Tag: in memoriam

It’s hard not to smile at a Golden Retriever.

Whether they’re out on a walk, chasing a tennis ball in the park, maniacally plunging into a pool or even just lying around, joy is written all over their faces and sheer bliss radiates from their furry coats.

I’m clearly a dog-lover, from a dog-loving family, but I think there’s something special about the spirit of a Golden that would warm up anyone’s heart.

And if you were lucky enough to have grown up with a Golden, like I was, you know their goofy grins and joyous antics aren’t just for show. They’re a lifestyle; a window to the dog’s soul – a soul soaked in pervasive, absolute happiness.

Continue reading Missing Millie

A tribute to Leslie Whitfield and survivors everywhere.

Sunscreen. It’s smelly. It’s expensive. It gets in your eyes. It clogs your pores. And for white-ass people like myself, it’s a lifestyle. I put it on my face every morning, apply another coat before day-time runs and pretty much drain the bottle if I’m going swimming or attending an outdoor event.

Yeah, I’m that guy: holding everybody up so I can run into Walgreens and raid the Coppertone section; huddling under a hat, a blanket and an umbrella during a perfect day at the beach; sweating bullets in long sleeves during the scorching desert summers.

And don’t even talk to me about tubing on the Salt River. Sorry. Stuck in a tube in the sun for four hours just doesn’t work for me. You go ahead though.

But despite my photo-paper-esque skin and affinity for the shade, I do love the sunshine and can’t get enough of the practically year-round blue skies we get here in Phoneix. And that’s why I’ve been single-handedly keeping sunblock industry execs wealthy for the past two decades. Because if I don’t wear sunblock, I will get burned. Badly. It’s that simple.

Continue reading Lessons learned from my worst sun burn

Over the years, I’ve gotten pretty sharp at negotiating with scalpers. Waiting until the last minute has resulted in deals and adventures at concerts and sporting events of all kinds. It’s gotten to the point where sometimes, the search for tickets is as much a part of the experience as the event itself.

Back in April of this year, three friends and I went to see Muse perform at US Airways Center. We met in downtown Phoenix about an hour before the show, with no tickets and no desire to pay face value. We took our time, had some beers and made a couple laps around the arena to gauge the market. An active number of scalpers roamed the sidewalks and the box office had plenty of tickets still available.

When the band took the stage, tickets started to burn holes in pockets and it was time for us to make some moves.

We got things going by low balling a scalper right outside the main entrance. He used standard scare tactics, slight of hand and swift talking to raise the price and to get us to concede for face value. I could see the wheels turning in my friends’ heads and that they were about to give in. So I stepped in, rejected his offer and threatened to take our business elsewhere. The scalper knew the game, acted insulted and told my friends that I was ruining this opportunity for them.

My buddies were drinking the Kool Aid and leaning toward accepting the man’s offer. Fortunately, I was aware enough to act quickly and stopped them from reaching for their wallets. I led the group down the street, looking for another seller.

When the scalper saw the cash flying away he snapped into survival mode and gave in, offering us the tickets for about half of face value. I gave the fellas the green light, we pooled our money together and had the guy walk up to the gate with us to make sure the tickets were legit. The salesman gave us the tickets and I had the money in my hand. But right before I handed it over, something crazy happened.

Chris Volpe, one of the guys in our group, shoved an extra five dollars into my hand and said something like, “Give him a tip man.”

My jaw dropped, pupils dilated and hands started sweating. Was he serious? He must’ve been drunk. Tipping isn’t part of the dance. So, I rejected this preposterous notion.

Volpe insisted though, and stuck the five back into my hand. What could I do? It was his money. So I gave the scalper the money, he got the heck out of dodge and we walked into the show.

My head was spinning, trying to find the logic in what just happened. After all, who tips a scalper? Volpe smiled in stride and shrugged it off with a laugh.

We ended up snagging killer seats, smooth talking some free beers and taking in a spectacular show. It was my first time seeing Muse and the shock of “the tip” eventually wore off for me. We all had a great time, but when I look back on that concert now, I don’t think about the seats, the discounts or the music.

I smile and think of Volpe tipping the scalper five bucks.

A month after that concert, Chris Volpe was hit and killed by a car while riding his bike in Tempe. He was 24 years old, had just completed the last final exam of the semester and was on his way home to start the summer.

When tragedies strike, I never know how to react, and usually, they bounce off me at first and sink in much, much later.

In this case, I got the call from a friend, a day after the accident, while I was on my lunch break. He told me that Volpe had died the night before and that a few of our friends were hanging out at his house. I drove over, spent an hour there numb, sitting on the couch talking a bit with the others. Then went back to the office.

I’ve never had to deal with death at work, didn’t know how to handle the situation and reacted by going about my business. It hadn’t sunk in yet.

