I've been looking forward to my upcoming trip to South Bend for my speaking gig on Thursday because not only do I love that city, but I haven't had any extended time off of work since last Christmas. I can tell I need some time away because I've just been frustrated, not necessarily with work - that's been good - but with relationships, and some friendships, and a lot of women. That's when I know I need to get away and clear my head.
I thought today was going to be another exercise in frustration when my work line rings. I didn't recognize the number but picked it up anyway, and instantly heard the familiar voice of a community colleague, radio DJ Xavier "The X-Man" Hernandez of Magic 92.5-FM. The next two minutes were just surreal.
I had registered for a contest, at Karen Madden's urging, to win tickets to a private performance by Brian McKnight for 92 listeners. Then K-Mad said she couldn't go but that I should apply anyway because both myself and my pal Colleen McDonald are huge McKnight fans. Besides, she said, all it requires is a sappy essay on why you deserve the tickets, in 92 words or less. Right up my alley!
But since I'd submitted my essay nearly a month ago and hadn't heard anything, I figured my prose about Colleen's encouragement during the Rock 'n' Roll Marathon wasn't sappy enough. Maybe I should've written that I lost my limbs saving a Brian McKnight CD from a burning building?
So X-Man says, "You know why we're calling, right?" In an instant I realized 'we' were on the air and my mind went blank and mouth turned dry.
"Um, no," I responded.
"Well let me read your letter then!" And he did, citing word for word how doing the RnR in 2010 and 2011 changed my outlook on life.
"Alex, tell me about Colleen."
My response: "Well, she's a great friend...who's always provided me a lot of encouragement...and I just really value her...because she's just, um, uhhhh....really encouraging."
I then proceeded to bang the phone receiver against my forehead.
"That's...nice," says X-Man. "Alright, brotha, well you and your friend won TWO FREE PASSES to the exclusive Brian McKnight VIP show on December 15. Enjoy the show!"
I said WOO-HOO and thanked him and Magic and texted Coll, who was ecstatic. I sounded like a blathering idiot but what a shot in the arm amid a so-so day.
I'll leave the smoothness to McKnight. I just hope we can get a picture with him!
I really look forward to South Bend and, like I said, maybe just need to let some relationships and women go. This concert gives me something to look forward to in December.
Showing posts with label Karen Madden. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Karen Madden. Show all posts
Monday, November 28, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
What Heavy D. Meant to Hip-Hop and to Me
At work I have a close friend, Karen Madden, with whom I've attended concerts, participated in endurance races, and shared many conversations about likes and dislikes. We know each other well. So when she walked over to my desk today, stopped, didn't say anything, and kind of looked at me like she wanted to say something but didn't want to say something, I knew it was not good news. She's only given me that look once before in the five years we've worked together, when she heard something within our job didn't go well and I'd be asked about it. So I instantaneously knew this wasn't a crisis. But I knew it wasn't good.
"TMZ just reported," she said, and then paused, "Heavy D. is dead."
Whaaat?
It was so random and sudden. I looked online and verified it and still couldn't believe it. What was crazy was just days earlier I'd seen a new or recent video of his and he'd lost a lot of weight! "He looks good but what do we call him now?" I'd asked K-Mad. "Vitamin D?"
I can't believe that one of the first rappers I genuinely followed is gone, just like that.
I first started really liking hip-hop late in junior high. Previously, I knew of Sugar Hill Gang, but they were like disco era; Grandmaster Flash, who was cool but he and his Furious Five were just that, a little too furious; and LL Cool J, who I respected but he embodied the gold-chain, sideways hat clique that just seemed kind of silly. So admittedly I gravitated more toward pop and R&B.
And I'm still more of an R&B guy. But then 1988 happened.
We all have a year or period we tend to romanticize and this is one of mine. The Fighting Irish won the national championship in football and I fell in love with them. The economy was great. My favorite group, New Edition, had a comeback album. Fades were fresh and high and clothes were colorful. And a new breed of rappers were emerging, primarily from the East Coast, whose lyricism was being heard all the way in my corner of the country, San Diego.
KRS-One. Dougie Fresh. Kool Moe Dee. Big Daddy Kane. MC Lyte. Public Enemy. Tribe Called Quest. Slick Rick.
And one Heavy D., who I'm ashamed to say I still don't know his real name without Googling it.
Now here was a rapper. Quick with a flip of the tongue and clever with a rhyme. He had a crew behind him - "The Boyz" - and they were DJ's, dancers, and singers. That was emblematic of his sound - smooth, catchy, something to which you could easily dance.
And dance he did. It stood out because Heavy D. was, well, heavy. He was a big man. It was as unavoidable as his thick, black goatee and everpresent darkened glasses.
Yet there he was, on "Yo! MTV Raps" or "Fade To Black", pirouetting, spinning, or - the iconic dance move of our generation - doing the Running Man. Hey, go ahead and laugh but when a dance move is done two decades later, if even mockingly, then it's stood the test of time. Heavy would do the Running Man and Cabbage Patch and then either rail against urban street crime or seduce women with his smoothness.
He was versatile. He would crack you up in 1988 with Girls, the girls they love me / 'Cause I'm the Overweight Lover Heavy D. And then he would add punch and credibility to the 1989 ensemble Self-Destruction (for my money one of the best rap songs ever), a USA-for-Africaesque collection of artists pleading for fans to stop stupid violence. And then in 1991 he bowled us over with Now That We Found Love and Is It Good To You, both songs a nod to the radio-friendly, New Jack Swing sound that was taking hip-hop from the underground to the mainstream.
He was dapper. He didn't wear the gold ropes or huge rings other rappers did, but they never begrudged his cardigan sweaters and silky slacks. Yet he was still very street and very respected. Then, in the mid-1990s, always ahead of the curve, Heavy D. was at the forefront of rappers transitioning to acting. Go back and look at his scenes with another pioneering rapper/actor, Queen Latifah, in the sitcom Living Single. It was pure gold and paved the way for Ice T, Ice Cube, and even LL and Will Smith to go from one-dimensional rappers to world-famous actors.
But what I appreciate most was this. Go back to 1988, that romanticized period in my life. I was a kid and as much as I enjoyed the times, I really didn't enjoy me. I had big glasses, thick hair, and three prosthetics. All kids and teens are self-conscious but I was especially so.
