stop putting laminated windshields in cars, put a little disclaimer sticker in the corner, and tell the ones ejected that it was their fault that they got into the accident?  It’s the same thing as arguing the fine print on a lift ticket serves as a blanket of impunity.   And sure, you could probably argue that maybe I should’ve known better, but what about those who don’t?  What about the next 12-year-old kid who’s never rode who just got done watching Shaun White win his 17th-some-odd X-Games medal that goes bombing down the hill and gets himself killed?  In some way, I can understand that my accident had to happen, but not that 19-year-old kid… sorry, I can’t justify that.  Even if I never see a dime, which is a distinct possibility, I won’t regret my accident or the lawsuit because it at least has caught the attention of the industry, and could possibly save even a couple kids from being in my place.

 

On a completely different note, I did conquer my first substantial road trip in the fall; a two week vacay in Southern California (starting with a three-day van-trek with Mad Dog and the Italian Drama Mama.  I know… how I managed to survive is a minor miracle.  Kidding, Margie, only kidding) to see a ton of family, most importantly of which, two of my absolute favorite people on the face of the damn planet… my Grandpa Ed and Grandma Betty.  According to Betty, 80 is the new 60, but 15 minutes around those lovebirds and you’ll swear it’s the new 19.  We should all be so lucky in love.  Their five-acre corner of the desert in 29 Palms will always hold a piece of my soul, and as soon as we turned on their dirt road I could feel that familiar swell in my chest because on this particular block of dust, being a Salvini means something truly special, and is the only thing that matters.  Grandpa would probably refer to it as Italian (pronounced: "eye-talion") Pride.  God, I love that man, and am so proud that it’s his blood that courses through my veins.

 

I don’t know, I think part of the reason this year has been more of a struggle than prior years was the sudden realization that I’ve been in a bit of denial over my whole situation.  I think subconsciously I’ve been biding my time somewhat, waiting for some arbitrary time in the future for life to start back up.  But when exactly is that?  When I get better?  That’s about the furthest thing from guaranteed.  This is my life.  This body.  This brain.  This wheelchair.  Right here.  Right now.  But where and how exactly do I start living it?  That is the true question, and that’s what I need to start figuring out.  All I know is that 2007 ended on a fairly positive note, so for right now I intend on riding the crest of that wave as far as I possibly can.  I mean, look at it this way: only a little more than five years until I can legally use the phrase motherfuckingpieceofshit.

 

So I’ve got that going for me… which is nice.

Not just another day

So this is how it’s going to end?… I thought to myself, the helicopter blades beating their rhythmic cadence all around my lifeless body as the medevac carved its way through the night sky on its way to Harborview Medical Center.  Barely able to breathe and slipping in and out of consciousness, I was sure that I had broken my back at the very least.  There was no brightly lit tunnel or lifetime slide show presented in lightspeed, just an overwhelming sense of peace.  I didn’t need some dramatic review of my 23 plus years to be confident I’d done my best the whole way, so as the wind howled in my ears I mouthed four inaudible words: okay God, I’m ready.

But as we all know, that night wasn’t the end of my road but a hard left turn into completely foreign territory.  And while this life is one I was neither prepared for nor looking forward to (and to this day have times I don’t want to do anymore), it is one that has led me to many experiences, people and thoughts I may never have come across otherwise.  In less time than it took me to earn my degree, I have gained a greater appreciation for life, both the people I love and those special souls who chose health-care as their career, all the while becoming enlightened to the downfalls of their industry caused by some of my governments nonsensical policies which sometimes cause it to feel a lot closer to health-scare.  I’ve started a blog, told some goofy stories, and met literally thousands and thousands of people from all walks/rolls of life.  And somewhere along the lines I became a writer; about the last thing I would have ever pictured for myself.  I’ve landed an amazing agent, completed my first writing workshop (that went VERY well, for all those wondering), and made countless useful contacts that should come in quite helpful as I try to realize this new dream of someday publishing a book. 

It was right about this time three years ago tonight that my parents were briefly allowed to see me before I was taken to surgery to repair my broken neck.  I looked calmly at my mom and said, "My life is changed forever."  I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t emotional, it was just a fact: life as I knew it was over.  Though I instantly knew the situation was bad, I never could have imagined the truly great things that also lay ahead.

Because everyone else has one… and I want to be COOL!

1.  I had a brown guinea pig named Turd Ferguson in college named after my favorite SNL Celebrity Jeopardy skit of all time.

2.  When I was in eighth grade, I landed TWO supporting roles in the final play of the year for my drama class: a belligerent cowboy in the hospital, and a senile old man in a wheelchair.  I shit you not.  Talk about some serious foreshadowing…

3.  I was homecoming king in high school, but they didn’t let me keep Imperial Butter crown.  All they gave me was a stupid keychain that said "homecoming court" on it.  I’m still bitter about it. 

4.  I think it’s funny as hell when my mom swears.  My sister concurs.

5.  I am a bona fide movie geek, and find it completely justifiable to judge people, especially friends, based both on their taste in film, and their ability to quote with accuracy and vigor.  I’m that guy that actually watches the commentaries on the DVDs, and I’ve also been known to waste way too much of my time on imdb.com.

6.  That being said, I have a theory as to why Mel Gibson and Tom Cruise has become the cinematic equivalents of Michael Jackson, and it’s much simpler than you would think.  Everyone wants to point the finger at their radical religious beliefs and monstrous bank accounts, but is it really a coincidence that BOTH of them have played characters named "Maverick" in movies?  I don’t think so. 

7.  My favorite food group is bacon.

8.  I have a major fear of breaking/tearing fingernails.  The mere thought almost makes me want to throw up.  And even though I can’t even feel them anymore, I can’t watch when someone clips mine. 

9.  Four and a half years ago, I laid a vicious beat down on Mandy Morgen in a game of Monopoly.  Rolled doubles a few times, landed on Park Place, bought it, landed on Community Chest, was told to go to Boardwalk, bought it, threw down a few houses, she landed on them two laps in a row… and in a matter of 15 minutes, that was that.  It was a thing of beauty.

10.  I had LASIK surgery on my eyes right after graduating college.  My vision went from 20/400 to 20/15 in an instant, and it made me feel like freakin Superman.  It also pretty much convinced me that aliens do exist because, where else would somebody get the idea for that procedure?  They had to have been abducted.

11.  My first car was a Mars Red (a.k.a. orange as hell) 1981 Volkswagen Scirocco dubbed the "Orange Limo."  I got it when I was 15 years old, and drove it until six weeks before the accident, when I bought a pickup. 

12.  As a kid, I was addicted to the 1950s black-and-white sitcoms they played on Nick at Nite like "Mr. Ed," "Patty Duke," "The Donna Reed Show" and "Car 54, Where Are You?"

13.  I delivered pizza in college, and was often requested as "the cute one" on deliveries at night.  Every time I took one of those orders over the phone I would say, "okay, but you have to tip him extra, because he’s having a bad night."  Worked every time.

14.  This is about the time I stop reading everyone else’s lists, so I will leave you with my deep thought of the day: 

"Quadriplegia is to normal life what power outages are to camping: it would be really close to the same thing if you didn’t have to sit around, staring at all your damn appliances that don’t work."  — smalls