I had known Chris for about a year, but it was only within the few months before his death that we grew close and started hanging out regularly on the weekends. Our group was having a great time and it felt like our friendship was just taking off.

Crazy how quickly things can change.

But what fascinates me most now, is how much I am learning about him in the short time after his death. It seems so backwards that only after he was gone did I meet his family, hear so many stories and get to know so many different sides of him. I started to appreciate what a caring, kind and giving person Chris was. The candle light vigil, the ghost bike memorial dedication, the honorary toast at Casey Moore’s and the funeral warmly celebrated his life and offered glimpses at the type of man Chris was. It’s so sad, tragic even, that it took death to generate such attention to a life. Would I have learned about any of these wonderful sides of Chris, if he was still alive?

It made me wonder, “What else is out there?” So I started searching.

I found out that he had a Twitter account and I’m following him now, over a month after the accident. He created a series of movie-review videos on YouTube with his brother and on Facebook his profile is memorialized. People have been posting messages to Chris on his wall regularly since his death. They tell him that they miss him. They fill him in on what they are up to in life. They write about things in their day that remind them of Chris.

These loving, personal and caring messages are not scribbled in journals and tucked away in closets. They’re shared, beautifully, and are a constant sign of life, celebration and continued love for Chris and everyone who cares about him.

I thought his death finally hit me at the reception when I started to focus on the brotherly aspect of it all. But no. It hadn’t hit me yet back then.

It did just now, when I checked Chris’s Facebook profile for the first time in over a month and read the latest comment: “Good night buddy, miss you and love you!” posted by his brother two hours after I started writing this.

Thanks to these messages, stories, videos and support, my relationship with Volpe continues to grow and I feel so privileged to have known such a fun, kind and caring person. I finally understand why he threw in that extra five bucks for the scalper back in April. And to me, that tip will remain a vivid symbol of who he was, a model of how to treat people and one of the many reasons he will always be sorely missed.

Rest in peace my friend.

Chris Volpe
August 29, 1985 – May 10, 2010

Every group has that one quirky person that gets messed with and laughed at constantly. Think Johnny Drama from Entourage or Milhouse from the Simpsons. Despite all the jokes, put-downs and abuse, this quintessential role player rarely gets upset and remains content, rolling with the punches and accepted among the pack.

What is fascinating about this person is that as much crap as they take, they are a pillar of the group’s structure and are sorely missed when they are gone. Think about the times when that fall-guy is absent from your group. When the jokester at the office goes on vacation. When the dorky kid at the lunch table is home sick. What happens? Things go way off kilter and the group does not function as it should. There are lulls in conversations, awkward pauses, few jokes and no zen.

In my family the quirky, lovable, blunt of our jokes was Ginger: our golden retriever lab mutt. She was the oldest dog of four in our pack, had one eye removed due to a tumor, part of her liver removed due to another ailment and had been through a lot in her 15 years.

As a puppy she was tied up in blankets, dunked under water and given batteries to lick. We put peanut butter on her nose and laughed hysterically at how long it would take her to lick it all off. And you know what? She loved every minute of it, relishing in her role.

Ginger, who also went by Gin-Gin, Geebye, YanYaWooz, Coorglios and Girgenhelper, loved chasing leaves when she went swimming and barking at planes flying overhead.

When she got excited, she would smile and show her teeth, shake her behind and bury her head in her front paws, almost out of embarrassment for being so excited. She loved being scratched (as most dogs do) and meeting new people. But the irony was that given how excited she got and the amount of fur she shed, most people hesitated before petting her.

Once you dug in though, she let you know she liked it. Groaning, twisting, wagging, nudging for more…she remains to this day the best dog to scratch behind the ears I have ever met.

On March 6, 2010 we had to put Ginger down.

The old age, arthritis and osteosarcoma in her leg took their toll. She was in bad shape for about two weeks before she broke her infected leg on a routine misstep in the middle of the night. The doctors said that she would not have been a good candidate for amputation or chemotherapy.

This was the first time we had had to pull the plug on one of our pups and it was one of the most painful and difficult experiences our family has gone through in a very long time. But as gut wrenching as it was, when I think about how she went out, I cannot help but smile because it went right along with how Ginger did everything else in her life.

Prior to Ginger’s departure, my brother and sister, who live out of state, came back home for the weekend. We knew the end was getting near and they wanted to see her in case something happened. When Ginger’s leg broke, it was only hours after we were all back together. Like she knew the pack was complete again and the time was right for her to go. Her exit was also her most beautiful act: she brought the pack together one last time, to say goodbye.

So today, take note and give thanks to the Ginger in your pack. Buy your buddy a beer in between insults. Take the office spaz out to lunch. Or, just give that funny, tail-wagging, fur-shedding family member an extra cookie and a nice scratch behind the ears to let her know how much she means to you.

All dogs go to heaven, and Ginger is up there smiling, helping everybody get along.