Rudy Ruettiger and George Bailey, a Troxel Family Tradition

Spoiler alert for movies made in 1946 and 1993!

Lots of people have time honored Christmas traditions that they get all misty-eyed when talking about. Some recreate the nativity scene, some make tamales, some get their kids giddy with their elf on a shelf thing.

My wife, who loves, loves, loves Christmas, drew the short straw with me in that respect. I am no humbug or anything, but this will be my fiftieth Christmas, so for the most part, I have a "take it or leave it" attitude with this holiday. Perhaps that means I AM a humbug!

Tracy talks about times when as a kid, her family jumped in the truck and her dad, with child-like excitement, drove them up every year into the Uintah Mountains, trudged through the snow, and cut down a perfectly shaped fir tree to decorate and adorn their living room. These days she will bake cookies for us to take to friends and neighbors, sees opportunities to spoil the grandkids, and leads our overall effort with decorating.

For me, however, seeing street decorations go up after Halloween, efforts by retailers to get me to spend more, and getting away from what seems to me should be the true meaning of Christmas, has colored my view of the day. Seriously, the etymology of "holiday" shows it came from the old English word "hāligdæg," referring to special religious days, or quite literally, holy days. The rest of it . . . bah humbug! Right here is where the smiley face emoji would usually go.

But there are a couple things we do every year. One is to watch Tracy's favorite movie, "Rudy." For some reason, that movie just never gets old. We always record it when it comes on, even though we own the DVD (maybe more than one) as well as the online copy at Amazon. It is an incredible film about perseverance and achievement against certain odds. My favorite scene? Well, I got two. One is  Rudy sitting on the bench outside Holy Cross College, looking across Lake Joseph at the golden dome, and he opens up his acceptance letter to No-tray Dahm. The second is when he gets on the field and sacks the Georgia Tech quarterback.

Why do we watch Rudy at Christmas? Beats me, but that's what we do. Having had a chance to see some of the sites from the film on a recent trip, including the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes (where Rudy lit a candle), Touchdown Jesus, Notre Dame Stadium, the golden dome, and the incredibly beautiful basilica made us not only love the movie more, but fall in love with the institution. (Visiting Notre Dame . . . every Mormon's dream!) And meeting Rudy, well, that was more than the icing on the cake . . . that was the cake itself!

The other thing we do is watch "It's a Wonderful Life." How a box office loser that was reported to espouse communist principles became the iconic show that it is today is beyond me, but the challenges faced, hope illustrated, and lessons on friendship, moral courage and love are timeless. I love the scene when old man Potter shakes George's hand when offering him a job, and George looked at his own hand like he was holding something filthy, as if you can sense evil by touch. I don't think I can go 5 minutes without coming to a part I love. Too many to list. But I will list just a few!

One of my favorite parts is when George rescues his brother, who had broken through the ice on the pond. Even more, I really like the part more when all of George's friends bail him out with contributions at the end, and while the group sings "Auld Lang Syne," George sees the note from Clarence, "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends. Thanks for the wings." Actually, I love it when Bert and Ernie serenade the newlyweds with "I Love You, Truly" over their first meal as man and wife at the Old Granville House. Nope, my favorite has to be when George uses his honeymoon money and prevents the Baily Brothers Building & Loan Association, the original sub-prime lender, from going under when there is a run on the banks. Or when George and Mary are dancing and fall into the pool. Or when Angel 2nd Class Clarence gets saved by George in the river. Or when George is running down snowy Bedford Falls yelling "Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!" I could go on.

The movie is one of those things, (sort of like Les Miz), that has something that resonates more as you get older. Today, this is my favorite part:

George is at Martini's bar, facing financial ruin because of a blunder by his uncle, which will not only result in scandal, but will land him in jail. He stares down into his drink, and says, "Dear Father in Heaven, I’m not a praying man. But if you’re up there and you can hear me, show me the way. I’m at the end of my rope. Show me the way, God.”

Then he crashes into the tree, goes to the bridge, and rescues Clarence.

Jimmy Stewart was later interviewed, and he recalled this from that scene, "As I said those words, I felt the loneliness, the hopelessness of people who had nowhere to turn, and my eyes filled with tears. I broke down sobbing. This was not planned at all, but the power of that prayer, the realization that our Father in heaven is there to help the hopeless, had reduced me to tears."

I almost hate to call "It's a Wonderful Life" and "Rudy" movies. "Glitter" and "Waterworld" are also movies. It's like a Rueben from Katz's Deli and a PB&J from a Chevron foodmart both being called "sandwiches." From now on, I will call them "films."

Rudy and George . . . they will always have a place at our holiday table!

Porn to Pence, Lust and Lauer

Strange times with all the recent revelations. First, who wanted to believe that about Dr. Huxtable? Unbelievable that was just the start. Statement after statement by women who have been harassed, assaulted and even raped by not just men in power, but lots of men in power!

