Goodbye Amy

I used to call them the six o’clock check ins.

Over the course of two years of doing fabulous, high-caliber, groundbreaking, printer-selling work at Epson America (and no, I don’t get my printer discount anymore so don't ask), my boss Amy Weitzman would more than occasionally check in with me to see what was going on. I didn’t mind the check ins—that’s what bosses do. What I wasn’t too crazy about was that they always happened just before six o’clock in the evening, my clocking out time.

They always wound up being fun calls. Since my very first telephone interview with her, Amy and I just had a connection, we hit it off immediately. Both of us were each others safe place, able to talk freely about anything. Over my two years of knowing and working for her, our conversations were open, laugh-filled, and completely honest about whatever the topic was: the company, the work we were doing, the many different personalities (including that one guy who was a monumental asshole), politics, life in general.

For all my griping about her after work hours calls, how I wish I could be on one of them with her now.

Amy passed away on October 17, 2022, her 50th birthday, from glioblastoma—a mercilessly aggressive form of brain cancer.

When she went on medical leave about 13 months ago, I instinctively knew it was bad. Amy was an incredible worker who literally didn't know when to quit. She'd be up all hours of the night and on weekends, thinking of ways she could make things better. I used to tell her that's what she had a department for and to take a weekend off and enjoy time with her husband Keith. She agreed she should, but rarely did.

I called her and asked what was going on. She told me she’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor and was going to have surgery to remove it. Her doctors were hopeful.

I’m not going to go into a lot of details here, because they don’t seem to matter much right now. In my talks with Amy over the last year, up until she wasn't able to talk anymore, she confessed her fears about dying. She had so much to do, and she felt it was so very unfair. Of course she was right.

She also told me often how much she loved and appreciated her husband Keith, who was her sole caretaker for most of the past year. She was funny, was able to joke about her cancer, and able to be hopeful through much of it. She had told me there was a woman in her cancer group who'd also had glioblastoma, and was twelve years past it.

Miracles do happen.

Unfortunately hers didn't happen fast enough.

As you'd imagine, the expenses that come with caring for someone with a terminal disease are enormous. And even though Amy is gone, those bills continue to roll in for Keith to navigate as he mourns the loss of the love of his ife.

If you're so inclined, there's a Go Fund Me set up to give some small relief to his devastatiing loss. I know he'd be more than appreciative.

On our check ins, and often during the work day, Amy would patiently listen to me complain (I know, so out of character) about issues I was having at work, and she'd unfailingly and fearlessly go to bat for me. Her department was her people, and she felt a responsibility to take care of us.

Amy was an artist, a dog mom, a wife, a boss and my friend. She was the kind of strong, opinionated, open, spirited person that immediately lights a room and makes you feel comfortable and part of her circle. In her case, the saying is absolutely true: while the world's a sadder place now that she's gone, it's a better place for her having been here.

Thank you for everything Amy. You'll always be in my heart. I'm glad the suffering is over.

And for crying out loud, enjoy the time off will ya? You've more than earned it.

Rest in peace.

Coming attractions

With everything going on in the world, you may not have noticed this hasn't been what anyone would call a productive year blogpost wise for me. I suppose one could speculate on the reasons for that.

You might chalk it up to pandemic malaise.

Or being too exhausted and thought out after spending my day writing for a leading cybersecurity company.

Maybe it was the sense a lot of ground I was going to cover had been covered. I mean how many posts about Springsteen, Breaking Bad and ad agency idiocy can one person read, let alone write.

It might've been that with incredibly entertaining, thoughful, hilarious, well-written blogs like Rich Siegel's Round Seventeen, and Jeff Eaker's Kingdom of Failure readily available on the interwebs, I didn't feel the need to keep throwing my URL in the ring.

But I finally figured out the reason. And it was right there in front of me the whole time.

As Will Patton said to Griffin Dunne in After Hours— "lack of discipline."

Not saying it was a total lack of discipline. Problem was it was the exact same amount I apply to my new year's resolutions to diet, exercise, get through my ever rising tower of unread books, clean the garage and, did I mention my diet?

You see where I'm going.

