I will honestly admit this isn’t easy to write. When it comes to kids dying at a young age, my hands clam up and my heart starts to bounce off my chest. These are the things that make us human and fragile as a species. Untimely and sad losses of young innocent life. Bring me the most cynical person on this planet and if I told them a four year kid died a week before his 5th birthday, they would crumble within seconds. This is a harsh brutal world and as a fictional boxing legend said on screen, it will beat you to your knees if you let it.

On Sunday, Ashton Twibell, a four year old who loved superheroes, died when he accidentally fell out of the window of a loft in Springfield, Missouri. The first time I heard this I immediately thought about Eric Clapton’s kid and his death. Twibell’s mother happens to be a friend of two of my coolest friends on Twitter and Facebook, Deana Stoker and Adrian McClure. McClure sent me this story about the horrible tragedy and told me how it hit close to home for him because another close friend had lost a 2 year old at an early age.  This is far from unfair. There’s unfair and then there is downright tragic and Ashton’s death fits right into that spot.

The minute my son, Vincent, was born, my world was shifted into the form of a protector and overthinker. When you have kids, suddenly your everyday life is similar to a secret service agent working full time. Wherever your kid is, you have eyes there in some way. If your kid goes to the store, the location of your kid is put above everything else. Your own body and its health becomes instantly secondary to your kids. When Vin was born, he was #1 priority. There are times where he strays for even a second and I have get myself straight and know where he is at.  Kids don’t care about consequence at an early age, so that’s our job every single minute. We are their protectors.

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Tim Howard and I are both bald and bearded men. That’s basically where the comparisons end.

It’s easy to like, admire and appreciate Tim Howard. Trust me, I have little clue how the many rules of soccer work and the way leagues operate. I watch the game with the simple idea of hoping for some kind of miracle and a respect for the pace of the sport. However, liking Howard is easy to do because of his position, his status and his performance in the 2014 FIFA World Cup.

For the most casual soccer fan, Howard is the goalie who made 16 stops in a World Cup game(most in 50 years) on Tuesday that should have been enough to fuel a USA win over the Belgium(aka The Jean Claude Van Damme’s) and advance the Americans to the next round. The diehard soccer fans love him. The non soccer fans love him. Everybody in the world likes Howard, including the opponents he has faced. Howard breaks those barriers of devotion and fleeting senses of care because his position is easy to understand and easy to admire.

Tim Howard is a goal keeper, which is one of the easiest to comprehend if toughest to play positions in soccer. The man has to cover a net that stretches incredibly wide and he must use every piece of his body to stop the shot. He is outnumbered most of the time and if he allows a goal, guess what, that could be the deciding goal in a game(look at the Germany win). Howard can only do so much but as a goalie, and if he fails he isn’t letting down a team. He is letting down a nation. The man lives and breathes pressure.

When Tim Howard gets a cup of coffee at Starbucks, he will get nods, hat tips and probably the cup of joe for free.

When he goes to a car wash, strangers will offer to scrub his vehicle.

T-shirts will be made with his bald dome and bearded face hulking across the fabric. Babies will wear Howard onesies and suck on pacifiers that say “Believe in Howard”.

Howard won’t pay for drinks.

When he is at the gym and blocks a basketball from hitting a child playing next to the court, the parents will beg him to sign it.

Tim Howard will sign boobs, baby foreheads, cups, caps, shirts, cars, pieces of hotel paper, arms, legs, chests and will make many Americans shave their head and stamp TH on them.

People won’t be able to remember a single American soccer player’s name off this team(sorry Julian Green, who scored the last goal and is 19 frigging years old) but they will know Howard’s full story. He started his career stateside in 2003 before signing with the Manchester United in 2007 and eventually playing for Everton. He played with a team called the Wanderers. He is from North Brunswick, New Jersey and his net worth is 6 million dollars.

People will identify themselves with Howard the way kids try to act like their favorite athletes. Forget you Michael Jordan. This kid wants to be like Howard and leap 10 feet to his right and block a shot and somersault up to grab the ball and launch a majestic clearing kick halfway down the field. Howard has made soccer cool for a lot of people who previously thought of the sport as a lullaby.