Then this big rapper appears on my TV screen and in my radio, proclaiming that he is The Overweight Lover. And you know what? "Girls, the girls they loved him." It was an epiphany. Instead of taking something the world considered a blemish or a blight - his weight - Heavy D. embraced it! He owned it, loved it, and made it a huge positive (not to mention lucrative).
So I started calling myself, that's right, The Handicapped Lover. Yep, even did freestyle rhymes about it at school and impressed many girls.
Now, eventually I grew to disdain that word and chose handi-capable and eventually the more socially acceptable "person with a disability". But this was 1990, man, I was young and I was not embarassed to use the word 'handicapped'. It was what I was physically and if I could accept that, and accept myself, then people could accept me - physically, emotionally, spiritually, unconditionally.
I learned all that from one rap artist.
Sadly, hip-hop has devolved and regressed. At the risk of sounding old (which I am) but even worse, stodgy, rap is not what it used to be. What used to be a beautiful collection of rhymes and storytelling is now an amalgm of bragging, sexual exploits, and violent grandstanding. Radio elevated hip-hop music and has now completely watered it down. It saddens me. Seriously.
Only once in a great while, maybe on a reunion tour or VH-1 special do you see the legends like KRS, Q-Tip, or Lyte. I saw Public Enemy a couple summers ago with my pal Colleen McD at the Street Scene Festival in San Diego, and though Chuck D. was a booming menace, Flavor Flav had degenerated into a reality-show joke. Much love to Flav but come on. Where has the royalty of rap's golden generation gone?
One is in heaven now and he can rest comfortably knowing that he impacted the music world. Heavy D. was a brilliant writer, poet, entertainer, actor, producer, and showman. And to one gawky young teen, he was an inspiration. A light like that never goes out of style.
"TMZ just reported," she said, and then paused, "Heavy D. is dead."
Whaaat?
It was so random and sudden. I looked online and verified it and still couldn't believe it. What was crazy was just days earlier I'd seen a new or recent video of his and he'd lost a lot of weight! "He looks good but what do we call him now?" I'd asked K-Mad. "Vitamin D?"
I can't believe that one of the first rappers I genuinely followed is gone, just like that.
I first started really liking hip-hop late in junior high. Previously, I knew of Sugar Hill Gang, but they were like disco era; Grandmaster Flash, who was cool but he and his Furious Five were just that, a little too furious; and LL Cool J, who I respected but he embodied the gold-chain, sideways hat clique that just seemed kind of silly. So admittedly I gravitated more toward pop and R&B.
And I'm still more of an R&B guy. But then 1988 happened.
We all have a year or period we tend to romanticize and this is one of mine. The Fighting Irish won the national championship in football and I fell in love with them. The economy was great. My favorite group, New Edition, had a comeback album. Fades were fresh and high and clothes were colorful. And a new breed of rappers were emerging, primarily from the East Coast, whose lyricism was being heard all the way in my corner of the country, San Diego.
KRS-One. Dougie Fresh. Kool Moe Dee. Big Daddy Kane. MC Lyte. Public Enemy. Tribe Called Quest. Slick Rick.
And one Heavy D., who I'm ashamed to say I still don't know his real name without Googling it.
Now here was a rapper. Quick with a flip of the tongue and clever with a rhyme. He had a crew behind him - "The Boyz" - and they were DJ's, dancers, and singers. That was emblematic of his sound - smooth, catchy, something to which you could easily dance.
And dance he did. It stood out because Heavy D. was, well, heavy. He was a big man. It was as unavoidable as his thick, black goatee and everpresent darkened glasses.
Yet there he was, on "Yo! MTV Raps" or "Fade To Black", pirouetting, spinning, or - the iconic dance move of our generation - doing the Running Man. Hey, go ahead and laugh but when a dance move is done two decades later, if even mockingly, then it's stood the test of time. Heavy would do the Running Man and Cabbage Patch and then either rail against urban street crime or seduce women with his smoothness.
He was versatile. He would crack you up in 1988 with Girls, the girls they love me / 'Cause I'm the Overweight Lover Heavy D. And then he would add punch and credibility to the 1989 ensemble Self-Destruction (for my money one of the best rap songs ever), a USA-for-Africaesque collection of artists pleading for fans to stop stupid violence. And then in 1991 he bowled us over with Now That We Found Love and Is It Good To You, both songs a nod to the radio-friendly, New Jack Swing sound that was taking hip-hop from the underground to the mainstream.
He was dapper. He didn't wear the gold ropes or huge rings other rappers did, but they never begrudged his cardigan sweaters and silky slacks. Yet he was still very street and very respected. Then, in the mid-1990s, always ahead of the curve, Heavy D. was at the forefront of rappers transitioning to acting. Go back and look at his scenes with another pioneering rapper/actor, Queen Latifah, in the sitcom Living Single. It was pure gold and paved the way for Ice T, Ice Cube, and even LL and Will Smith to go from one-dimensional rappers to world-famous actors.
But what I appreciate most was this. Go back to 1988, that romanticized period in my life. I was a kid and as much as I enjoyed the times, I really didn't enjoy me. I had big glasses, thick hair, and three prosthetics. All kids and teens are self-conscious but I was especially so.
Then this big rapper appears on my TV screen and in my radio, proclaiming that he is The Overweight Lover. And you know what? "Girls, the girls they loved him." It was an epiphany. Instead of taking something the world considered a blemish or a blight - his weight - Heavy D. embraced it! He owned it, loved it, and made it a huge positive (not to mention lucrative).
So I started calling myself, that's right, The Handicapped Lover. Yep, even did freestyle rhymes about it at school and impressed many girls.
Now, eventually I grew to disdain that word and chose handi-capable and eventually the more socially acceptable "person with a disability". But this was 1990, man, I was young and I was not embarassed to use the word 'handicapped'. It was what I was physically and if I could accept that, and accept myself, then people could accept me - physically, emotionally, spiritually, unconditionally.
I learned all that from one rap artist.
Sadly, hip-hop has devolved and regressed. At the risk of sounding old (which I am) but even worse, stodgy, rap is not what it used to be. What used to be a beautiful collection of rhymes and storytelling is now an amalgm of bragging, sexual exploits, and violent grandstanding. Radio elevated hip-hop music and has now completely watered it down. It saddens me. Seriously.