First off, this just has to be said.  Bravo, Mike Pence. The uproar earlier this year about his rules regarding not eating alone with women who were not his wife, was ridiculous. He was described as being discriminatory against women, and his rules perpetuate disadvantages to women. Hmm . . . protecting his marriage by setting boundaries, what.a.jerk. Keep your modeling of moral courage to yourself, pal.

Good thing Bill O'Reilly, Matt Lauer, and others in recent news didn't burden those they worked with with such antiquated rules.

We pillory those who try to do what is right, and then act surprised when people who observe no such rules behave badly. Cannot have it both ways.

Women have gotten the short end of the stick as far back as Eve getting hoodwinked by the serpent- that is a given. And quite honestly, I am pretty sure men can opine on that about as well as whites can on racism, so I will keep it zipped on both accounts.

While the problem may be bigger than many will believe, some care should be taken here. For example, get this . . . not all accusers are telling the truth! Tucker Carlson recently spoke about his awful experience of being falsely accused by someone he never even met. Accusations equate to convictions for men, especially those who trade on their good name.

So, men are worried too. UCLA professor Kim Elsesser found that, in 2006, 75% of men worried about sexual harassment issues at work, and 30% of her sample had co-workers question them about the true motives behind a cross-gender relationship. How do you think those numbers are in December 2017?

Our society sure wants it both ways. We want boys dressing in girls' locker rooms. We want to take the filters off computers our kids can access at school and at the library. We want to be tough on crime yet we suspect the men in blue. The list goes on.

We want to say a woman should be able to wear what she wants without getting unwanted attention. Well, duh, I agree with that; but that is not the law of the jungle. I suspect Lady Gaga would not wear her meat dress on the Serengeti.

When a woman is wearing anything that my wife would not approve of, I deliberately will not look anywhere in her direction. I don't want anyone to come close to thinking I am leering at women, so if my radar picks up that she is wearing something less or something tight, then I look the other way. Last thing I want is for my kid to think I am checking out some babe in yoga pants at the mall. (As if I go to the mall.)

And we want porn. Lots of it. Just on one site, PornHub, many of us spent over 4.5 billion hours watching porn in 2016. 44,000 visitors every minute of every day visit that site. Porn grosses more in sales than Hollywood, and more money that the NFL, NBA and MBL. Combined. Yay us.

To add some perspective . . .

• 64% of all men in the U.S. view porn monthly. (Same average for Christian men, in case you think religion is moral insurance.)
• 11 is the average age a child first stumbles on to porn.
• The divorce rate doubles for men who use porn, and triples for women who indulge.
• 88% of porn videos contain violence.

There are studies that show that porn shrinks brains, increases violence, and encourages sexual predatory behavior.

No wonder there are so many perverts out there.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet

Tracy's and my friend Jennifer Freeland has been putting up a bunch of gratitude challenges on Facebook, appropriate for this time of year, and her first was, "What smell are you grateful for today?" Well, mine wasn't roses.

Some folks wrote about bread baking, fresh sheets, the beach and newborn babies, but for me? It is the wonderful, fragrant aroma of the Mephitis mephitis. Otherwise known as the striped skunk.

It wasn't always this way. I used to wince at the slightest hint of that nauseating smell emanating from those anal scent glands, almost to the point of throwing up in my mouth, as I remembered our dog getting blasted by a skunk when I was a kid. But that changed in about 1994.

Tracy and I, with our little 2 year old Courtney, moved to this incredible little gold-rush-era town of Weaverville, nestled in the shadow of the Trinity Alps, living in the center of the community in a home was built when Lincoln was president. (In an earlier post I described the little town: Weaverville is reminiscent of Lake Wobegon, "Where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.") I absolutely loved our time living in such a terrific little community. Think Mayberry, but prettier.

Our old home (pictured above) had a tub but no shower, no closets so we had to use armoires, it was heated by a wood stove, and it had a crawl space underneath it. Where, one day, an uninvited guest took note of that crawl space and moved right in. Never was a squatter more appropriately labeled.

We were completely disgusted by the constant odor, which made it hard for us to do anything. We went to sleep to it, woke up to it, cooked to it. It was constant and omnipresent and overwhelming. We tried to block off access to the crawl space and prevent the little bugger from getting in, but getting in he continued to do.

Then all of a sudden the smell was gone. We figured he must've tired at our eradication efforts and found greener pastures elsewhere, until we had friends over, and they wondered aloud how we can stand the smell. Then it dawned on us  . . . we were noseblind!

Pepe le Pew eventually moved out, and later, so did we. In 1997, we moved away and continued to grow our little family in Camarillo, a place that ignores the seasons, but I often think about Weaverville . . . its small townness, the great friendships, the beautiful outdoors, floating and fishing the Trinity River. But most of all I think about our young little family of three.

Where I see a beautiful young  mother holding the hand of a two year old girl as they cross the street to go check the mail at the post office or get chocolate milk at the corner deli.