Women will adore Howard and tell their men to shave their heads. Like now.

It doesn’t hurt that Howard is bald, bearded, tattooed and menacing looking on the field. It just helps the T-Shirt sales. For every fan who doesn’t like Ronaldo’s pretty boy haircut, they can point to Howard for another style of sports fueled manliness.

Men will stop him and tell him where they were when he jumped high and deflected that shot over the net and seemed to carry a team of misfit toys and a country on his back for 2 weeks.  He will smile, listen and wait for the next interruption to his simple walk down the street.

You know what? All this attention is deserved. Howard has been playing this game for a long time. He was good in 2010 but this year he stepped his game up a few notches. He nearly aided the team in taking down Germany and did the same against Belgium. If it wasn’t for a magical pass from Cristian Ronaldo with seconds left, maybe the USA would still be playing with a better placing and matchup. Howard made that happen. He is a 35 year old soccer player in the twilight of his career who produced a legendary performance on Tuesday that will convert millions of fans and turn little kids into soccer goalies. Thank him for that. With the sport slowly uncoiling in the states, people need a face to connect with this sport. A tough looking stopper who can stand on his head in a great game on a national level and make am impact. Tim Howard deserves every bit of attention he will get.

When the Secretary of Defense calls Howard, it may not be for ways to stop enemy missiles but it will be to congratulate the player. When he goes on Letterman and Fallon, he will get standing ovations. When 2018 rolls around and his face goes up on the screen, people will holler and scream and raise their drinks. The USA may have lost but Tim Howard made sure the country won something. A newfound love and respect for the game.

No, Tim Howard won’t be elected President of the United States in 2016. He is too young and doesn’t want to sit in an office. Howard will return to his team and keep stopping soccer balls. He will coach younger players on how to be great. He will ride this current wave of fame into many television appearances and acclaim from all ends of the world.

For a casual soccer fan like myself and one that  jumps on the USA bandwagon every four years, I can appreciate, admire and get behind that story. It’s an easy one to love and digest.

Tim Howard made soccer cool again.

 

Going to the dentist sucks. There are few experiences that rank beside it as far as a lack of pleasure is concerned. Sure, it’s important but so is eating your vegetables. Putting your seatbelt on is important but it doesn’t involve your gums getting thoroughly abused.

I take care of my teeth and gums. I floss frequently and brush the teeth. So when the wife and I joined a lovely new dentist up the street from our house in November, things seems to be pointing towards the bright side. I walked in and warm smiles that didn’t show a hint of fakeness greeted me as well as a fine Keurig machine that had fresh coffee waiting at my command. I was nearly in love when I sat down to be examined by the sweet dental hygienist. She asked me questions about my life and actually seemed to be downloading my answers.  She readied her weapons. Imagine if Dexter were a dentist and you have a clear picture. She told me open wide and I obliged. She poked around a tad and looked up a lot. You can never read these people. They could be expert poker players. They could be serious looking because they don’t want to jab a hole in your mouth or screw up your teeth. If they are too smiley, that could be due to a lack of conviction or they may be hiding something. I was patient. She called in the head dentist and he did nothing but smile. What the fuck? Stop this. Someone shoot me straight and turn off the laughing gas.

After they stepped away and did a quick chat, I got fantastic news. I had plague built up on my gums. Down between the teeth. They used a few words I couldn’t understand and I sort of zoned out for a minute. I came back and they weren’t smiling. They looked like concerned parents. WHAT? It turns out I needed deep gum cleaning. Four quadrants. Upper right and left followed by the lower right and left. Afterwards, if I survived and I had any wit about my soul, they would polish the teeth. The horror film had started production and I only got a teaser.

In my eyes, all the dentists before had disregarded this condition. That shithole out in Florissant. The place a few blocks away. They had screwed me over and told me I was good to go for a long time. Thanks a lot. They should be lucky I don’t know any arms dealers so I could buy a grenade launcher and send a fucking bomb through their window.