Only once in a great while, maybe on a reunion tour or VH-1 special do you see the legends like KRS, Q-Tip, or Lyte. I saw Public Enemy a couple summers ago with my pal Colleen McD at the Street Scene Festival in San Diego, and though Chuck D. was a booming menace, Flavor Flav had degenerated into a reality-show joke. Much love to Flav but come on. Where has the royalty of rap's golden generation gone?
One is in heaven now and he can rest comfortably knowing that he impacted the music world. Heavy D. was a brilliant writer, poet, entertainer, actor, producer, and showman. And to one gawky young teen, he was an inspiration. A light like that never goes out of style.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Meeting Marshall and Floating Away
Now that baseball season is over, I hope to write more frequently. What I'll do today is take some recent experiences I've had and describe to you some realizations that have occurred within them.
As you know I think a lot about life and who I am and where I'm going and for what purpose. One thing that has struck me lately is that life is a journey - we've all heard that analogy before - but often times it is different types of journies. Sometimes you choose where that journey is headed. Other times it's best to sit back and, quite frankly, let the journey take you.
For example, it was tough recently saying goodbye to a spate of co-workers, each of whom continued their professional journies elsewhere for a variety of reasons. Peanut (see last blog), Big Wull, Joycey, Gerry, K-Mo, LEvans, CoCo - I will miss seeing each one every day. Especially for a guy like me who treasures relationships and is resistant to change, it's - like Boyz II Men sings - So Hard To Say Goodbye.
But when life gets frustrating and sad sometimes you need to just stop and let whatever happens happens. This dawned upon me when our staff was treated last week to a three-hour cruise <insert Gilligan music> on the San Diego Bay. It was cold. It was drizzling. It was really quite miserable weather. But you know what? We were relaxing, there was a cash bar and some munchies, and it was a chill day to just sit and laugh and talk with your close friends or people to whom you don't get to talk to much. We had two choices: keep looking at your BlackBerry at e-mails rolling in or just live in the moment and enjoy an afternoon off from the bustle. I chose the latter. It felt great.
Then sometimes you need to just start anew and clear your mind and life. For me that was best represented by teaming up with K-Mad and tearing down the monstrosity known as my cubicle. I'm a hoarder and a pack rat. So I finally had to either give away memorabilia or take it home, clean out files, and reorganize my work space. It took two evenings and one almost full work day but we did it. And it feels like a brand new start.
And yet, finally, there are times you gotta just be aggressive, b-e aggressive. Over the summer you may recall I blogged about meeting Marshall Faulk at Drew Brees' charity event and asking him for a picture. Mr. Faulk's response was that he'd "be right back to do it." He left to handle some biz and did indeed come back to my area. But he didn't say anything so neither did I - I have my pride. Well, this past week my buddy Adam Kinowski invited me to a fundraiser Marshall was holding. I could've easily said no way am I asking him twice. But he is a Hall of Famer and I do like that my job affords me the opportunity to interact with athletes, many of whom I grew up watching. So I didn't want to let pride become foolish pride.
I went to the event. And on a glistening October evening at the SDSU Alumni Center, I watched Marshall make his opening remarks and then planted myself to where he'd be departing the stage. I asked for a pic, he granted it, he looked away, and when I raised my hook to shake his hand, he looked at me like, "Oh wow. This is different." I said God bless and went on my way. It was a cool moment for me and hopefully a bit of an eye-opener for him. I don't have the picture on this blog but do on my Facebook.
One more story. The day after that awesome event I did a 5K with K-Mad, Suebie, Katie, Jackie, A.T., Kawachi, and his brother Kyle. Pad Squad and Friar came to support too. Represent! It was at the old Naval Training Center in Point Loma, which has many zig-zagged pathways. On this warm morning, my teammates broke away but my friends Michao and Andres were there so we walked together. Well, somehow we either made a wrong turn, or went too far on the second leg, because we completely went off course. We went around the NTC and by the time we were back on the path, the finish line was on the horizon. I missed probably a good mile out of the 3.1. Of course, my walk teammates and work teammates have ribbed me ever since. I'm a cheat, I'm a liar, I'm a shortcut-taker. All I can do is laugh. And wonder where in the heck my internal GPS failed me.
Sometimes you have to be alert to stay on the right path. Sometimes you need extra aggressiveness. Sometimes you overhaul and clean as a means of moving forward. And sometimes you just float and let life and God guide you. The key is to learn which one applies at which time. That, I think, is the secret to happiness.
As you know I think a lot about life and who I am and where I'm going and for what purpose. One thing that has struck me lately is that life is a journey - we've all heard that analogy before - but often times it is different types of journies. Sometimes you choose where that journey is headed. Other times it's best to sit back and, quite frankly, let the journey take you.
For example, it was tough recently saying goodbye to a spate of co-workers, each of whom continued their professional journies elsewhere for a variety of reasons. Peanut (see last blog), Big Wull, Joycey, Gerry, K-Mo, LEvans, CoCo - I will miss seeing each one every day. Especially for a guy like me who treasures relationships and is resistant to change, it's - like Boyz II Men sings - So Hard To Say Goodbye.
But when life gets frustrating and sad sometimes you need to just stop and let whatever happens happens. This dawned upon me when our staff was treated last week to a three-hour cruise <insert Gilligan music> on the San Diego Bay. It was cold. It was drizzling. It was really quite miserable weather. But you know what? We were relaxing, there was a cash bar and some munchies, and it was a chill day to just sit and laugh and talk with your close friends or people to whom you don't get to talk to much. We had two choices: keep looking at your BlackBerry at e-mails rolling in or just live in the moment and enjoy an afternoon off from the bustle. I chose the latter. It felt great.
Then sometimes you need to just start anew and clear your mind and life. For me that was best represented by teaming up with K-Mad and tearing down the monstrosity known as my cubicle. I'm a hoarder and a pack rat. So I finally had to either give away memorabilia or take it home, clean out files, and reorganize my work space. It took two evenings and one almost full work day but we did it. And it feels like a brand new start.