Where I also see Courtney and I wading in the creek that ran along the back of our property, hunting for and finding lots of frogs. I see the little neighbor girl, Taylor, sitting in our front room keeping Courtney and Tracy company reading aloud from her chapter book. I see us walking around all sides of our home picking raspberries and blackberries from the vines, and apples, plums and nectarines from the trees. I see us spread out on a blanket to watch the July 5 fireworks at the elementary school, which the town got at a discount as the other communities had their fireworks on the 4th. I see us going to the park, or down the river, or into the woods. I cannot imagine life being more perfect.

That was all 23 years ago, but smells are like time machines. The smell of mothballs puts me back in the 1970s with my angel grandma. The smell of dewy fresh-cut grass puts me back on the damp Camarillo High football field during hell week my freshman year in 1981. And today, catching a whiff of a skunk just transports me right back there to our old Weaverville home on Center Street.

As the years go by, the memories of our time there do not fade, but rather, they focus in on the wonderful experiences we had as a family, when life was simpler and more innocent. So now, if a polecat cuts loose and you see me get a little misty-eyed, you'll know why.

There once was skunk,

People said that he stunk;

But for me now, I just cannot say . . .

For a time, I think.

the little critter did stink!

But for me now, that rascal can stay.

Bald Headed Women and Other Dumb Lyrics

A little bit of heaven 94.7, KMET . . . tweedle-dee!

Growing up, I loved to listen to music. Not with the same degree of interest as my friend Vince Wutkee, but I still enjoyed the tunes, and still do. Even though I really enjoyed concerts, I just went to a limited number of them, and have only recently forgiven my parents for not letting me go to the US Festival back in 1982. Being that my dad was a cop and had seen a few things, and that I was only 14, it was probably a wise decision. That said, I found it pretty funny that he just sent me an email with the subject, "KISS performs in Iraq."

I loved a lot of the bubble gum pop back in the day. In public I liked rock, but in secret, I was all over the Top 40 stuff. On the outside of my car, I might have had an an upside down KMET sticker on my bumper, but on the inside, I was singing along loudly to the Mighty 690. It was tough to live two musical lives, but I couldn't let anyone on my football team know that I liked KC and the Sunshine Band! I had a Zeppelin shirt, but Disco Duck was on my record player. The Bee Gees, Kool and the Gang, and yes, Barry Manilow. I knew the songs that made the young girls cry, and I thought I knew all the lyrics. More on that in a bit.

I found online a pic of the very first concert I attended, INXS.  That is why we have the Internet.

Growing up, my buddy Chris Chavez had an older brother Greg, who oozed coolness, and he was a pretty tough guy back then.  Being both cool and tough? Yeah, I was impressed. I remember seeing him doing a pop and lock routine, which, again, really cool. If you were tough, you didn't cabbage patched, you popped. But to my surprise, on Facebook yesterday he talked about loving Captain and Tennille and ABBA back then! A.B.B.A!! Tough hombres do not listen to ABBA!

Truth be told, I have an ABBA station on Pandora, which I play when the family is in car together. We took a family trip to the Sequoias one year, which was shortly after we watched Mamma Mia!, and we wore out a couple ABBA CDs on the way up and back singing along to "Super Troopers" and other fun ones. That was such a ball that Courtney wanted ABBA to be cranked up in the car when we drove down together to her wedding. Suffice it to say, Dancing Queen has a warm place in the Troxels' hearts.

But I digress!  This is about dumb lyrics.

Shortly after getting married, Tracy and I were driving down the road, and a popular Bee Gees song from my youth came on the radio, and I loudly sang along to, "Bald-headed woman, bald-headed woman to meeeee."

Tracy looked at me with a questioning look, and I said something like, "Right?  Why on earth would they sing about a bald-headed woman?"

She responded with something like, "Honey, it is called 'MORE THAN A WOMAN!'"

And suddenly the song made sense.

I knew it was the Bee Gees, I knew the tune, and I thought I knew the words. Story of my life.

There are some other really, really dumb lyrics out there. That I sing really, really loud to. Such as . . .

1. What the heck is the "pompitus of love," Steve Miller? And why do they call you "Maurice?"
2. Journey- "If he ever hurts you, true love won't desert you." The song is "Separate Ways," and almost made me want to part ways with them, but I was too invested with 5 or 6 of their albums. Dumb, dumb lyric.
3. "The Reflex, is an only child, he's waiting in the park." Duh-Ran Duh-Ran
4. "Everybody Wang Chun tonight." 
5. "They got little hands, and little eyes, and they walk around telling great big lies." Ok, if Oingo Boingo can write about little girls and the Police about stalking with "Every breath you take," then a little Archie Bunkeresque humor ain't so bad! Of course, Dire Straits's referencing the millionaire with the airplane in "Money For Nothing" would likely get little air time today . . .

One things is for sure. I never paid attention to the meanings of songs until I got kids.

Midwestern niceness- it's a thing

Tracy and I don't always eat breakfast, but when we do . . .

