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typical guy, atypical situationa solid soul trapped inside of a broken body
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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?
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 daySo 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 ...just a phase?Blink. Blink. Blink. The cursor on your monitor flashes at you expectantly, almost impatiently. Suddenly you are five years old again, and your mom is standing in the doorway with her hands at her hips, tapping her toe like only a late mother can, as you frantically stuff the Lego's she "told you to start picking up 15 minutes ago," back into the big blue bucket. You pause for a fraction of a second, doting on one of your creations, and she pulls out the big guns: your full name. Nothing turns a lollygagging child into an organizational genius better than their own handle, broken down monosyllabicly with terrifying inflection. Health-ScareA nurse mentions surgery as my consciousness quickly fades. Most of the next week or so is blurred by a morphine haze. I wake up in a neck brace, and realize I have absolutely no feeling below my armpits. The muscles in my neck are on fire with pain. I have a feeding tube in each nostril and my arms are littered with over a dozen intravenous lines. A machine is breathing for me. Is this really happening? This must be a dream. Suddenly the memories come flooding back. A ski jump. A sled ride. A helicopter. A hospital visitor plays with my hair and brushes over a thick scab. Shortness of breath. A clamp screwed into my skull. A doctor trying to "realign" my spine. Nothing but horrifying snapshots of chaos, confusion and pain. Many of these memories will go on to haunt my dreams forever. Of the eighteen nights I spend in the intensive care unit, I sleep only one. This is mainly because the countless monitors I am attached to sound off relentlessly throughout the night. The nursing staff tells me that these monitors are networked to every patient on the floor, so when it beeps three times, it's me... twice, it's someone in another room. I suffer endless anxiety attacks, because every time I hear a beep, I can never remember if it was the second or the third. Adding insult to injury, the ventilator tubes in my trachea block any air from passing over my vocal chords, leaving me without a voice. I mouth words to people, most of which they cannot decipher, and I must resort to spelling words out letter by letter. Having no voice makes my nights even more unbearable. I'm left alone for just minutes, but it feels like hours. Panic sets in after losing count of the monitor beeps, and I know I need drugs to combat it. Problem is, I have no way to call for help. All I can do is I stare out the door and watch as my nurse passes by a number of times. Completely helpless, I begin to cry. Teams of doctors invade my room with SWAT-like efficiency all hours of the day, barking orders back and forth. They never look at me, talk to me, or even say my name. I'm referred to only by my condition: C3-C4 complete quadriplegic. They disappear as fast as they came in, leaving me, my family and the nursing staff without a clue as to what transpired. When we finally corner one of them, he callously informs us that I will never move again, and there is a high probability that I will never breathe again on my own either. More tears. One morning, a doctor wrongly informs me that I am being sent home because there's simply nothing left they can do for me. Two days later, another doctor comes in and tells me they're moving me to a hospital more than two hours away from my home for rehab. Another false statement. Finally, after two and a half weeks of what seems like an eternity in hell, I'm finally transferred to a rehab facility close to home. Little do I know, my struggles have only just begun. Just a few weeks into rehab, I find out that the short-term health insurance policy I purchased after graduating college does not cover medical equipment for the home, forcing me to go through Washington State's Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS) in order to pay for these necessities. This means that every single piece of equipment I need requires lengthy letters of justification from both a doctor and a therapist before the DSHS will even consider covering my medical expenses. I'm warned that nearly every request is denied the first few times, calling for further explanation as to why each item is absolutely vital. My request for a wheelchair is turned down at first because DSHS doesn't think I need footrests. Suddenly I'm face-to-face with my government's absurd health-care system. Prior to my accident, I viewed politics as nothing more than semantics. "Why should I vote? It's not like any of this will ever affect me directly." I can't help but recognize the irony. The system I once paid absolutely no attention to is now the very