And yet, finally, there are times you gotta just be aggressive, b-e aggressive. Over the summer you may recall I blogged about meeting Marshall Faulk at Drew Brees' charity event and asking him for a picture. Mr. Faulk's response was that he'd "be right back to do it." He left to handle some biz and did indeed come back to my area. But he didn't say anything so neither did I - I have my pride. Well, this past week my buddy Adam Kinowski invited me to a fundraiser Marshall was holding. I could've easily said no way am I asking him twice. But he is a Hall of Famer and I do like that my job affords me the opportunity to interact with athletes, many of whom I grew up watching. So I didn't want to let pride become foolish pride.
I went to the event. And on a glistening October evening at the SDSU Alumni Center, I watched Marshall make his opening remarks and then planted myself to where he'd be departing the stage. I asked for a pic, he granted it, he looked away, and when I raised my hook to shake his hand, he looked at me like, "Oh wow. This is different." I said God bless and went on my way. It was a cool moment for me and hopefully a bit of an eye-opener for him. I don't have the picture on this blog but do on my Facebook.
One more story. The day after that awesome event I did a 5K with K-Mad, Suebie, Katie, Jackie, A.T., Kawachi, and his brother Kyle. Pad Squad and Friar came to support too. Represent! It was at the old Naval Training Center in Point Loma, which has many zig-zagged pathways. On this warm morning, my teammates broke away but my friends Michao and Andres were there so we walked together. Well, somehow we either made a wrong turn, or went too far on the second leg, because we completely went off course. We went around the NTC and by the time we were back on the path, the finish line was on the horizon. I missed probably a good mile out of the 3.1. Of course, my walk teammates and work teammates have ribbed me ever since. I'm a cheat, I'm a liar, I'm a shortcut-taker. All I can do is laugh. And wonder where in the heck my internal GPS failed me.
Sometimes you have to be alert to stay on the right path. Sometimes you need extra aggressiveness. Sometimes you overhaul and clean as a means of moving forward. And sometimes you just float and let life and God guide you. The key is to learn which one applies at which time. That, I think, is the secret to happiness.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Farewell to the Peanut Gallery
Look, I know that when a co-worker gets a job somewhere else, I'm not necessarily losing a friend. A friend is a friend no matter where they are and the best ones are those with whom you can reconnect after months, or even years, and it feels like no time has passed.
But at 5:01 pm on Thursday, September 15, I will be losing a truly great friend and teammate. Not losing as in death, Lord forbid, but losing out on the chance to see her every day. That's the worst part when a colleague to whom you are close gets a new job; it's just not the same when communication is mostly limited to e-mails and texts. That's why I'm thrilled that Nina Tarantino has a new job but just sad that I won't be seeing her every day.
I first met Nina when I was still an usher with the Padres and I remember that the two people who would always say hi to me were she and her Compadres Club partner, Harrison Boyd. As someone aspiring to move from the gameday staff to the front office, I just appreciated that they would always take time from their busy duties to chat with me and other ushers.
When I was promoted into the office in 2006, I couldn't believe my good fortune that those two friendly people, Nina and Harrison, were in offices next to mine. It made the often intimidating transition much easier. I came to learn that Neen had joined the Padres as a high schooler, and stayed through college at SDSU, and that with her brother JoJo as a bat boy, Padres Baseball was truly a family affair.
Now, people often ask, "Why the heck do you and Nina always call each other 'Peanut'?" Oh, thank you for asking <tilts head slightly>.
In those first few months in the spring of 2006, Nina and I would habitually hear each other's conversations, jokes, and such - the hallway was super-narrow - and blurt out our own thoughts and responses. Sure it was eavesdropping but it was funny and good-natured. One day I was teasing her about something, I don't know what, and she says, "That's enough out of you, Peanut Gallery!" So henceforward we just called each other Peanut.
(One day I even found a Snickers wrapper that proclaimed we are all residents of "Peanutopolis". I left it on her desk and when she returned, could hear her famous, "Enh!! Oh boy.")
Well, in every workplace, there are some people who remain as strictly colleagues, others become good friends, and others become like a sibling to you. Peanut became like a sister to me.
She yelled at me when I spent too much money on girls I liked. She would schedule her workouts so she could help me with my prosthetics and weight machines in the weight room. When I walked into the lunchroom, she was the first one to stand up to help me heat up my meal. She encouraged me to join her in trying the San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Marathon.
And just like a sister, she was uber-protective. I know that whenever I'm in public, people might naturally stare at my arms. I'm cool with it. Not Peanut. I've seen her, after our crew once left Woodstock Pizza, walk back in and go up to two grown men and say, "What, you've never seen a guy with two hooks before? Do I need to punch each of you in the face?" True story <raises palm>.
I just knew wherever our crew would go, Nina would have my back.
And at the Padres, where your friends become your family, she was the glue, she was the anchor. From 2006 - 2011, she helped keep us all together, through good times and bad.
When I was blessed to accomplish my dream of publishing my first book - Swinging for the Fences, available on http://www.tatepublishing.com/; that's Swinging for the Fences, available on http://www.tatepublishing.com/ - Peanut was the first person to go online and buy a copy. She then told all her contacts about it and propped up my book on her desk so visitors would ask about it. For three years!
We've had incredible memories together. Swigging champagne in a party limo in Vegas. Spraying bottles of bubbly on the sidewalks of Little Italy on New Year's Eve. Jumping up and down on rickety bleachers at Aztecs basketball games. Clinking beer bottles at Shore Club. Throwing combined Gemini birthday parties at Club Altitude. Laughing when she came to Karen Madden's annual famous Halloween party dressed as a bumble bee and crying out, in her high-pitched voice, "Why can't I get a buzz?! Ha!! A buzz!" Ok, maybe you had to be there.
But you can appreciate how we would reference LaDanian Tomlinson's way of saying "strength" as "screnf".
Or how we lamented when the Pads lost the division by one game in 2007 and 2010.
Or how we've been there for each other through personal adversity.
Or how we cried together at our teammate Denny Russell's funeral.
Forgive me if this is blatantly corny. Like I said, I know our friendship's not ending, and it never will. But when someone leaves your workplace, you don't see them every day and it's different. And I am really going to miss seeing Nina "Peanut" Tarantino - and her mom Jaye Bird and father Tanktop Tiny - as much as I do now.