My wife and I celebrated my 50th birthday by spending a few days in Chicago and catching the epic Notre Dame vs USC rivalry football game. That game has been on my radar ever since the legendary 1974 Anthony Davis comeback, so we went and checked that off the bucket list. I originally thought to spend my 50th birthday in the 50th state, and even started to make plans in that direction, but then I remembered that I really don’t like the beach! I like looking at it, driving next to it, and knowing that it’s there, but I can’t think of a bigger waste of time than hanging out on a beach towel looking at a big old body of water.

So we headed to Chi-town and saw many cool sites, including a boat tour of the lake and river to see the skyline and learn about the architecture here. We lucked into some tickets (10 minutes before curtain!) to go see Hamilton at the CIBC Theater which was just across from where we were staying, the Palmer House. And holy cow, the Palmer House hosted some huge acts over the years. Including Louis Prima & Keely Smith, Frankie Avalon, George Burns, Andy Williams, Sonny & Cher, Judy Garland, Jerry Lewis, the list goes on. We had a room with a Ricky and Lucy type set up with two beds, and we each had our own bathroom. That last part cannot be stressed enough!

Diggin' the Spirit of Troy

We knew that the USC Marching Band would be performing at Navy Pier, so we went and were blown away. That band and its leader should be designated a national treasure! They were great, they were cool, and have earned every accolade they been given. Tracy and I keep looking each other with that "holy cow" look on our faces.

We had deep dish pizza that was OMG yummy. We asked a dozen Uber drivers the best pizza place, and answers were all over the map.  Gino's East was too out of our way, Giordano's had too long a line, but Lou Malnati's got us right in . . . and the two of us managed to consume an entire pizza.  Well, it was a small, and we BARELY finished it! (We had the super delicious Malnati salad followed by "The Lou" pizza.)

But I have to say the bratwursts stick out the most. They do like their brats here. I had them in several places, including The Berghoff, but easily the best was at Notre Dame Stadium.

One of about a dozen brats.

Game day was pretty darn incredible. We got up early and jumped on the train at Millennium Station which took us to the airport in South Bend where there was a shuttle waiting to take us to campus. We were pretty awestruck by the beauty of that place. If there is any institution that successfully trades on its wonderful traditions, it is the University of Notre Dame. The golden dome was really impressive, and watching the bagpipes playing in front of the steps was outstanding. Touring the basilica with all of its beauty makes a heck of an indelible impression. We took a picture in front of Touchdown Jesus, which made Tracy feel a bit guilty, so I’m not posting it here.

We went to the bookstore to find a restroom, and who should be up there signing his new book but Rudy Ruettiger!  Tracy's favorite movie is Rudy, so we were giddy at the chance of having him sign a book and having a picture taken with him. Definitely one of the high points of our visit.

We saw the Marching Band of the Fighting Irish perform from the steps of one of the old buildings on campus, (Bond Hall), and to our great surprise and pleasure, they accompanied the rock group Chicago! That group never sounded so good than when it had the Notre Dame brass section backing it up! What a treat. And thankfully, they played their rock stuff, not those syrupy ballads from the 80s.

Rock group Chicago playing "Saturday in the Park" and "25 or 6 to 4" backed up by the Irish Band!

Thousands of alumni were found taking in the excitement, and some of these folks looked like they had some serious mileage on them. When the band played the alma mater, all put their arm around someone nearby and sang with reverence and soberness. Not that they were all sober!

Why students are called "domers."

Being at Notre Dame Stadium was really cool, and we could see touchdown Jesus from our seats. I heard someone say there is not a bad seat in the house, and from our seat in the corner the end zone I would have to agree. We could see everything and we saw a lot. It was a blowout to the delight of the Irish faithful.  Of course, sitting in the season ticket holder section made me was Irish for the day, so yes WE won big!

The team prayer before the game was shown on the big screen. A priest invited everyone to mass the next day. A professor serving in the army was recognized to a standing ovation. When the national anthem was sung, all stood and sung along. It is not hard to fall in love with this place. . . good ol' midwestern values.

While we had a ton of great experiences, the thing that sticks out the most is how nice everyone was. You’d have thought we were in Canada! Every person, every.one.of.them, that we engaged to ask directions, advice on sites, whatever, provided a little more than expected. On campus we were continually told, "Welcomed to Notre Dame." Standing in line meant chatting it up with folks in front of and behind us. Tracy and I were pretty taken with how nice the people were and the overall feeling of pleasantness. Sort of a bummer that you notice people being nice instead of expect it.

Cruisin' Lake Michigan

And this wasn't just in South Bend, but Chicago too. People weren't just more polite, they seemed to be generally interested in being helpful. We were asking someone for directions, and a lady passing by asked, "Where you looking for?" She then spent time giving us details, including a "shortcut down an elevator that puts you in Whole Foods, but exit and cross the street and you're there." Every time I asked someone for directions or advice, they spent more time and gave more details than expected. Like exactly why Lou Malnati's is better than Giordano's pizza!

