The DNA of the soul

The day before my father died of a heart attack he rode an exercise bike in his apartment’s garage. He was a very old man by then. Not in years — he had just turned 72 — but his body was frail and falling toward death and he knew it. The doctor had told him so. That scared him, as it would most of us, so he clung to the hope of a second opinion. In the meantime he pumped the bike peddles in order to pump life into the weak vessels of his heart. In the process one of his slippers fell off. He was too weak to pick it up himself so a passing neighbor helped him. The next morning he died in bed.

 

I wonder if my father learned any great end of life wisdom. How much can you learn when you are so afraid? Three months previously, on the night before my brother’s funeral (he also died of heart failure) my father told me about his pending appointment with his doctor. Things weren’t looking good. He was losing energy. His feet were ballooning with retained fluids like they had 10 years previously, before his bypass. He could hardly walk without a walker, which he refused to use. “I might die,” he said that night with a fear in his eyes I had never seen before. I could say nothing to reassure him. After all, what did I know about death?

 

My father died with a grimace on his face, which probably indicates physical pain in his last moments. To my mother, this was a source of great concern, but it did not bother me much. It was just one moment in a long life, with various sufferings scattered throughout. The emotional and spiritual pain concerned me more.

 

Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t fear for his soul or anything. And while we’re at it, I don’t agree with the Catholic church on the subject of our eternal fate, that we will all be judged upon the state of our souls at the times of our death, whether we die pleading for God’s forgiveness or with the stain of some terrible sin washed across us. I can’t believe that the rest of our lives, everything we had done to that moment, falls away in the chemical rinse as God lifts the snapshot of our final moment up to the darkroom light.

 

But still, if death is coming anyway I’ll ask God for the strength to put fear in its rightful place so I can fully learn from the experience. Because there are only two things we can truly gain from this life: love and wisdom. Riches are a mirage, the facts we learn shift under our feet and are replaced by new facts, and mere romantic love is a flickering candle that is snuffed out by death’s bony fingers, if not before. But real love multiplies in our cells, wrapping around the deep knowledge of life we call wisdom like the invisible double helix of our spirits.

 

In the end I want to love myself and the world and learn as many things from it as I can, even the Reaper’s hardened profile as he walks into my room and reaches for my hand. That will be a very great lesson. And if there is another life, perhaps I can take my two treasures with me, love and wisdom, stored in the suitcase of my soul. Perhaps I can share a little with my father, who may still be wandering about, looking for his lost slipper.

Time for change? (And a special “Guess the Republican” contest)

Let’s face it, I’ll probably vote for Obama. I almost always vote for Democrats, though I don’t consider myself one. (Why? After John Kerry lost in 2004, my friends and I met at The Leaning Tower in Minneapolis. They cried into their beers about the fate of the Democratic party. I couldn’t have cared less. I just wanted to play pool.)

 

Though my vote is probably already cast, there are some interesting reasons to rethink my choice. Here are ten of them.

 

1. Obama has size 13 feet. He has to wear clown shoes. How can I vote for Bozo the President?

 

2. Obama bowled a 37 during the campaign. A 37. What kind of man is that? McCain could bowl a 37 with his bad cheek alone.

 

3. When Obama stood with French President Sarcozy in front of the cameras during his recent European trip he patted the president on the back, as politicians often do. Then he kept patting him, and patting him, and patting him. And I thought, Come on, guys; get a room. Now I have nothing against guys getting rooms. What you do in your room is your business. But when you’re meeting with Nicolas Sarcozy or even Angela Merkel, keep the touching to a minimum.

 

4. McCain says his favorite song is Abba’s “Dancing Queen.” I like that, especially coming from an old, tough guy ex-POW.

 

5. There was the fake presidential seal. (Sigh.) At a speech soon after wrapping up the Democratic nomination, Obama stood at a podium with his own version of the seal. It contained the eagle clutching the olive branches and arrows, but there was also an Obama logo on the bird’s breast shield, and in place of “E pluribus unum” the seal read “Vero possumus” (a rough Latin translation of his slogan, “Yes, we can”). Vero possumus? I thought, This is a Saturday Night Live skit, the political equivalent of jumping the shark.

 

6. McCain owns more homes. If I vote for him, maybe he’ll give me one.

 

7. Michelle Obama is an attractive, intelligent and strong woman. I’m jealous.

 

8. Politicians can say the word “change” only so many times before you want it to apply to them.

 

9. Obama beat up a girl. Sure, it was only a metaphorical fight, and the girl was Hillary Clinton, but still.

 

10. In Scrabble, “McCain” is a 12-point word. “Obama” is only 9 points. That has to count for something.

 

Final note: I said I’d probably vote for Obama; it’s not a certainty. I have voted for Republicans in the past. One was for Minnesota Secretary of State and nobody cares about that, but the other was for a national office, either for congressman or senator from Minnesota or for president. In honor of Senator McCain, I will give a shiny new Arizona quarter to whoever can guess that Republican. (Hint: This person has served as a congressman, senator or president, either currently or in the past.)

The Randy Mossification of Olympic sprinting

At 60 meters into the race, already strides ahead, Usain Bolt exploded. Of course, everyone in the Olympic 100 meter final was exploding with speed, it’s what these men do for a living, but the 6’5” Jamaican double exploded. Or perhaps Sulu hit warp speed in Bolt’s ass and he blasted into the stars. Whatever metaphor you choose, Bolt ran the race in 9.69 seconds, breaking his own world record by three hundredths of a second.

 

That he started celebrating with 20 meters to go — raising his arms and thumping his chest — and left us wondering by just how much he could have smashed the record is a shame, but it also leaves a delicious mystery: how fast can this freak go?

 

Talking about freaks, we should have seen it coming, those of us who ever saw Randy Moss lope past defenders as he ran under a bomb for a touchdown. It was bound to happen: some bean pole with good fast-twitch muscle fibers that allowed him to pump his legs at the same rate as us smaller folk while maintaining his longer stride would glide by all the muscled fullback types that have dominated sprinting for decades.

 

It’s happening in all sports: the tall are taking over. In my time, it started with Magic Johnson, a man blessed with a forward’s body and a point guard’s reflexes and imagination. Now you see it in all sports. Football players are goliaths, of course. Where these beasts come from I have no idea. You can’t be a quarterback in the NFL if you’re not at least 6’1” or 6’2”, otherwise you couldn’t throw over the defensive line. But hell, even tennis pros are getting taller and stronger. Double hell, some say it’s happening in golf.

 

But I don’t mind. At 5’11” I’m no shorty, so why should I complain? Besides, the fabulous thing about Bolt, beyond the sheer insanity of his talent and potential, is the fact that no one thought such a tall guy could compete at this level. Even his coach held him back until less than a year ago. No one his height could get out of the blocks quick enough. Everyone knew that.

 

Which is why I forgive Bolt his dumb little mid-race celebration: I love it when people do what others said was impossible. It’s why I’d love to see a Michelle Wie win a men’s PGA tournament. It’s why I’d smile to see an African-American as president (though to vote for one simply because he’s not white and therefore would bring a “new point of view” to the office is sheer stupidity).

 

I love having my view of what the world is and can be obliterated. So litter the sprinting field with giraffes and slice a few more tenths of a second off the already ridiculously low 100 meter world record. Rewrite the Book of Possibilities and tell every little boy with a running dream that he can’t be an Olympic sprinter unless he’s 6’2” or taller. I’ll just sit back and wait for that tiny fireplug to come along afterward and take the gold. You know he’ll come.