She is a sister and a true friend.
What's the matter with you, you've never seen a man get mushy before? Do I need to punch you in the face?
But at 5:01 pm on Thursday, September 15, I will be losing a truly great friend and teammate. Not losing as in death, Lord forbid, but losing out on the chance to see her every day. That's the worst part when a colleague to whom you are close gets a new job; it's just not the same when communication is mostly limited to e-mails and texts. That's why I'm thrilled that Nina Tarantino has a new job but just sad that I won't be seeing her every day.
I first met Nina when I was still an usher with the Padres and I remember that the two people who would always say hi to me were she and her Compadres Club partner, Harrison Boyd. As someone aspiring to move from the gameday staff to the front office, I just appreciated that they would always take time from their busy duties to chat with me and other ushers.
When I was promoted into the office in 2006, I couldn't believe my good fortune that those two friendly people, Nina and Harrison, were in offices next to mine. It made the often intimidating transition much easier. I came to learn that Neen had joined the Padres as a high schooler, and stayed through college at SDSU, and that with her brother JoJo as a bat boy, Padres Baseball was truly a family affair.
Now, people often ask, "Why the heck do you and Nina always call each other 'Peanut'?" Oh, thank you for asking <tilts head slightly>.
In those first few months in the spring of 2006, Nina and I would habitually hear each other's conversations, jokes, and such - the hallway was super-narrow - and blurt out our own thoughts and responses. Sure it was eavesdropping but it was funny and good-natured. One day I was teasing her about something, I don't know what, and she says, "That's enough out of you, Peanut Gallery!" So henceforward we just called each other Peanut.
(One day I even found a Snickers wrapper that proclaimed we are all residents of "Peanutopolis". I left it on her desk and when she returned, could hear her famous, "Enh!! Oh boy.")
Well, in every workplace, there are some people who remain as strictly colleagues, others become good friends, and others become like a sibling to you. Peanut became like a sister to me.
She yelled at me when I spent too much money on girls I liked. She would schedule her workouts so she could help me with my prosthetics and weight machines in the weight room. When I walked into the lunchroom, she was the first one to stand up to help me heat up my meal. She encouraged me to join her in trying the San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Marathon.
And just like a sister, she was uber-protective. I know that whenever I'm in public, people might naturally stare at my arms. I'm cool with it. Not Peanut. I've seen her, after our crew once left Woodstock Pizza, walk back in and go up to two grown men and say, "What, you've never seen a guy with two hooks before? Do I need to punch each of you in the face?" True story <raises palm>.
I just knew wherever our crew would go, Nina would have my back.
And at the Padres, where your friends become your family, she was the glue, she was the anchor. From 2006 - 2011, she helped keep us all together, through good times and bad.
When I was blessed to accomplish my dream of publishing my first book - Swinging for the Fences, available on http://www.tatepublishing.com/; that's Swinging for the Fences, available on http://www.tatepublishing.com/ - Peanut was the first person to go online and buy a copy. She then told all her contacts about it and propped up my book on her desk so visitors would ask about it. For three years!
We've had incredible memories together. Swigging champagne in a party limo in Vegas. Spraying bottles of bubbly on the sidewalks of Little Italy on New Year's Eve. Jumping up and down on rickety bleachers at Aztecs basketball games. Clinking beer bottles at Shore Club. Throwing combined Gemini birthday parties at Club Altitude. Laughing when she came to Karen Madden's annual famous Halloween party dressed as a bumble bee and crying out, in her high-pitched voice, "Why can't I get a buzz?! Ha!! A buzz!" Ok, maybe you had to be there.
But you can appreciate how we would reference LaDanian Tomlinson's way of saying "strength" as "screnf".
Or how we lamented when the Pads lost the division by one game in 2007 and 2010.
Or how we've been there for each other through personal adversity.
Or how we cried together at our teammate Denny Russell's funeral.
Forgive me if this is blatantly corny. Like I said, I know our friendship's not ending, and it never will. But when someone leaves your workplace, you don't see them every day and it's different. And I am really going to miss seeing Nina "Peanut" Tarantino - and her mom Jaye Bird and father Tanktop Tiny - as much as I do now.
She is a sister and a true friend.
What's the matter with you, you've never seen a man get mushy before? Do I need to punch you in the face?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Dude, Where's My Car?
My friend Brookie G. gave me permission to tell you about some craziness we endured last night. Brooke is a friend of mine from the Padres event staff. I got a late offer for free tickets to the Seahawks-Chargers preseason opener, and she had never been to a game, so I invited her. We had a great time and, just as planned, exited the gates after the third quarter ended and all the starters and top reserves were on the sideline making dinner plans.
We had our own dinner plans too: find her car between section C and D of the Qualcomm Stadium parking lot and high-tail it to nearby In-n-Out Burgers. After representing my work at a community event in the afternoon, my friend Carlos Rocha dropped me off at the Q, where I waited to meet Brookie. Remember that point. We met up at the game at one of the gates (H).
So we stroll out at game's conclusion and our seats happen to be near Gate C - nice, that means a straight shot to area C of the parking lot! So we walk out to look for Brooke's silver Accord with SDSU license plate frames.
But in area C we didn't see it. So we walk to adjacent area D. In area D we didn't see it.
It's all good, it's barely past 7:30pm. "You probably parked in E and walked through C and D," I told her, "let's walk over there."
But in area E we didn't see it. We then took a jaunt to area F.
Brookie is stunned, and a bit nervous, but insists she walked through C and D because the first gate and ticket windows she saw were C. I was more preoccupied with the observation that there were a lot of foo's tailgating with Doug Flutie and Natrone Means jerseys. Bro, if you can afford to tailgate, can't you afford to replace the jerseys of guys who retired years ago?
It's 8pm and we still can't find her car. She then flags down two dudes driving by batting her eyelashes or something and they agree to drive us around to look for it. Two random guys, one rocking some Chargers gear and the other wearing some Dolphins clothing, and professing to be a Dodgers fan - ain't that some s***? - and they're driving in circles looking for Brookie's car. Now I owe them tickets to a future Padres game. Dang it!