The Bean, surprisingly cooler than you would think!

Chicago may have its reputation for crime, nearly 600 murders this year so far, 8 while we were there. But St. Louis, Baltimore, Detroit, New Orleans and Newark all have higher rates. They may be less genteel on the South Side of Chicago, (the baddest part of town), but the rest of the Windy City was just peaches and cream. We shall return!

Coaches- One of the things that makes America great

Not THAT type of coach, silly!

Sad happenings this week in Vegas, and sad to see the fallout discussions. I have my own opinions on gun control and stuff, but so what. Opining on that topic divides. I read that there were 88k deaths related to alcohol use last year in the US. Where is the outrage there? And does anyone now care about who takes a knee?

It is too easy to focus on things that suck, so I would like to focus just a bit on one of the things that makes this country great.  There are many, (those serving in PTAs, charities, churches, local agencies, etc.) but today I am talking about coaches.

Go to any soccer field across this fruited plain, and you will see SUVs, minivans, popup tents, umbrellas, coolers full of water bottles and orange wedges . . . but the common thread that holds everything together are coaches. Hundreds of thousands leave work early and spend countless hours to invest in kids. I love those guys.

I coached football for a year, the Camarillo Cougars' 8th grade level team. My old high school friend Matt Hickman pulled me aside, and wisely counseled, "John, when Jake gets older, you are going to coach him, right? Well, you don't want to be a rookie coach. Why don't you come out and cut your teeth on other peoples' kids this year with the Cougars?"

Sounded like sound logic to me. But after four months of 4 nights a week and all day every Saturday, I realized the commitment. And it wasn't just time, I felt dedicated to give my very best effort to these 45 or 50 boys, who felt like my sons. I think the worst day of my life was when we lost our 2nd round playoff game. That was in 2007, and I have to admit to still feeling sick about it. Watching Matty Hickman refuse to be tackled, and Tony Johnson break a finger but still continuing to play, are indelibly imprinted in my mind. And heart.

I came to understand something too. Coaching makes you crazy. It may be temporary insanity, but there were times I wanted to put a contract on those guys in stripes.

Over the years I have seen a lot of great things from coaches. Here are a few that stick out.

Carl Thompson- don't let the smile fool you!

Carl Thompson- my high school football coach. We won CIF at the LA Coliseum against a team that sent over a dozen to play in college, and two to the NFL. They scored the first 14 points, we scored the last 16. (I will never forget watching us convert on 4th and goal from the 9 with less than 3 minutes left in the game.) The other team had more yards, more first downs, greater time of possession, etc. They dominated in the stats, (except one!) and there was a bit of sour grapes from their coach in the paper. Coach Thompson met with us during the week after the game and told us not to pay attention to that garbage, that we were the champs, and no one can ever take that away from us. The dude was pretty tough, but at that moment, he was a fatherly figure to us.

Anonymous coach- there are rules in college sports, but some of them seem overly austere. My buddy's kid was away at college to wrestle, (and probably study too!), and was struggling to make ends meet as many of us did while in college. Coaches are limited by rules on what help they can give, but my friend's kid was home in his apartment and he received a visit from his coach, who had an armful of groceries for him. From what I hear, this isn't a rare thing, but sure does indicate the emotional investment made in these kids. My buddy often said that his boy would take a bullet for that coach.

Joe Rios, a class act, great coach, and one of by best friends. Hundreds of his athletes were at his funeral. 

Bobby Douglas- his Iowa State heavyweight was wrestling against the top ranked Iowa wrestler at the NCAAs, and the Iowa kid hurt him with an illegal move. It wasn't malicious, he just took a hold beyond its range of motion. It happens. If Bobby's kid couldn't continue, then he would be awarded the match, disqualifying the Iowa kid. Bobby was not matside, but his kid was being coached by Bobby's assistant coaches. When it appeared his kid would not be able to continue the match, Bobby ran across the mats to where his kid was and told the ref that his kid would not accept a win that way. So his kid got up with his injured wing, went to the center of the mat, and stood across from the Iowa kid. The ref blew the whistle to start the clock, then blew it again to stop the clock, and Bobby defaulted the match. The Iowa kid ended up winning the national championship, but what I saw from Bobby Douglas was a lesson in class.

Brad Penrith- best example of coaching a ref. I was officiating his kid from Northern Iowa University at the NCAA D1 West Region. His kid was on top riding, and Brad calmly said to me from his corner, "You're gonna miss the points if you don't get over here." I scooted on over, and his kid then hit a tilt going an unexpected way, and I would have totally missed it. Well, not totally, I would have gotten there in time for a one-count, but you need a two-count to get points, and he barely had the two-count before the bottom kid rolled out of danger. At that moment I got some insight on the partnership a coach and ref could have, not to anyone's advantage, but to ensure a safe and fair contest.

Coach Dave Pacheco doing what coaches do, and getting more than most coaches get.