But like disco and eating at Five Guys, that's all behind me now.

I've gotten my second wind, and here at Rotation and Balance headquarters we're going to be ramping up the line.

Normally I don't like to tip my hand, show my cards, spill the beans or whatever the fuck that saying is. But because you may recall I've made this promise once or twice before here, I wanted to give you a little sneak preview of the topics that will be coming up in the next couple weeks for your reading and time-wasting pleasure.

There will be a fine piece on how I recently came out to my car one morning only to find out it'd been broken into and ransacked.

I'll have a little rant about LAX and all the joy that implies.

You can look forward to reading what a monumental prick Matthew Perry is (could he be any more of an asshole?).

There'll be a tribute to my friend and former boss Amy who passed away recently (#fuckcancer).

And, just in time for the holiday season, I'll have my musings on my experience giving the wife not one, but two Cameo videos from some of her favorite actors.

Those are just a few on the list, but there are many more to come.

So like shoulder pads, floral wallpaper and patchwork denim, I'm back.

Besides, if I'm writing I won't be eating. So there's hope for that diet resolution yet.

Back-to-back Tonys

I’ve often said my wife has a criminal mind. She’s demonstrated that many, many times in the course of our long, solid, loving, wonderful marriage (Ding! Ding! Ding! Marriage points!).

In the traditions we’ve come to cherish as a couple, one we always look forward to every couple of years is our binge of The Sopranos. Romantic, amIrite?

We recently finished this year’s viewing, but here’s where things took a turn. The minute we saw the very last scene in the final, controversial episode, she turned to me and said, “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, and being married to you makes me the luckiest girl in the world!”

Nah, I’m just funnin’ ya. She said let’s watch it again. The wife wanted to watch The Sopranos start to finish again after we’d just watched it start to finish.

What’reyougonnado?

So back to the beginning we went. This time, she took a deep dive, listening to the Talking Sopranos podcast with Michael Imperioli, who played Christopher Moltesanti, and Steven Schirripa who played Bobby Baccalieri.

This allowed her to give me the play-by-play and behind-the-scenes inside story to each episode we rewatched, while we were watching it.

And who doesn't love someone telling a story and talking over the tv when you're trying to watch one of your favorite shows.

Now, as you may know if you’ve followed this blog for any amount of time — and if you have, you might want to reconsider your priorities in life — I’ve binged Breaking Bad a crazy number of times (16). But Breaking Bad is a solo binge for me, because the wife finds that show too dark.

However, she has no problem at all with the plethora of inventive murders, strangulations, cursing, dismembering, horse-burning (we still miss you Pie-O-My), car crashes, strippers, raw sex, nudity and drug addiction portrayed on The Sopranos.

Now that I think about it, that either makes me the luckiest guy in the world, or someone who needs to sleep with one eye open.

An encore post for Labor Day: Dig it

I thought I'd wish you all a happy Labor Day this year with an encore post from nine years ago about the late labor leader Jimmy Hoffa. As you probably already know, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared mysteriously and has never been found. There's been much speculation he's either in various pieces in different states, or wearing cement shoes at the bottom of a lake.

Or as Tony Soprano would say, "He's in 'witness protection'".

Anyway, thank you to the work force that with dedication and determination keeps this country running year in and year out. It seems like there should be more than one day to celebrate their efforts.

Whatever you're doing today, take a moment to thank them, even if quietly to yourself.

Happy Labor Day. Please to enjoy.

There are some days when I think to myself I could be putting my time to better use. Like the ones when I’m just vegging out on the couch, watching Source Code for the thousandth time on cable and doing my impression of a vacuum cleaner slamming Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies down my throat.

But then I think at least I’m not out digging a hole looking for Jimmy Hoffa.

I don’t actually think that, but I could.

Once again, the FBI has a tip about where the body of the former union leader may be buried in Detroit. And once again, they’re breaking out the backhoes, shovels and forensic kits and going looking for him.

I think we know how this expedition ends.

This time it’s thanks to a tip from a former mob underboss named Tony Zerilli. He was the second in command of the Detroit mafia when Hoffa disappeared. While he doesn’t have direct involvement in the crime since he was in jail the day Hoffa disappeared, he alleges he found out the location of his body once he got out of prison.