The fun would begin in February. Four sessions. An hour apiece. Every time a dentist or their assistants say it’s not that bad, that means its very bad. They are as trustworthy as lawyers in the ghetto. Believe the first word and the last. I prepared for an event that may as well been the end of my existence. I kissed my wife goodbye and gave my son a good hug. I got in my car and drove for approximately 3 minutes up the street. It was time.

I didn’t want their coffee. I wanted to get this finished. I almost wore Rambo style face paint. I sat down in their chair and got ready for D-Day.

 

(more…)

On Monday, I found out that a friend of mine from high school had overdosed on heroin. I had just talked to this woman two weeks ago. We talked about a variety of things. We talked about our kids and ancient memories that included me asking her out so long ago. It’s something that we laughed about and made light of. She didn’t seem lost and didn’t seem on the verge of leaving this rock. This week, I found out she did and it hit me like a bad of bricks to the side of the head. What happened to this single mother inside the past 14 days that made her dip so far into drugs and make a quick departure? Addictions are a serious and very deadly game to participate in, so the outcome here wasn’t surprising. It was the fact that I was friends with this person once, followed her on Facebook, talked with her and never once sensed a person dealing with addiction. It’s horrible and something you can’t blame yourself for but also find sitting up for hours wondering how it all went wrong.

The way humans are wired leaves us with these feelings. Whether we like it or not or even care to admit, our emotions play a heavy part in our everyday lives. It connects all the hours and minutes together. Sometimes, they get the best of us.  Other times, they provide us with our best moments. We can’t escape feeling something for a person we barely know yet felt a connection long ago. I felt like an ally to this person recently and someone to talk to, but now that they are gone, I can’t help but wonder what addictions could befall my son Vin in the future.

When you have kids and wish to be a good parent, every waking second is attached to their well being. Party all night, sleep all day and dance the night away if you want. Your kid is waiting for you to come home and hang. I know this because I walk through the door in the morning after an overnight shift and see a pair of eyes focused on me. The Cardinals don’t wait for me. Movies don’t give me big hugs. My son Vincent does and it’s something I can’t live without. When a parent I know meets their end like this, it makes me reexamine myself and how I operate. When you become a parent, your life is dedicated to your child and you must set the right example and do the right thing. Sometimes, that shit is hard and bad things happen.

(more…)

I can write and I can do it very well.  I say this because I have many pages of evidence and feedback.   I don’t piss excellence in the morning but I know how to put words together and gauge people’s interest and keep them coming back for more doses.   One of the most important things in life is knowing what you want to do with your life and seeing a path to getting there.  I want to write for a living more than anything, but right now there isn’t a single job waiting out there for me.   There are people out there with Journalism degrees who can’t get work writing the spoken word on paper or on the internet.  2014 isn’t the year of the writer unless you know somebody or catch the right person’s eye.

So I digress.  I am currently out of work and will likely be heading back to the warehouse environment soon.   This isn’t the ending I wanted and surely wasn’t where I planned on being when I left the previously mentioned warehouse last March.   That’s life and the way things turn out these days.   I have been out of work for 12 months of the past year and a half.  I am a stay at home dad and a damn good one.   I get up with the kid most mornings and battle the 2 year old to a draw most nights.   My wife, Rachel, works 50 plus hours a week selling tile so the paychecks there are never a guarantee.

During my time at home,  I have gotten the chance to write for 4 additional websites to go with this one and Film-Addict.  I go on the radio once a week with Rob Butler in Arkansas and have conducted several interviews with actors, writers, directors and just recently, baseball players for my beloved St. Louis Cardinals.  I have savored the time at home with Vinny.  I have watched him grow up from a small 9 month old baby to a 2 year old beast.   I will never forget this time I have had with him and the opportunities that have come my way and opened doors for myself.  I have met a lot of unpaid yet brilliant writers and joined the population of prose dispensers.

Plenty of out of work hacks would have shacked up at home and watched enough reality television to make their eyes hurt or sat there and covered themselves in despair and disgust.   I have made good use of my time away from the land of the employed and found myself as busy or busier than when I was actually making money.   I have seen my writing vastly improve and take a sharper route to the end of pieces and I have gotten more creative while only earning less than 50 dollars for my services around the net.