Coaching is a funny thing. Those guys put their hearts and souls into kids. There were a couple colleges in California where the coaches didn't like me as a referee, and honestly felt like their kid was going to get hosed with me on the whistle. I considered quitting over it. I didn't want any coach to believe their kids were going to be mistreated by me. I ultimately decided it was their issue more than mine, to avoid their kids if possible at tournaments, and to realize that probably every coach has a ref on his list.

I am amazed at the good coaches do, and this country has an army of them who help kids learn responsibility, build grit, develop skills, build character, and yep . . . pay if forward. America would be a different place without these wonderful coaches- God bless 'em all.

The Educational Value of Fine Arts, or Man! that play was expensive

Keeping Hamilton's flame

Us Troxels just enjoyed the heck out of Broadway hit play Hamilton a couple days ago, with some killer seats in the 12th row. It was great to be "in the room where it happened," but even better when you're close enough to see facial expressions of these actors, and see the spittle exit the mouth when belting out a song. Well, not so much.

This musical exceeded expectations, which is saying a lot given its popularity, and we've anticipated seeing it for a long time. Lots of laughing, incredible talent, compelling story, and some folks were in near sobs during a couple more tender moments. And I am secure enough in my manhood to comment on the choreography- Holy Cow!

Some of the neat takeaways for me was an increased love of country, heightened interest in knowing more about the birth of this great nation, and appreciation for the founding fathers. The story of America is embodied in this play. Stay young, scrappy and hungry!

I had decided to read Chernow's biography on Hamilton, upon which the play is based. I got 150 pages into that and bailed . . . it read too much like a 700-page textbook. Now I am racing through it. If only I had Lin Manuel-Miranda for high school history.

From Hamilton, my kids now know a little more about early American events and historical figures than before, which illustrates how the arts can educate. This was a play and a civics lesson. The play stays pretty darn true to events as outlined in Chernow's book. Although during one part when Thomas Jefferson was claiming authorship, Tracy leaned over and said, "He stole that from John Locke." Educational information presented in such an entertaining way is powerful.

Seeing American history play out in hip hop was cool. What would really be cool would be to get an all Asian cast of The Color Purple. Kidding! Tracy and I enjoyed this one, and even more so the make up of the audience. That was the first time I had seen people talking back at the stage!

Last month, we saw The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, which in a very clever way, taught us about people with autism. Who would think that it would be as cool as it was? My whole family enjoyed it, and Tracy said it was probably one of her top 5 plays of all time. The experience can't be adequately explained.

A couple years ago, Tracy and I saw Next to Normal, which was about how mental illness can ravage a family. The topic was illustrated in a heart-wrenching yet instructive way, and made me look at mental illness much differently. (In my kid's terminology, "I was like, daaang.")  There were a lot of red eyes coming out both at intermission and at the end.

Tracy and I saw a play called The Last Confession a couple years ago, which detailed the events around the death of Pope John Paul I. That provided wonderful insight into many of the wonderful things, and controversial things, within the Vatican, in a respectful manner. Even though I am not a Catholic, I remember watching with interest

And lastly, who can forget Spamalot, and the accurate portrayal of medieval life by Monty Python on stage?

I go to see plays to laugh, to be entertained and to escape; but it is also pretty cool when you leave a little smarter than before.

Now, if we can only get the casts to stop hitting me up for donations right after the bows . . .

Didn't I just drop a boatload of money on tickets to watch the play? 

I have heard it say that the arts can provoke, inspire, disturb, and even offend.  Blah blah blah. I just want to have an enjoyable evening out with my wife, and if I leave a bit smarter, all the better!

My Uncle Willie: Roses in December

Willie John Otineru - This picture hangs on my wall

After my parents and my angel grandma, the earliest memories I have are of my Uncle Willie. He was only nine when I was born, so part of his teenage years were spent letting this punk kid hang around him, even with a girlfriend or buddies.

There is no shortage of stories about my Uncle, funny or otherwise. Like for instance, once he had a dog. Named Bitch. Yes, it was technically a female dog, but it was funny watching my dad play with her in the backyard, calling her, "Itch" or "Witch" so as not to offend. Or when my wife upon meeting him for the first time at our reception, accidentally looked right into a kiss, catching her square on the mouth! (No one kissed me at the Utah reception.)

Or the time when I was a kid and he was asleep on the floor, I thought it would be interesting to know if putting my stinky foot near his nose would wake him up. It did, and a nanosecond later I was airborne!

Sadly, he passed away 10 years ago, but he still remains relevant in my life. He made me feel important, and what kid doesn't need that?

It was my blessing, and burden, to speak at his funeral . . . and I cannot remember ever feeling so emotionally wiped out after that service.

Below is the text of my talk:

My Uncle Willie
February 26, 2007

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth...
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.
(The Dash, by Linda Ellis, versus 1-3)

These verses are from the poem, The Dash, by Linda Ellis.  I am John Troxel, Willie’s nephew. . . and probably his whitest blood relative. I will take just a few minutes telling you about what that dash has meant to me.  My Uncle Willie was at all times Superman, Saint, Friend, and Family.