After a half-hour, they give up and we get out of their car. My stomach is rumbling and we flag down a cop car. We're desperate and confused so we ask these nice cops if they can help because we don't see any Chargers shuttles or anything. No problem, they say, we'll drive around the Stadium but you guys stay here so we can drive back to you.
They point us to a chain-link fence and it happens to be near the Chargers player parking lot. By now it's 8:30 and, yes, the game is over and players are leaving. So we stand and wait by the fence.
Out of nowhere out walks one Karen Madden, my co-worker, close friend, marathon relay partner - Team MADness woot! - and part-time gameday staffer for the Bolts. She is headed home but when we tell her what's going on, a.) she laughs and b.) she volunteers to drive Brooke around the now-thinning lot while I wait for Officer Friendly.
The policemen do return and say they'd seen several cars matching the description but none of them matched Brooke's registration. So no dice. But they'll keep looking.
Meanwhile I notice there is a random leather boot on the ground next to me. Who the heck lost that, I wonder? Then I see Chargers players driving out of the player lot in their Beemers and Hummers and souped-up rides. So I start waving to them while yelling, "Go Chargers! Super Bowl, baby!"
Antonio Gates slows down, looks me up and down, and says: "'Sup, bro?" Philip Rivers drives out, looks me up and down, signs autographs for a few kids clinging to his car, gives me a thumbs up, is apparently chewing gum, and smiles and nods before peeling out. I see Antonio Garay and I shout, "I follow you on Twitter! Great Tweets, bro!" The massive nose tackle laughs and responds, "Thanks, man. Good luck to you."
Good luck to me? Why would he say that? Then I realize he and the other players saw this boot next to me. They think I'm a war veteran collecting donations. Dang it!! True story.
Finally Brooke and Karen return. K-Mad had speculated that Brooke had parked in an OUTER lot and walked through the main entrance. Guess what? She was right. There is no one more clutch than Karen Madden and no more embarassed than Brooke.
It's 10pm. So we take Brookie G., who is apologizing profusely, to her car and Karen takes me to Wendy's drive-through and then home. It's all good. Brooke promises increased situational awareness. I promise that if football players think I'm taking donations, I will take them next time.
We had our own dinner plans too: find her car between section C and D of the Qualcomm Stadium parking lot and high-tail it to nearby In-n-Out Burgers. After representing my work at a community event in the afternoon, my friend Carlos Rocha dropped me off at the Q, where I waited to meet Brookie. Remember that point. We met up at the game at one of the gates (H).
So we stroll out at game's conclusion and our seats happen to be near Gate C - nice, that means a straight shot to area C of the parking lot! So we walk out to look for Brooke's silver Accord with SDSU license plate frames.
But in area C we didn't see it. So we walk to adjacent area D. In area D we didn't see it.
It's all good, it's barely past 7:30pm. "You probably parked in E and walked through C and D," I told her, "let's walk over there."
But in area E we didn't see it. We then took a jaunt to area F.
Brookie is stunned, and a bit nervous, but insists she walked through C and D because the first gate and ticket windows she saw were C. I was more preoccupied with the observation that there were a lot of foo's tailgating with Doug Flutie and Natrone Means jerseys. Bro, if you can afford to tailgate, can't you afford to replace the jerseys of guys who retired years ago?
It's 8pm and we still can't find her car. She then flags down two dudes driving by batting her eyelashes or something and they agree to drive us around to look for it. Two random guys, one rocking some Chargers gear and the other wearing some Dolphins clothing, and professing to be a Dodgers fan - ain't that some s***? - and they're driving in circles looking for Brookie's car. Now I owe them tickets to a future Padres game. Dang it!
After a half-hour, they give up and we get out of their car. My stomach is rumbling and we flag down a cop car. We're desperate and confused so we ask these nice cops if they can help because we don't see any Chargers shuttles or anything. No problem, they say, we'll drive around the Stadium but you guys stay here so we can drive back to you.
They point us to a chain-link fence and it happens to be near the Chargers player parking lot. By now it's 8:30 and, yes, the game is over and players are leaving. So we stand and wait by the fence.
Out of nowhere out walks one Karen Madden, my co-worker, close friend, marathon relay partner - Team MADness woot! - and part-time gameday staffer for the Bolts. She is headed home but when we tell her what's going on, a.) she laughs and b.) she volunteers to drive Brooke around the now-thinning lot while I wait for Officer Friendly.
The policemen do return and say they'd seen several cars matching the description but none of them matched Brooke's registration. So no dice. But they'll keep looking.
Meanwhile I notice there is a random leather boot on the ground next to me. Who the heck lost that, I wonder? Then I see Chargers players driving out of the player lot in their Beemers and Hummers and souped-up rides. So I start waving to them while yelling, "Go Chargers! Super Bowl, baby!"
Antonio Gates slows down, looks me up and down, and says: "'Sup, bro?" Philip Rivers drives out, looks me up and down, signs autographs for a few kids clinging to his car, gives me a thumbs up, is apparently chewing gum, and smiles and nods before peeling out. I see Antonio Garay and I shout, "I follow you on Twitter! Great Tweets, bro!" The massive nose tackle laughs and responds, "Thanks, man. Good luck to you."
Good luck to me? Why would he say that? Then I realize he and the other players saw this boot next to me. They think I'm a war veteran collecting donations. Dang it!! True story.
Finally Brooke and Karen return. K-Mad had speculated that Brooke had parked in an OUTER lot and walked through the main entrance. Guess what? She was right. There is no one more clutch than Karen Madden and no more embarassed than Brooke.
It's 10pm. So we take Brookie G., who is apologizing profusely, to her car and Karen takes me to Wendy's drive-through and then home. It's all good. Brooke promises increased situational awareness. I promise that if football players think I'm taking donations, I will take them next time.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
When Quitting Is Not An Option
The following is a timeline of my participation in today's Rock 'n' Roll San Diego Half-Marathon Relay. Some times are exact and some are approximate:
4:17am - I awake with a combined sense of urgency and excitement. It's race day, the day for which I've been training for six months. Three minutes later I realize my relay partner, Karen Madden, had set my cell phone alarm just in case. The message on the screen: "Wake up, bitch!"
4:57 - Some people eat bananas on race day. Forget that. I eat Strawberry Pop Tarts.