system I must rely upon. A system that lacks compassion and even logic at times. After developing a deep pressure sore on my tailbone, I become painfully aware just how backwards the system is. One of my physical therapists informs me that skin breakdown is one of the biggest causes of compromised health for quadriplegics and paraplegics. I learn that pressure ulcers can lead to life-threatening blood infections, which can ultimately lead to amputations. Because of my limited mobility, I will have to be extremely careful with my positioning for the rest of my life. I find out that sleeping on an air mattress will greatly reduce the risk of skin breakdown. In the next breath, I am told that unfortunately, this is one of the items DSHS refuses to pay for. In the event that I develop a pressure sore at home (downright inevitable on a normal mattress), an air mattress will be rented for me until it heals, and taken away afterwards. Financially, this makes no sense. Instead of spending a few thousand dollars on a piece of equipment that almost single-handedly prevents skin breakdown, the state will rent me an air mattress indefinitely, only to take it away for a few months until I develop another problem? Apparently so. For some reason, they would much rather pay tens of thousands of dollars on amputations, repetitive reconstructive surgeries and extended hospital stays than make a relatively small one-time investment that would not only save taxpayers money, but also prevent me further pain and mental anguish. Soon, the term "health-care" begins to feel like an oxymoron. All I see is an industry overridden with redundant stipulations that has become so sterile and heartless it makes people feel more like burdens than patients. I begin to experience the miles of red tape that have caused rehab facilities to forget that "rehab" is short for rehabilitation. The focus is solely on getting a patient physically ready to survive outside the hospital without much consideration for the huge emotional adjustment that is needed as well. Though my therapists object to my discharge, they are forced to let me go because the only thing that truly matters to the state is that I worked my way off the ventilator. When I leave the hospital, I'm in no way prepared for life as a quadriplegic. Now, I realize that it might be hard for DSHS committees to fully understand my plight, considering most of them have never found themselves in direct need of these benefits, but it's still no excuse. I find myself almost wishing some of these men and women would see someone close to them end up in a position like mine, as sadistic as it sounds. But if that's the only way they will understand the devastating effects of their decisions, perhaps it's necessary. If nothing else, they can expect a continuous stream of letters and e-mails from me until changes are made. Because as it stands now, my life as a state dependent quadriplegic will be unnecessarily difficult due to a system lacking perspective and compassion, a system that seems to be working against the very people it was designed to protect. I knew the second I woke up on that mountain that I was paralyzed. I had no idea, however, how far my struggles with both my body and my government would take me. I'm currently gathering as much information as I can to present a strong case to my local congressman because, while there is nothing I can do to change my physical situation, I can try to change my political one. All I can do now is stay informed, make my voice heard, and hope it doesn't take such extreme measures for the rest of the politically apathetic members of my generation to reconsider their obligations as citizens. Because as you can see, it's a harsh reality to face; finding out that the health-care system you unknowingly put into place by your lack of participation doesn't really care at all. Make your markSo I was sitting in my hospital room the other day, high on a cocktail of morphine and Ativan (breakfast of champions), when my buddy Big Jim walked in. Yep, you read correct... my hospital room. Around 11 o'clock one Saturday last month, I started to get the chills, but didn't think much of it. Just wrap me up in some warm towels, and call it good, right? Wrong. An hour later, I was rocking a fever of 104° with a mean case of the shakes while throwing up like a champion. Sweet. The last time I had similar symptoms, it was 5 a.m. on Christmas morning two years ago, when Santa, the bastard, left a nice, neat little emergency kidney stone surgery in my stocking (not to mention three more scattered over the next few months). Good times. After about an hour or so of intense denial about the need to go to the ER, I finally gave in, and was whisked away in one of the local fire department's red and white chariots, complete with sirens and flashing lights. Go big or go home, yeah? Another few hours of blank stares from ER doctors, and I was admitted with what was deemed just