Willie was Superman
Imagine being related to Superman. Uncle Willie was the man of steel of my youth, leaping tall buildings, faster than a speeding locomotive, and all that stuff.  Part of what makes his passing so difficult is the idea that Big Willie was really not bullet proof.

His health had been compromised for some time, but I never saw him as anything less than the strapping young man with a heart as big as all outdoors.

I absolutely loved going to his football games, to watch that big red tank with a 48 on the front and a gold lid... Hearing the announcer describe another touchdown by Willie "oh-TIN-erooo?"  His on field heroics were witnessed by many, but to me he was much more than a meathead, and I love meatheads. As a kid, there was my mom, my dad, my Grandma, and my uncle Willie.

Arguing over which quarter is closer.

Willie was a Saint
Not in the conventional sense. Whenever I talk about my Grandma, I always describe her as a saint. If a saint is someone who is kind, caring, bears adversity with optimism, has a smile for strangers, makes others feel special, then he qualifies.

I even heard him pray. Once.

One year on the day before Christmas, he took me and my brother Neil hiking in the hills behind Mugu Rock. There are a lot of loose rocks in those canyons, and one of them opened up a pretty good gash on Neil’s head. We were still a ways above PCH, but Willie picked up Neil and sprinted down through areas where I had to slide on my butt. Driving around looking for medical attention, I heard Willie LOUDLY praying out of one side of his mouth while out of the other side, lamenting about what his sister was going to do to him. (My mom?) He got Neil to the hospital on base, with a police escort, and after a few stitches Neil was no worse for the wear. That night, as we were opening presents, listening to the same record we played every year, Mamacita, Donde Esta Santa Claus, he received a gift from his sister: a gift-wrapped first aid kit.

With Uncle Willie, I always felt that I was a favorite, and I believe others felt similarly. He was like Grandma, they both had a gift to make people feel uniquely special. Part of Grandma’s goodness was allowing all her grandkids to “believe” that they were her favorite, but if you want to know who was really her favorite, come talk to me afterwards.

Lisa rubbing some feet!

Willie and Grandma both were made of the glue that bound our family together.

Willie was a Friend
He was larger than life, and attracted many into his orbit.  People didn’t stand in his shadow, they basked in his light.  Whenever I speak to Hueneme grads from the 70s, I ask if they knew my Uncle Willie, and they all didn't just know him, but they were his friends. The BMOC always had time for the wallflowers. A friend of mine, Andy Gibson, is an assistant football coach at St. Bonaventure, and there was a big game last season. I’d previously asked Gibby if it were ok if my uncle and I could watch from the sidelines, and he said to call him on his cell when we got there. When we walked on the field, Gibby exclaimed, “Your uncle is Big Willie!?!?” He gave him a hug and made a such big fuss that Willie said later was a little “embarrassing,” but we know he ate it up.

Fun with bungee cords

I think it is appropriate to recognize friends who have gone well beyond the call of duty.  I am grateful that Willie had Bob and Pete, who are both here.  A friend in need is a friend indeed.

Willie was the Epitome of "Family"
If you were a friend, you were family.  Not just his family, but all of ours. As a kid, I remembered Bob, Joe, Sam, Tom and many others who never needed to knock. Compared to those old guys I am still a kid. But Willie's friends were our family.

He had some interesting ways to take care of a smart aleck nephew, my sister Lisa mentioned one last night. (Being required to stand in one place forever.) I found out one day how effective a roll of athletic tape can be in shutting up a snot nosed kid. I remember Grandma only mildly protested. (It turns out "Shut me up" is not the proper response to "Shut up.")

His girls were the apples of his eye. Willie had earlier expressed to me the same thing he told Lisa, that they were the best things he ever did. The best of him are in them.

I think Beth and Jennie are safe here.

When he moved back down here from San Francisco, the unity among his family needed some improvement. Back then he mentioned to me his concerns about family members not getting along. That was, and is, AND IS, a priority of his. We honor him by loving each other.

While scanning photographs, many of which you see on the screens, I took a photo out of a frame that I am certain was placed and last handled by his mother, my Grandma. I considered what I held to be sacred. Scottish author James Barrie said, "God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December." I also hold my memories of Willie as sacred.

There is profound sadness in his absence, but great satisfaction that his suffering ended, and tremendous joy that he is reunited with Grandma, Henry and Bucky.

Hanging out at 835 Spruce Street with my mom, me, Uncle David and Grandpa

My Uncle Willie- Superman, Saint, Friend and Family.

 - Today, thoughts of Uncle Willie make me smile, like roses in December.

The Joy of Owning a Prius

A few years ago, I was driving all over creation for work and to officiate wrestling, and I thought it would be a good idea to save a few bucks and get a more economical car. For a while, it was pretty cool to go 500 miles on 10 gallons. But there were some other benefits too.