There is a bittersweet flavor to being out of work.  You do plenty but see no return.   You see bills stack up and remain unpaid and there are times where I feel compelled to go pick up a lackluster shit job to simply pay off some of those overdue slips.   I have grown bitter during my unemployment and have shown more attitude towards my wife.  I have gotten very angry at my son for doing things a 2 year old simply does no matter what.

My inner anger has grown  more intense.  Part of this stems from losing my job at Senoret in 2012 when the owner decided to pack up and sell.   A large chunk comes from getting fired last June without warning or reason from Bommarito Wines(I will name that one no matter the blowback on future applications and resumes).   There are days where I wake up frustrated and annoyed at my predicament and I take it out on the wrong people.  That is typical human behavior.  Our aim with our mood and attitude is never sharp.   We just let it fly.  Being married for just about 9 years, you know how to cut down your spouse even when they don’t deserve it.   I have done that way too often in the past year.   It doesn’t matter how many times your wife is mean to you really.  That doesn’t make it okay to fire back at her when she is the only one working and stressed beyond her mind.   If this sounds like me sitting in a therapy session and you holding the notepad, that is because sometimes I come here and just need to rant.

When I found myself on the job block, I thought this was my best opportunity to find something different.  Warehouse work was drying up and the social media and web content arenas were just getting warmed up.  I figured I could make an impact there.  I even had a couple bites on the market there.     I interviewed at Eagle Bank and Trust for a social media manager position and left excited.  A whole new area of expertise extracting me from robotic warehouse work.  And let’s call it what it is.  Warehouse work, unless you have a clear path up in the ranks of management or really dig that kind of work, is robotic mind numbing crap.   People go there because they have no other skills most of the time.  I have a skill and a way with people so I don’t feel like I belong there.   When I interviewed at the bank, I thought I was breaking free.  Sometimes a dream is extended though.   I got word from Pat Kelly that the bank job had went to someone else.  When I emailed the marketing director at Eagle Bank to say thanks for the opportunity to interview, he told me it was still open.   I got the drift.  I had been passed up.

Someone with a college degree probably swooped in and took the job.   It’s amazing that in some areas of work a college degree gets you nowhere because you are a woman(my wife applying at a car dealership, where she surely had everyone else out-schooled) and then there are other jobs when the job holders desire a college degree in an area of work(social media and web content) where a piece of paper from a community college doesn’t seem like the biggest prerequisite.  I know more than a few people who have college degrees and no job to show for it but here is a gig where I was probably passed over for somebody who had a simple business degree from a local college.   Once again, that’s life.  It can beat to your knees one day and show a little hope the next day.

I wouldn’t mind staying home with my kid and working a little but then again, who wouldn’t?   My dream is to write for a living and I can only hope one of these passion gigs I am doing right now turn into something real down the road.  When it comes to jobs, you can take a job and quit looking entirely or take a job and keep up the search.  I will never stop looking until I find my dream job.   I may be old and gray when I finally do write for a living but that won’t be too late.   Sure, I write because I want to and not because I need money to do it but when you have a family, MONEY needs to be made and joy in what you do doesn’t matter.

The American Dream in life is doing what you want and love to do while getting paid for it.  I know I have a unique gift to write and connect with people on social media and know I can help someone’s business with these skills or improve people’s lives.   People have told me this and I know it myself.   That’s not enough in this world.

There is virtue in knowing you have found your place in life and seeing what you were put here to do.   It is something quite else to be paid to do it.

Thanks for reading and have a good weekend,

DLB

 

 

Sometimes, I wonder what my mother really thinks of me.   When I talk to her on the phone, she sounds and speaks like President Obama talking to us over a television broadcast.  Guarded and unsure of what to say next.   Sometimes, I think my mom has a lower opinion of me or an objective she wants to throw at me through the telephone wavelength.  Maybe she is simply cautious all around.