5:20 - I have ten minutes to walk down the cul de sac and cross the street before the 11 bus to downtown arrives. I've lightly stretched but realize halfway down I didn't stretch my back extensively. Walking briskly without fully stretching is a no-no for me.
6:45 - After many delays and proving that last year's ineptitude was no fluke, City Transit takes me on a trolley, then a shuttle, then another trolley just to get to Fashion Valley Mall.
7:18 - There are no signs anywhere indicating where at Fashion the relay transition zone is located. But a nice store employee who has let me in to use the restroom points the way.
8:55 - I walked way too fast up the hill to reach Friars Road because K-Mad was texting saying she was getting closer. So as I waited I continually stretched and then was thrilled to see, in succession, Krystal DiStefano, Alison Glabe, Nina "Peanut" Tarantino, and shortly thereafter, Katie Leisz.
8:57 - Karen arrives with Colleen McEniry in tow and I double fist-bump them. Ashley Schamu, a.k.a. Scham-Wow, is Colleen's relay partner so she's there too. Our co-worker Joslin Joseph takes a group picture and Karen admonishes me: "No stopping for chit-chats."
9:00 - I am off at 9 on the dot and two things surprise me: the crowd is cheering and the road is slanted, dipping east to west. Both have me walking much faster than I would prefer at the outset.
9:12 - It's sunny but with a Fresh, cool breeze, almost like an autumn day. This is good. The roads are very slanted and uneven and I can feel my left (good) leg is overcompensating, tightening up my lower back right muscles. This is bad. Very bad.
9:27 - The streets have flattened out and I'm in a better groove finally. I stop periodically to loosen the back and keep it stretched out. This helps, as does the DJ who has set up on the sidewalk to play energetic, fist--pumping music.
9:49 - A man runs up beside me and has his wife take a picture of us as we walk forward. A girl grabs my shoulder, snaps a picture as she speed-walks and says, "You're awesome." I respond, "You're hot."
10:17 - We are passing Morena Blvd. and again the road is sloping. This is making me walk awkwardly and my back tenses up.
10:31 - I am pleasantly surprised to see an old Access Center colleague, Sandra Mendez, running in her first marathon, plus people are seeing my Notre Dame mesh shorts and yelling, "Go Irish!" LIKE.
10:45 - My right leg, Black Max, is getting plenty of attention and cheers from runners and spectators alike. But I'm noticing that my prosthetic sock is slipping downwards from my hip, probably just caused by heat and duress. What this does is force me to stop, pull my hip up so my real leg is not sticking within the artificial one, and then take a few steps to settle back in. It's not painful but is annoying.
11:05 - I am getting doused in water by a team of volunteers in an area called "Margaritaville". They are blaring Jimmy Buffet music and, in true Parrot Head fashion, are regaled in Hawaiian shirts. I see Bruce and Patty Whitlow, parents of my friend Kimmy, and they give me a quick hug and word of encouragement.
11:12 - There is a concrete median and I see where runners have turned and are now walking opposite of my direction, as a loop. I am tempted to just cross that median. I'm sorry.
11:17 - I see two young ladies holding signs. One says: "Go Faster!" The other reads: "That's What She Said." I LOL.
11:20 - I am barely making that loop and, brother, I am hurting. My right hip feels strained. My left ankle feels wobbly, like I just want to roll over on it. Whereas I had been answering well-wishers with a clear-voiced "Thank You!", I now find it hard to breathe.
11:23 - This feels endless. We are near Mile 12 of the 13-mile course for relayists, but I feel spent. I can't...do...this. I'm not really walking...I'm...lurching forward.
11:25 - A lady is walking her dog near Sea World Drive and starts walking beside me. I nod politely. She then blurts out, "So...what the hell happened to you?" If Peanut were there, frankly, the lady would've been punched in the mouth.
11:27 - I'm not going to make it. I just want to quit. An elderly man rides up next to me on his bicycle and asks if he can escort me part of the way. Sure, why not? I see he has two small American flags on his bike so I say, "Hey, man, what are you gonna do with an extra flag?" He replies, "Nothing, man, you want one?" I say Yeah and so if you see pictures of me waving a flag, that's how I got it.
11:29 - Good friend Trina, as is her custom, waits at the beginning of the final mile and brings forth many cheers and camera-clicks. Suddenly I feel good. Exhausted but motivated. I can load up for one last stretch.
11:31 - Two volunteers ask if they can walk with me. One equally worn out walker sees me, starts crying, and just gives a thumbs up. I think about how blessed I am to live in the greatest country in the world and how here no dream or goal is absurd or unattainable.
11:34 - The thought strikes me that a race course is America. Runners and walkers, complete strangers, exhorting each other - black, white, Latino, Asian, gay, straight, disabled, non-disabled, men, women, old, young. This is Americans at their finest.
11:35 - The Finish Line is a few feet away and the dual emcees remember me from last year, I think. The female one is prepared with some dance moves so I respond by shaking my thang.
11:37 - I see my main Ollie Neglerio from Competitor Group - the awesome company who puts these races on - and he takes official pictures of my Finish Line routine. Swing, shimmy, point to the heavens, shake the torso, half-spin, point like Justin Timberlake.
11:40 - I officially cross the line, probably figuratively and literally, and my buddy Colleen McDonald stops filming my dancing and places a medal over my neck. She has been a great friend since graduate school at USF and I'll always treasure this great memory, especially when our other close friend, Jonathan Sandoval, completed the full maraathon just a few minutes later.
We did it. We scratched and clawed and trained and prayed and fought through adversity and we did it. I used to laugh at marathon runners because they looked so miserable but now I get it. It's the sheer challenge of putting your body through that and emerging victorious. It's never giving up and never giving in. It's the American way.
Anyone can do it and everyone should try it. I believe so strongly in that, I'm working on a book about it. Keep your eyes peeled for that. But this isn't about shameless self-promoting, it's about reaching deep down and gutting your way to a triumph.
A marathon is just like life. It requires discipline, heart, tenacity, preparation, desire, and the will to not give up. Don't ever give up.
We did it. And so can you.
4:17am - I awake with a combined sense of urgency and excitement. It's race day, the day for which I've been training for six months. Three minutes later I realize my relay partner, Karen Madden, had set my cell phone alarm just in case. The message on the screen: "Wake up, bitch!"