You know how BMWs tend to make some people drive like, well, BMW drivers? The same phenomenon happens with the Prius.

When I bought one, I immediately became a different driver. Firstly, it was to save gas.  I wanted to see how good a mileage I could get, so I would drive slowly and cautiously. I never bolted from a stop light. If there was a chance to let someone go first, I would. I never would zoom in front of someone in a hurry. That started because I was driving a Prius.

Then I noticed that I was naturally a less aggressive driver. I became polite for the sake of being polite.  I am happy to wave people in front of me who are trying to merge. I am a nicer driver. That is an example of the physical preceding the mental.

Something similar happened when I bought new shoes.  I went into the Rockport store and wanted to get some shoes that were comfortable, so I got the Rock Cove hiking shoe with Kinetic Air Circulator technology.  And all of a sudden I felt like I wanted to move my feet.  There was a spring in my step, and I wanted to almost run.  I say "almost" because I hate running so much that I hate people who run.

But I found it interesting that putting these shoes on my feet changed my attitude immediately.

So, being in an absolutely position of authority, I have FIVE rules for Prius ownership.

1: Make sure you are married. A Prius may attract a lot of things, but chicks ain't one of them.
2: Don't pay for the nicer rims. Seriously, this isn't a car that needs high performance anodized rims with Pirelli tires. If anything, get some Goodyear Assurance with 80k mile warranty and fuggedaboutit.
3. Be content. This is not the Bullitt Mustang, it is simply transportation. Emasculating, maybe, but it will get you from Point A to Point B. And is masculinity really tired to a car? (Femininity, yes . . .)
4. Be aware. You are driving the equivalent of a minivan, so you will be cut off. Often. And not just by BMW drivers.
5. Rewrite song lyrics and sing out. It works!
 - My Toyota Prius does one-eight-five, I lost my license and now I don't drive
 - Prius Sally . . . all you want to do is ride, Sally, ride
 - Little Red Prius, baby you're much too fast
 - She was sitting cross-legged on the hood of a Prius
 - I met all my wives in traffic jams, there's something women like about a Prius man
 - The list goes on and on

So, go get a Prius. In fact, I will sell you mine. I want another truck.

Star Spangled Awesome

About 10 years ago, Tracy and I took Courtney back to Washington, D.C., on a trip that was just wonderful. She was in 8th grade, and we were considering sending her on one of those school sponsored trips. After pricing it out, we found that we all could go for not that much more, and it remains one of Courtney's favorite childhood memories.

As we were touring the American History Museum at the Smithsonian Institute, we came across the very flag that flew at Fort McHenry, which Francis Scott Key saw in twilight's last gleaming, and again in dawn's early light. I did not expect to see that there, and was unaware that it was even at the museum, so it was with the sense of awe that I approached the room where the flag was being displayed. There was a feeling of reverence in there. People actually spoke in hushed voices. I absolutely loved being next to that flag.

I enjoy hearing our nation's anthem. Every time. I have attended the Olympics and have listened respectfully when the anthems of other countries are played to honor their champions. But who can forget Usain Bolt, one of the best sprinters in history, stopping an interview while the Star Spangled Banner was played during a medal ceremony?

The day I became a fan of Usain Bolt.

Today, I find myself getting tired of hearing about the treatment of our national anthem, from hard lining rednecks to free speech bleeding hearts to sportscasters, politicians, and teachers at my kid's school.

Kaepernick, thanks a lot, dude, for "advancing the public dialogue."

Here's the thing with Kap. If he had moves like Jagger, then the guy would have a contract. Team owners tend to overlook a host of sins for players who help them win, and this would be no different . . . but I digress.

The Cleveland Browns recently had 12 players opt to kneel during the song, and their employer recognized and supported their freedom of speech choices. I wonder, if any of those 12 had ever been presented with a folded flag, would they still not stand? Also, I'd bet dollars to donuts that all those guys already had contracts sewn up.

The Browns' regular season opener is on September 10, and they asked that local emergency response personnel show up to hold a giant flag, stretched across the field, during the playing of the national anthem. The police and other related unions opted out, citing they didn't want to support an organization that supported its employees' choice to not stand for the anthem.

And so it goes.

Why do we continue to have it sung at sporting events? When else it is sung?  There have been some excellent singings of that song, who can forget Whitney Houston at the '88 Super Bowl? And also some Rosanning . . . but while I love hearing it, I am not certain it is a good idea to continue to have it performed at athletic contests.

Courtney wrote an article for her high school newspaper a few years ago called, "The Pledge of Annoyance," referencing the frequency and appropriateness of reciting the "Pledge of Allegiance." Eight years later I think I am seeing her point.

Just like the government should probably get out of the marriage business, we should consider the appropriate circumstances for the playing of the Star Spangled Banner. Its treatment should be honorable, and if not, then the event doesn't deserve it.

Our National Anthem deserves better. We could learn a lesson from this kid:

"And the star spangled banner, in triumph shall wave,

O'er the home of the free, and the land of the brave."