The mere thought scares the shit out of me.   My sweet mother unplugged.

90 percent of the time, my mother is an angel.   She will cook for me at moment’s notice, send me home with a bag of shit she doesn’t want and smile with the last ounce of strength she can muster at the end of the day.

To many, hearing her real thoughts would be scary.   What does this nice small woman really want to tell you?  I think of this every time we talk.   She asks me how the family is and my current state, but seems to be holding something back.   This has nothing to do with my unemployment status or any real plan.  I just think she is holding back.   At the same time, if she did let it rip and told me how she felt, I may be the one crying.   That’s the game we play in our heads on a daily basis.  How much of the truth do we want?

I came out of this woman after a long round of labor and after my dad drove her through 2 foot of white powder back on February 3rd, 1982 in one of the greatest snow storms in the history of St. Louis.   She has a good reason to let me have it.   She raised my brother and I as best as a woman could.   My brother encountered an illness in his 20’s that hampered the family, yet my mother carried on strongly.   My dad is a strong man himself, but my mother cleans, cooks, takes care of my brother and generally worries about the general state of the world in her free time.  She treats her dogs like daughters and treats her body like a cellphone searching for a signal in a brick room.   Struggling and moving in place.

Seeing my mother curse or become enraged is like watching the Blair Witch Project for the first time.  You want to pretend it’s not real but are enthralled by it at the same time.   You look away and back in her direction.   You look for a camera.

My mom can curse and fire venom as quick as a welder with arthritis.   She cut down a neighbor for not raking her leaves one time while emptying the dishwasher and I am not sure watching Bruce Lee break someone’s arm would have been more entertaining.

Seeing your calm sweet mother lose her nerve for just a few minutes is unsettling, cinematic and sad at the same time.  What if she could do this more often?

One day, I want to tell my mom to let me have it.   Shoot me down for failing in college and wasting my grandmother’s money.  Rough me up for killing the hope of having your son graduate college while you were still alive.   Give me hell for bringing my son Vincent over right after you did yardwork for 7 hours and cleaned up dog shit.   Unleash your other anger on me.  Tell me how hard and soul consuming taking care of a 33 year old is.

Spin me a “what if” story that has lived in your head for years.   Instead of asking about me, talk about you for once.  Go for it.  I can handle it….I think.   The result would be enlightening and somewhere off in the distance glaciers would fall to the ground.

It’s amazing what we dare to ask for in life before we think about being able to handle it.  More than anything, I want to talk to my mom on the phone as if nothing was hanging over our conversation.  I want her to be honest with me.   I am old enough and so is she.  Tell me the things I have long suspected yet have not heard out loud.

When I think of my sweet mother unplugged, I imagine shackles falling to the floor.   The rust and bone of many years crashing along with it.   Most of all, the sound of bullshit being vaporized.

Then again, what do I know?  I am 31 and oh so young.

___

Dan Buffa is the co-creator, administrator and writer for the movie website, film-addict.com. He also contributes to United Cardinal Bloggers, Arch City Sports, Aaron Miles Fastball, Voicesfilm.com and writes for his personal blog, www.doseofbuffa.com.  He is also a published writer for the Yahoo Contributor Network.   Dan is a St. Louis, Missouri born and raised writer with a need to inform and the ability to pound out 1,000-1,500 word pieces with ease.  When he isn’t writing or drinking coffee, he is spending time with his wife and son in South City.  Follow him at @buffa82 on Twitter and reach him for thoughts, comments and general feedback at buffa82@gmail.com.

The sound of that baby crying doesn’t sound human.    One room over, I can hear the poor thing begging for reprieve from being stripped, inspected and overall bothered.   I say leave the damn thing alone but then again I take my kid to the doctor’s regularly.   It’s never as bad when it’s someone else’s kid making animal sounds in Tower Grove.

This is the Doctor’s office experience.   Signing in and writing down your info for the 65th time.   Staring down other sick or fucked up foes.  Checking your phone while it struggles for reception like a fish in dirty water.   In a way, I struggle for reception every time I go to this place.

Dry skin.

Concussion.