4:57 - Some people eat bananas on race day. Forget that. I eat Strawberry Pop Tarts.
5:20 - I have ten minutes to walk down the cul de sac and cross the street before the 11 bus to downtown arrives. I've lightly stretched but realize halfway down I didn't stretch my back extensively. Walking briskly without fully stretching is a no-no for me.
6:45 - After many delays and proving that last year's ineptitude was no fluke, City Transit takes me on a trolley, then a shuttle, then another trolley just to get to Fashion Valley Mall.
7:18 - There are no signs anywhere indicating where at Fashion the relay transition zone is located. But a nice store employee who has let me in to use the restroom points the way.
8:55 - I walked way too fast up the hill to reach Friars Road because K-Mad was texting saying she was getting closer. So as I waited I continually stretched and then was thrilled to see, in succession, Krystal DiStefano, Alison Glabe, Nina "Peanut" Tarantino, and shortly thereafter, Katie Leisz.
8:57 - Karen arrives with Colleen McEniry in tow and I double fist-bump them. Ashley Schamu, a.k.a. Scham-Wow, is Colleen's relay partner so she's there too. Our co-worker Joslin Joseph takes a group picture and Karen admonishes me: "No stopping for chit-chats."
9:00 - I am off at 9 on the dot and two things surprise me: the crowd is cheering and the road is slanted, dipping east to west. Both have me walking much faster than I would prefer at the outset.
9:12 - It's sunny but with a Fresh, cool breeze, almost like an autumn day. This is good. The roads are very slanted and uneven and I can feel my left (good) leg is overcompensating, tightening up my lower back right muscles. This is bad. Very bad.
9:27 - The streets have flattened out and I'm in a better groove finally. I stop periodically to loosen the back and keep it stretched out. This helps, as does the DJ who has set up on the sidewalk to play energetic, fist--pumping music.
9:49 - A man runs up beside me and has his wife take a picture of us as we walk forward. A girl grabs my shoulder, snaps a picture as she speed-walks and says, "You're awesome." I respond, "You're hot."
10:17 - We are passing Morena Blvd. and again the road is sloping. This is making me walk awkwardly and my back tenses up.
10:31 - I am pleasantly surprised to see an old Access Center colleague, Sandra Mendez, running in her first marathon, plus people are seeing my Notre Dame mesh shorts and yelling, "Go Irish!" LIKE.
10:45 - My right leg, Black Max, is getting plenty of attention and cheers from runners and spectators alike. But I'm noticing that my prosthetic sock is slipping downwards from my hip, probably just caused by heat and duress. What this does is force me to stop, pull my hip up so my real leg is not sticking within the artificial one, and then take a few steps to settle back in. It's not painful but is annoying.
11:05 - I am getting doused in water by a team of volunteers in an area called "Margaritaville". They are blaring Jimmy Buffet music and, in true Parrot Head fashion, are regaled in Hawaiian shirts. I see Bruce and Patty Whitlow, parents of my friend Kimmy, and they give me a quick hug and word of encouragement.
11:12 - There is a concrete median and I see where runners have turned and are now walking opposite of my direction, as a loop. I am tempted to just cross that median. I'm sorry.
11:17 - I see two young ladies holding signs. One says: "Go Faster!" The other reads: "That's What She Said." I LOL.
11:20 - I am barely making that loop and, brother, I am hurting. My right hip feels strained. My left ankle feels wobbly, like I just want to roll over on it. Whereas I had been answering well-wishers with a clear-voiced "Thank You!", I now find it hard to breathe.
11:23 - This feels endless. We are near Mile 12 of the 13-mile course for relayists, but I feel spent. I can't...do...this. I'm not really walking...I'm...lurching forward.
11:25 - A lady is walking her dog near Sea World Drive and starts walking beside me. I nod politely. She then blurts out, "So...what the hell happened to you?" If Peanut were there, frankly, the lady would've been punched in the mouth.
11:27 - I'm not going to make it. I just want to quit. An elderly man rides up next to me on his bicycle and asks if he can escort me part of the way. Sure, why not? I see he has two small American flags on his bike so I say, "Hey, man, what are you gonna do with an extra flag?" He replies, "Nothing, man, you want one?" I say Yeah and so if you see pictures of me waving a flag, that's how I got it.
11:29 - Good friend Trina, as is her custom, waits at the beginning of the final mile and brings forth many cheers and camera-clicks. Suddenly I feel good. Exhausted but motivated. I can load up for one last stretch.
11:31 - Two volunteers ask if they can walk with me. One equally worn out walker sees me, starts crying, and just gives a thumbs up. I think about how blessed I am to live in the greatest country in the world and how here no dream or goal is absurd or unattainable.
11:34 - The thought strikes me that a race course is America. Runners and walkers, complete strangers, exhorting each other - black, white, Latino, Asian, gay, straight, disabled, non-disabled, men, women, old, young. This is Americans at their finest.
11:35 - The Finish Line is a few feet away and the dual emcees remember me from last year, I think. The female one is prepared with some dance moves so I respond by shaking my thang.
11:37 - I see my main Ollie Neglerio from Competitor Group - the awesome company who puts these races on - and he takes official pictures of my Finish Line routine. Swing, shimmy, point to the heavens, shake the torso, half-spin, point like Justin Timberlake.
11:40 - I officially cross the line, probably figuratively and literally, and my buddy Colleen McDonald stops filming my dancing and places a medal over my neck. She has been a great friend since graduate school at USF and I'll always treasure this great memory, especially when our other close friend, Jonathan Sandoval, completed the full maraathon just a few minutes later.
We did it. We scratched and clawed and trained and prayed and fought through adversity and we did it. I used to laugh at marathon runners because they looked so miserable but now I get it. It's the sheer challenge of putting your body through that and emerging victorious. It's never giving up and never giving in. It's the American way.
Anyone can do it and everyone should try it. I believe so strongly in that, I'm working on a book about it. Keep your eyes peeled for that. But this isn't about shameless self-promoting, it's about reaching deep down and gutting your way to a triumph.
A marathon is just like life. It requires discipline, heart, tenacity, preparation, desire, and the will to not give up. Don't ever give up.
We did it. And so can you.
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