a really bad bladder infection, with no real explanation, or concern for that matter, as to why I was shaking like an epileptic in the throes of a grand mall. Solution? Bring on the drugs, baby. We finally discovered the culprit after a couple days, a negative CT scan of my kidneys and more than my share of early-morning (see: butt-crack of dawn) blood tests. It turned out to be a fairly mean case of cellulitis on my left thigh from my knee all the way up past my hip. New, much more advanced solution? Some battery acid-like antibiotics, more than a week in "the joint" and, you guessed it, even more drugs. Hooray for me. Considering the loopy-as-hell state I was in, it's a miracle I remember Jim's visit at all. Big Jim was one of my physical therapists in rehab after I got hurt. On the outside, he's one intimidating guy, complete with a shaved head, some burly tattoos and more muscle than most would consider humanly possible. The tough exterior is completely betrayed, however, by the permanent smile he wears, and the unwavering positive attitude he brings to the hospital each day. We had an instant bond through wrestling, because his boy Zack can only be described as an absolute stud in the sport. Well, the word "phenom" also comes to mind... so does "beast." Anyways... By the time this kid reaches middle school, he will probably have wrestled in, and won, more matches and major tournament titles than I did in my entire 12 year career. I have an autographed T-shirt... and you think I'm kidding. I've followed the boy's success solely through his proud father's stories, and I could tell by the smile on his face that morning that he had a yet another doozy for me. I'm just glad he showed up in between hallucinations, or else this story would be about purple trolls wrestling in sequined jumpsuits or something. A deep, booming voice teamed with animated deliveries, Jim's wrestling tales are never lacking in the entertainment department. This particular story came from one of the many wrestling camps the big man and his beast of a child attended over the summer. While watching a coach show a high-percentage scoring maneuver during the technique portion of the day, Jim could have sworn he recognized the name of the move, but could not place where from. As the session came to a close, the man sat all the kids down and told them that the technique they had just learned was named after a rather successful wrestler he knew who used it to win a lot of big matches throughout both high school and college. This man, who was paralyzed in a tragic skiing accident, always had a great work ethic and an even better attitude. The name of the move was of course... "the Salvini." Jim could not recall the man's name as he told me the story that day, but he didn't have to because he's a friend of mine. His name is Randy Connelly, and he was the head wrestling coach at my old high school when I was away at college. The epitome of the word "coach," Randy's competitive spirit is overshadowed only by his passion for his sport, which tends to spread like wildfire throughout his teams. Every time I came home on a holiday break, he eagerly turned practices (sometimes full weeks) over to me with the hopes that what I had learned from competing at a higher level would be passed on to his kids. I can still remember his enthusiasm the day I first showed "the Salvini" to his guys during a practice over the Thanksgiving break. And so it is, I have officially made my mark on the sport that helped make me who I am today. Now, I have always been a firm believer that when we finally do leave this world, each of us will be remembered based upon a few key moments in our lives. Because of this, I always tried (keyword: tried) to carry myself accordingly. The way I saw it, no matter where you are, or what you're doing, you never truly know who might be watching and, especially when it comes to younger people, possibly looking up to you. Did the move get its name because I created it? Sorry, I didn't. Because I was the best wrestler ever, perhaps? Sadly, I wasn't. Or is it more likely that kids halfway across the state are learning "the Salvini" not because of what I did, but because of who I was? How will you make your mark? How do you want to be remembered? The best manIt was a warm spring afternoon during the spring of my sophomore year as I wandered in to Hebeler Hall on the southwest corner of Central Washington University. My mission? To apply for acceptance into the Electronics Engineering Technology (EET) major. My motivation? Not exactly academic: I was about to enter my third season of wrestling and needed to have a major declared in order to maintain my NCAA eligibility. When my dad had mentioned electronics, it seemed just challenging enough to keep me from sleeping through the rest of school. By the time I was handed my diploma three years later, I was seriously second-guessing the decision I'd made. A program that, with 138 credits for