By the way, Zerilli is 85-years old now. I'm not in the FBI, but if I were I'd have a lot of questions about how reliable his memory is.

The other question is who gains and who loses in the search? The FBI does both. Their inability to solve the Hoffa matter has been an embarrassment to them for over forty years - that’s why they keep trying. If they find his remains, their perseverance and skills are rewarded. If it turns out to be like Geraldo and The Mystery of Al Capone’s Vaults, they lose. Again.

At this point, no one else besides them and whoever is left in Hoffa's family really cares. The chances are just as good Hoffa was tossed in an incinerator and there’s not even a body to find.

Still, it makes for good folklore and so-so movies with Jack Nicolson.

Encore post: Around the block

Almost eleven years ago to the day, I put up this post about writer's block. In that time, not a lot has changed.

It's still an urban struggle for me to get my ever widening derriere in the chair and crank out a post. Fortunately I can always fall back on Encore Posts, re-posting an old article and prefacing it with a little introductory paragraph. That way I feel like I've written something, you feel like you're reading something new (except for the fact I've already told you it's not), and I can put off the real writing for another day.

It's what I like to call a win-win.

Anyway, the wife is back with the egg sausage sandwich from Dunkin' so I have to go, uh, "write" some more. Please to enjoy.

It's not hard to tell I'm not the world's most prolific writer/blogger. I'm also not the world's thinnest, but hey, who the f#&@ asked you?

I'd like to blame it on writer's block, but that would be too easy an out. Let's just call it for what it is: I've been a slug for the last couple of weeks.

In the time since I last posted, my friend Rich posted eight times to his blog. I'm constantly amazed at not just the quantity, but the quality of his posts. A prolific, thoughtful, humorous writer saying the many things that need to be said. That or a desperate cry for attention. You make the call.

Whichever, I should probably take a page from his book (I'd have to take a page from his book cause obviously I'm not writing any books of my own). I need to post more regularly.

I think if you start a blog, there's a responsibility to keep it fresh and interesting. Give the readers something new almost every time they visit. Of course, that pre-supposes I have readers. And now that I think about it, no one but me seems particularly upset there hasn't been a post in two weeks. Crap. That's motivating.

And the pisser is it's not like there aren't things to talk about. Penn State. Ashton and Demi. Iranian nuclear facilities that Israel is going to take out. Herman "No that's not a cigar, I am happy to see you" Cain. iPad 3. iPhone 5. Chinese spacecraft (launch one capsule and in a half hour you want to launch another one). The reopened Natalie Wood death investigation. That guy who took a shot at the White House. Justin Bieber.

Okay. Maybe not Justin Bieber.

Anyway, even if it's just for my own well-being, even if supply exceeds demand, I'm going to post more often.

It's like Lawrence Kasdan said, "Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life."

I was never very good at homework either.

Life unsubscribed

If you're anything like me—smart, talented, funny and...what's the word...oh yeah, humble—you can remember there was a time when opening email was something to look forward to. Most of those emails in the past came from friends that, because they're my friends, were funny, insightful, enlightening, thought-provoking and worth the time they took to read them.

But like cheap gas, my 32-inch waist and Springsteen tickets under five-thousand dollars, it was a long time ago.

The good emails gradually got overtaken by offers from Nigerian princes, barristers in London with multi-million dollar inheritances waiting for me, hot Ukranian girls who wanted to meet me (can you blame them?) and an assortment of enhancement, diet, prostate, muscle-building and relaxation pill offers.

I never opened them. I'd see the subject line, block the sender and mark it as junk mail.

In the same way baseball, leaves changing and pumpkin spice latte are seasonal, so is email. And in case you haven't noticed, right now we're in the heart of election season.

I've always been the kind of person to put my money where my mouth is, especially when it comes to electing democratic progressives and making sure we defeat all the nazi-lovin', election-denyin', vaccine-fearin', propaganda-spreadin', fear-mongerin', insurrection-incitin', trump-followin', top secret document-sellin', fascist-lovin', cult-obsessin', crazy-lyin' candidates and their base that make up today's GQP.

