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Prologue – Richie O’malley

Before – New York City 1950’s

A spark was ignited fourteen million-millennia ago, back when the first stars formed from carbon dust.
Over time the fire has been injected into every one of us who has ever successfully slipped from the birth canal, creating something deserving of a big, complicated, bombastic, raging and powerful name.

But we call it simply “Life.”

This ancient, mystical, boundless flash can be shut down and snuffed out in less time than we spend in the cycle of one breath.

The entire process, the sentient action to end a life takes a handful of seconds. The methods have been experimented with and perfected and honed and polished within the confines of those thousands of millions of years into an art, a cold and ruthless art.
In this case, the process, the art, is the gunshot: shots fired from one gun. [Read more…] about Prologue – Richie O’malley

Mom’s Doctor

My mom has Altzheimers, a brutal disease, most of you know that. Her doctor is a Muslim. His name is Islam, actually. I have his cell number, he has mine. He’s answered my call at 1 am on a Sunday morning.

He calls her “Mama” and hugs her when he sees her. He calls me “Billy”, actually BEELEE. I’ve seen him have tears of frustration in his eyes as we try to work together dealing with congestive heart failure, kidney failure, pain management and a whole slew of of elder care challenges. We have had many heart to heart talks about palliative care and exactly that means and what we are dealing with here. “This is not the place for heroics, Beelee, this is about caring and comfort.”

I met him in the ER at St. Lukes about 4 years ago. He announced, grinning ear to ear that morning, that “today was your lucky day.” It was.

I am really glad he was not banned from entering the country by some group of scared, hate filled jerks.

Just my two cents.

Father’s Day…

My dad died so long ago I don’t remember much. I guess Fathers Day is the genesis of this post.

I don’t think about him much anymore. I wore a mustache in his honor for thirty years, hating it. One day I decided it had to go. It was a freeing moment. Maybe my first day of freedom since the day he died in 1965.

I stopped using drugs and booze around the time the mustache left. His was this cool, thin Boston Blackie mustache. Mine was a farce. It was big and bushy and itched all the time.

I’m twenty years older than he was when he died. If we met today I would be the elder and allegedly wiser from the years. I have a hard time wrapping my head around that, especially me being the wiser of the two. Yeah, I don’t see that.

Looking back at his ancient photos are looking back in time. Like a grainy black and white 4 by 4-inch portal – with a wavy white border. Not unlike viewing the world through a 12” black and white TV, with an array of vacuum tubes. [Read more…] about Father’s Day…

Boyhood Lost…

The truth is all of the front teeth are held together in an elaborate array of metal spikes and wires. A few in the back are missing too, and an odd assortment of rods and screws hold together flesh and bone.

Up by the bridge of the nose are two deep scars and the countless broken bones now ache and scream for rest.

I feel the need to apologize to the boy on the lake’s shore, pole in hand, coffee can full of worms. This was never the plan. The plan was to fly in space.

Somehow, between that day when they drained the lake and Dougie and me waded out in the waist-deep muck and caught the six-pound bass, and exhausted from the wars of being eight years old we laid down in the cattail reeds, and tried to figure out the sun; between that day and today, this life happened. Boyhood was lost.

Fastest Cyclist in the World

If you are a cyclist and you don’t know who this guy is, you should.

Some of his records stood for 40 years. Even the name “major” was an insult. A reference to the circus uniform he was forced to wear by his handlers.

Revered as a star athlete in Europe and reviled in America as a sideshow freak…

I often wondered if those genetically superior white boys, who couldn’t hang on his wheel felt superior to the lightning fast colored boy…

When he died he was first buried in a pauper’s grave. Thanks to Frank Schwinn and others he was moved to a place of honor, on the south side of Chicago.

There is a velodrome in Indianapolis, his hometown, built in his honor.

I’ve ridden a few times with the New Jersey Major Taylor team. I was the white guy at the back of the pack trying to hang on. They honor the man and his name and his natural talent.

Marshall Walter Taylor, the fastest cyclist in the world.