Broken bones.

High blood pressure.

You name it and I’ll hate it.  Going to the doctor’s isn’t as bad as the dentist because they don’t scrape your gums with sharp metal prods but it still doesn’t rank high on the like list.

I wish we could have the doctor treatment they get over in Kenya or back in the wild west days.   No white coat.  The person comes into your house with his cool looking suit/vest/pocketwatch attire and his neat little bag of tools.   It’s more personable.   It’s overall just a better experience.  He is here to see me and that’s it.  I don’t have to talk to some overweight reception clerk or look at 20 other depressed souls.  I can see my front door and his face in one shot.  Those days are gone.  Now it’s military style.

Come in and sign in.   Tell us about yourself.  Are you dying right now?  Are you sick?   Do you feel like your finger may just drop to the floor?  Are you allergic to five people coughing on you at once?   Afterwards, wait in a small room for 20 minutes while the doctor catches up on their far too busy schedule.  Read all the scary paper we stick on the walls.   Juicy tidbits such as “You could die tomorrow if you don’t follow this 47 steps of healthy living!”  Are you kidding me?  You could die walking your doggie!!

When the doctor arrives, you are never ready.   They look at you blankly and ask you the same questions the sheet did in the lobby.   What is this?  A memory exam or a test on whether the words my fingers write lie to the words coming out of my mouth?  I need something and you got it.   Quick.

And then they want blood work.  Suddenly, this visit turns into an action film.   A stop here never ends without a poke, prod or drip.   Nothing is free in life.  Insurance or not.  The baby wasn’t acting out in that room.  This place really does suck.   Who is holding me?

My order calls for two needles.   A flu shot that I apparently missed into my right arm and another into the fat vein in the left arm.  One to make me feel woozy and in need of a candy bar.  The other to prevent sickness but cause temporary irritation.

I will never get used to seeing my own blood shoot into a tube.  Yes, I have to watch.  Behind the scenes of my own body and what that crimson liquid actually looks like.  Sign me up.  Once I get over being stabbed twice inside 5 minutes in this building, I pay full attention.   Who can look away and not feel disappointed they just missed a mini horror reel?  They take just enough to not have you pass out looking at it and then ask you to verify the info on the tube that you just gave them.   Good thing I spelled my last name because that woman look confused when I said “BUFFA”.

Afterwards, with two patches on my arms, I finally get to leave with my prescription for dry skin cream and another round of pills for my high blood pressure.   In the world of medicine, the stronger the dosage the harder it is to pronounce correctly.   Americans sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger when they try to say these words out loud.  Which makes me think it would be awfully funny for Arnold to play a doctor in an elderly facility?   Undercover cop and tough as nails of course but hearing him recite Trizamilinathome a few times would be comic gold.

They don’t want any money but do want to schedule another visit.  Sick, dead or alive you are coming back for more waiting, pokes and useless recycled info.    I swear the biggest schemers in life are small practice doctors.  The ones who treat ordinary patients with minor conditions.   They don’t get the trauma emergency variety.   I feel like re-routing a car crash victim with one arm to their doorstep just to see how they react.  “Put the lap top down and get your Greys Anatomy on woman!”

Into my car and out of the lot.  Into the spot at the coffee shop.  Where I ask for a drop of black snot.  Everything’s more normal now.

Which makes me wonder for a minute.  What would these people hear if this place didn’t have my coffee?

Animal sounds in Tower Grove.

___

Dan Buffa is the co-creator, administrator and writer for the movie website, film-addict.com. He also contributes to United Cardinal Bloggers, Arch City Sports, Aaron Miles Fastball, Voicesfilm.com and writes for his personal blog, www.doseofbuffa.com.  He is also a published writer for the Yahoo Contributor Network.   Dan is a St. Louis, Missouri born and raised writer with a need to inform and the ability to pound out 1,000-1,500 word pieces with ease.  When he isn’t writing or drinking coffee, he is spending time with his wife and son in South City.  Follow him at @buffa82 on Twitter and reach him for thoughts, comments and general feedback at buffa82@gmail.com