the major alone, looked pretty formidable on paper, ended up being littered with classes taught by professors that were more interested in their paychecks than your education. Granted, I had a pretty kick-ass résumé, boasting an engineering degree with minors in both mathematics and computer science, but I was in no way confident with the education I had received. That, and I could not avoid the sneaking suspicion I had that maybe I should have majored in something else (can we say English? Journalism, perhaps?) But given the chance to go back and possibly get a degree that more suits me, there's no way I could do it for one specific reason: I wouldn't want to risk not crossing paths with a guy named Jeff Weber. My best buddy Mark and I met the man we call Web-Dog one day in the electronics lab. With his off-the-wall sense of humor and laid-back attitude, we totally hit it off, and were best friends from then on. We ended up taking almost every class in the major together, working on projects and labs side-by-side, and "cooperating" on the countless take-home exams we were given. The three of us were a perfect team; Mark was our project manager that always excelled in front of the crowd, I was the number cruncher who was good with the exams, and Jeff was the responsible one, the glue that held us all together, because Mark and I always tended to be a little on the slacker side. Looking back, I don't know how we would have graduated without each other's help. Jeff is one of those guys I think every man hopes they have the capacity to become one day. With a firm handle on what matters most in life, namely family and friendships, he has this uncanny ability to let that which does not concern him truly slide. He is the greatest friend you could possibly wish for, because you know he's always looking out for you, and only wants the best for everyone in his life. Plus, you can always count on him to call you out when you start to lose focus on what's really important. He is the most driven man I know, constantly looking for ways to better himself as a person, as a man, and as a friend, and anyone that knows him, knows great things lie ahead of him. Last Saturday, Jeff married his longtime girlfriend, Kristal, in a small ceremony in town. At a glance, the new Mrs. Weber's timeless beauty and electric smile conjure images of the silver screen stars from the past, but a two-minute conversation with her quickly reveals the true beauty she harbors inside. With a genuinely kind heart and a compassionate soul, she is probably one of the sweetest girls you will ever have the chance to meet, and I could not imagine a more perfect woman for one of my very best friends. But as amazing as these people are individually, the relationship they have together is what shines brightest of all. For the past five years or so, I've been fortunate enough to witness, firsthand, a special kind of love, respect and unwavering support that two people share which most people spend their entire lives dreaming about, and only the lucky few actually get to experience. What makes their connection even more amazing, is that as the weeks/months/years have passed by, and life has hit its peaks and valleys, they've managed to hang on to the one thing that's most important to them: each other. As long as I've known him, I've looked up to Jeff like he was my older, much wiser brother. So it really came as no surprise when, while Mark and I watched him exchange vows with his bride (who could not have looked more beautiful on her big day) that this thought crossed my mind: no offense to the great guys that were standing next to him, but the groom in this wedding was by far best man in the room. Credit where it's dueI have a confession. I'm not fully responsible for all the content of this blog. Don't get me wrong, the words are all mine, no one else's.... it's just the subject matter I can't claim as all my own. By now you've noticed that most of my stories have some sort of inspiration behind them. My paralysis, past experiences, depression, friendships, family and even some of you play a major role in the tales I tell. I would like you to meet someone special whose voice can still be heard indirectly through mine with everything I write. Everyone, say hello to Brittany.  (crappy apartment numero uno, circa 2001) I think I want a blogA friend said that to me a year ago today. Blog... blog... the term seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I heard it before? Weren't "blogs" those Dutch wooden shoes? No wait, "Blög" was the name of that entertainment center that I saw in the IKEA catalog last week, right? She laughed. When she told me what a blog REALLY was, and that she wanted me to do one also, it was my turn to laugh. Somewhat perturbedI'm extremely bored and slightly annoyed at the moment. Maybe it's the fact that I'm completely over-thinking my writing lately, and it would be easier for me to do a back flip than get out a complete thought these days, I don't know. I find myself wondering if the true reason I'm so frustrated is the realization I made a couple days ago that I will never be on Last Comic Standing... think about it... wait for it... yeah. Sucks for me. Whatever the hell my problem is, it needs to go away. Pronto. I need to do something. A few ideas have crossed my mind that may need further investigation. After someone pointed out www.dooce.com, and the fact that this broad FULLY supports her family just with the money from advertising on her blog, I have decided it's something I should look into. I mean, shit, The Man (MSN) is making money off my writing... why can't I? Of course, this will require my becoming edumakated in the cyber kung fu that is and to web design, but that shouldn't be too difficult... I'm spry, or least I used to be. And, you know I will have TONS of advertisers just kicking the door down from the get-go. Seriously, can you think of a better place for The Gap to market Crippled Khaki??? I didn't think so. My good buddy Web offered up another decent suggestion when he and his wonderful fiancé were visiting last night: the stock market. Not really sure why that monster has always scared me so much... it's just calculated gambling, right? I never seemed to have much of a problem blowing $80 at the local casino's blackjack tables, why not try my hand at this? It has to be at least SOMEWHAT safer, yeah? Who knows, if I play my cards right, I might just make enough to be able to fund my long-awaited TV show, Queer Eye for The Crippled Guy, thus completing my plan of interstellar domination. At the moment though, I've been keeping myself thoroughly entertained with some moviemaking software I've found. The past few days, I have been transferring my old 8mm wrestling videos onto my hard drive, and toying with putting them all together in some sort of a DVD. Is it just me, or did Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days" just start playing in the background? Word, Boss, word. And look at that... a few complete thoughts. Crappy thoughts, but thoughts nonetheless. Hooray for me. A kind request Just a quick note to anyone that is planning to visit me anytime soon. Could you do me a favor next time you're here? Pet my damn dog, would ya? I mean, seriously... she's almost 17 years old, completely deaf and pretty much blind. What's worse, she's riddled with arthritis, and my parents decided to put hardwood floors throughout the entire house this last summer. It's bad enough that she barely has enough strength to get up on carpet, now every time she wants a drink of water, it's a friggin reproduction of Bambi on Ice. And then to top it all off, her best friend doesn't so much as lift a finger when she walks in the room anymore! That's gotta be confusing as all hell, don't you think? I wonder what goes through her head. "I spend my whole life being the sweetest dog on the planet, sitting, staying, fetching, etc.... and this is how these bastards repay me? The guy that used to play with me all the time, just sits around in that rolling chair all day, and they turned the downstairs into a god damn slip and slide! Sure doesn't make it any easier to get away from those littler weasels that always chase me around and pull my tail. Oh well, at least they tend to drop food every now and then." So yeah, next time you come by, show Tess some love, okay? Good talk. Guardian angelA little over two years ago, tragedy struck my family in the form of a skiing accident. With one crash landing, life went from a calm walk in the park to a whirlwind of chaos and pain. As I laid there, confused and terrified in a hospital bed, my family was wracked with grief and overwhelmed by doctors, nurses, therapists and social workers. And while morphine robbed me of most my initial hospital memories, I'll never forget how it felt when she walked in my room. My guardian angel didn't have a halo or wings... just black hair and tanned skin. She came to my bedside, and I mouthed two words... "Hey Ma." A not-so-quick shout outYes, i just used the term "shout out". Don't judge. Moving on... Looking back, I can honestly say I'm proud of my achievements in wrestling. I was a scholarship collegiate athlete, a four-year starter in the NCAA, and came within inches of being crowned All-American. Granted, it was barely a quarter scholarship, I didn't start full-time until late in my sophomore season, and it was Division II; that kind of resume could STILL lead some to believe that I'm the great athlete of the Salvini clan. Oh, not so fast. With a dad that was a California high school standout in both baseball AND football, and a sister that would have probably waterskied professionally had it not been for a terrible knee injury suffered in her mid-teens, I always just assumed I had a firm grip on the number three spot in the family. That is, until last week. | ||||||||||||||||||
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