And if you're not getting the picture, let me make it a little clearer by bringing it down to a personal, one-on-one level in a way you can understand: if you support, identify with, condone, contribute to, defend or in any other way align your political, spiritual or social views with those of Cadet Bone Spurs, Gym Jordan, Marjorie Traitor Greene, Moscow Mitch, Snake Oil Dr. Mehmet Oz, "Little" Marco Rubio, Lauren Bobert, Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, Kevin McCarthy, Lindsey Graham, Ted Cruz or any one of the other cowardly, traitorous, brainwashed Republicans trying to take down democracy, then fuck you.

Twice.

Anyway, because I've donated to people and causes I believe in, my email address has found it's way onto lists for virtually every democratic candidate running in any race anywhere in the country this season. As a result, my inbox is being flamed with political messages all with subject lines like:

"It's not looking good"

"We're short of our goal"

"Respectfully asking"

"I need your help to defeat..."

"Have you seen our TV ad"

"Your contribution will help to..."

You get the idea.

I understand money is the lifeblood of politics. And while I've gladly and enthusiastically contributed several times to Raphael Warnock in Georgia, Val Demmings in Florida, AOC in NYC, Beto in Texas, Mark Kelly in Arizona and John Fetterman in Pennsylvania among others—and will continue to whenever I'm able—I just can't keep getting 75-80 emails a day asking me to pony up. Sometimes up to ten or more from the same candidate.

"Care to make that a recurring monthly donation?" No I do not.

So I've hit my limit and hit the unsubscribe link. Hopefully this will reduce the amount of daily political hat-in-hand posts that clog my inbox and take up far too much time deleting. I know who I want to donate to and the candidates I want to win, and I'll give as much as I can and do everything I can to make sure they do.

In the meantime, they'll have to trust that I'm thinking of them even if they're not hearing back from me. Ten times a day.

What did I miss

Did you miss me? Just kidding. It's a rhetorical question. I know the answer.

I missed you too. What I didn’t miss was any of the social media I’ve been on a cleanse from for the last three weeks.

Alright, maybe I missed it a little.

But you'll be glad to hear I went against all my only child instincts, the ones that scream I can do what I want because the world revolves around me, and stayed strong. I didn’t cave to temptation. I kept my scrolling thumbs otherwise engaged with chores like typing, turning pages on actual books (I’ll never use an e-reader, don’t get me started) and of course the remote since I used some of my reclaimed time to binge The Sopranos, start The Rehearsal and finish the latest season of For All Mankind.

Now that I've tried this little experiment, I’ve learned I can live quite well without Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Having said that, there are events in the world I do want to comment on in real time. Like the can't-happen-fast-enough inevitable indictment of Cadet Bone Spurs.

So I’m moving on to what I like to call the second phase of my cleanse. Behavior modification.

While moderation and I have never made good roommates—Breaking Bad sixteen times, Springsteen over 70 times, The Godfather a gazillion times, the craps tables at the Venetian more times than I remember, Disney's Tower of Terror fourteen times in a row—I’m going to give it another go.

My new regimen, like brushing my teeth and walking the dogs, will be twice a day. Once in the morning, and again in the early evening, a few hours before bedtime to make sure I'm still not seeing the iPhone screen on the inside of my eyelids when I close my eyes to hitch a ride to dreamland (another thing I can use my thumbs for).

I’ll also be challenging myself to limit my two daily scrolls to fifteen minutes each, which to my new way of thinking gives me more than enough time to read through new posts, wish everyone happy birthday and anniversary, reply to all with the clever snark, razor-sharp wit, keen insight and borrowed memes you’ve come to expect from me. Then I'll sign off.

That’s right. To make it just a little less appealing, I'll be logging in and out each and every time I go online. No point in leaving the apps open and tempting temptation.

And if I'm bored during the hours in between—say waiting in a doctor's office, standing in line or wondering why curbside service is taking so damn long to bring my burger out to the car—I'll just find something else to occupy my time.

So it's official. Starting today, I’m back baby. Go ahead, hit the smiley emoji, read the hashtags and AMA.