Friday, April 10, 2015


Let’s take a little survey.

·      If Todd has ever fixed your car when he didn’t have to, raise your hand.

·      If he rewired your basement when he didn’t have to, raise your hand.

·      Or tiled your bathroom.

·      Or had you over for BBQ and Yuenglings.

·      Or took your phone call at 10pm on a Monday, explained why your car won’t start in the Walmart parking…and then walked you through how to get it started, raise your hand.

If haven’t raised your hand to any of these questions, then you are clearly checking Facebook on your iPhone.  Busted!

The point I’m trying to make is…that Todd cared.  But he more than cared.  He backed up his care with actions.  With deeds.

Todd was a big, gregarious, endlessly energetic guy who loved helping practically anybody with practically anything…any time, anywhere.  He had the skills of McGyver, the personality of Norm from Cheers, and the heart of Mother Teresa.

He would help you even if he didn’t like you.  But that’s a moot point, because Todd liked pretty much everybody.  Except, perhaps, whichever team was playing the Chicago Blackhawks on a given day.  Those idiots can change their own transmissions.

Todd cared about his wife, children and grandchildren. 

He was the gold-standard of househusbands.  He was a stepfather without the “step.”  He logged more hours at soccer games than Pele.  He coached his boys’ soccer teams, even though he never played the game in his life.  He, along with Terri, raised three kids so strong, polite and well-grounded that during the past week…THEY have been comforting US.  Todd showed through actions and deeds that no father or grandfather can be too engaged.

Todd cared about his parents and siblings.  On this one, I don’t even know where to begin. 

Well…for starters, he called us.  Constantly. 
Ring, ring. 

[Right hand telephone in ear] “Hello?” 

[Left hand] “Waddyadoin’?!!!”

[Right hand] “Not much. What are YOU doing?”

[Left hand] “Nuthin’.  Just calling to see what’s up?” 


He almost never missed a birthday, holiday or other family function.  And believe me, we have a lot of family functions.

He did so much work on my house, my parent’s house and my brother’s house…that each one should have a sign hanging on the front door that says “The Todd Mahal.” 

Seriously…you cannot walk five steps in any of our houses without encountering Todd’s handiwork.  And god forbid that any of us should have the gall…the reckless audacity…to even think about hiring some other handyman to do “Todd’s work.” 

And every Winter…on the day of the first snowfall…Todd would receive a phone call from his brother asking the same question:  “Tell me again…how do I start this snow blower?”

And every year, Todd would give the same answer:  “Do you see that rubber handle attached to a cord, College Boy?  Why don’t you try pulling twice and see what happens!”

Todd cared about his employers.

After graduating from Wyoming Technical Institute in 1990, he spent a year doing his dream job:  Working in the pit crew of the Dale Coyne Indy Race Team.  Randy Lewis was the driver.  During that year, he travelled to and worked at Indy races in Portland, Oregon…Toronto, Canada…Surfer’s Paradise, Australia (he hated the flight to that one)…and, of course, the Indy 500.

With that out of his system, Todd started work as an Auto Technician with Max Madsen Mitubishi in Downers Grove—and stayed there for 24 years.  At Max Madsen, Todd was not just one of most skilled and well-respected technicians—he sold, I’ll betcha, more Mitsubishis over the years than Max’s top salesman.

Todd cared about his friends.  And having fun with his friends.

And man-oh-man!…he had a ton of friends.  My family and I simply can’t believe the sheer quantity of tributes that have been pouring in on Facebook during this past week.  Then again, we can.

Todd cared. 

But if he were standing at this podium today, what words of advice would he leave us with?  Well…there are a few.

First…trade in that Volvo for a Mitsubishi!

Second…take care of yourself.  See your doctor when you’re supposed to.  Check your blood pressure regularly.  Get that prostate exam.  Get that mammogram.  It may not make a difference.  Then again, it may.

Third…always buy a high-quality Shop Vac.  Not some cheap piece of junk that sprays drywall dust all over your brother’s master bedroom.

Fourth…give the gift of organ donation.  So that others may enjoy a Pittsburgh Steelers game that you can’t.

Fifth…if you are a man…and you own a bathing suit that you bought in Europe…never, ever, EVER wear it in pubic in front of your family.  Because you WILL be made fun of today, tomorrow and every week for the next ten years.

And finally…remember this…life is uncertain, so eat dessert first.

I think we call can agree that Todd’s life was a 45 year-long dessert course.

Thank you.

Friday, March 21, 2014


"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Wednesday, January 22, 2014


One must never eat at:

1. Any restaurant that claims to be “Pan-Asian.”
2. Any “Bistro” that’s not French.
3. Any “Tapas” restaurant that’s not Spanish.
4. Any “Grill” that’s not a steakhouse.
5. Any restaurant that has a human first name and a gimmicky surname. (If you’ve ever eaten at Johnny Rockets, you’ll understand)
6. Any restaurant whose menu tells the “story” of the restaurant.
7. Any restaurant whose wait staff claims that “everything is good.”
8. Any restaurant whose wait staff says the word “enjoy-“ in every sentence.
9. Any restaurant whose wait staff says the word “whimsy” in any sentence.
10. Any restaurant whose TV commercial features a voice over with an Italian accent. Or, for that matter…
11. Any restaurant that advertises on TV or radio at all.
12. Any Mexican restaurant that offers lettuce as an option.
13. Any Thai restaurant whose menu crows, “We don’t use fish sauce!” (Really…I can’t make this shit up)
14. Any Chinese restaurant…
15. …except for the ONE Chinese restaurant in each major metropolitan area that’s actually pretty good.

Unless you’re drunk, of course. Then, pretty much anything will taste good…except that fucking Thai restaurant.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013


To make people laugh and learn through clear, concise writing that is entertaining, engaging, intelligent and informative.

Given that this Virtual Tapas Bar (“VTB”) blog—neglected as it has been over the past five years—is my life’s second most proud creation, it seemed prudent that I should post something before the end of 2013.

Prudent for two reasons.  First, to convince myself that I can still string together a series of coherent sentences after months of embarrassing, literary sloth.  And second, to prevent Blogger from deeming my account “abandoned” and sending in the Dalek’s to EX-TER-MIN-ATE the VTB before the twelfth chime of New Year’s Eve.

So today I’ve decided to write a wee bit about…self-discovery.

My own journey into self-discovery has been brewing for years.  Or, more accurately…my initial preliminary thoughts about possibly someday considering making a good-faith effort to motivate myself to perhaps take the first step toward exerting some of the time and energy required for starting the process of a journey of self-discovery.

Prior to last month, I’d gotten no further than “preliminary thoughts.”

But in 2013, things changed for two reasons.  First, I realized that the grey chest hair in my bathroom mirror was attached to a body that had just turned 46.  And second, Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.—the company for which I’ve worked the past seventeen years as a successful yet somewhat uninspired transactional attorney—was acquired by a private equity firm.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, (a) I’m in pretty good shape for an old dude, and (b) I’m not 100% certain that my job is in jeopardy.  But I’ve never been one to waste a good opportunity for hysterics.  So I logged onto and bought a Kindle copy of “What Color is Your Parachute” in order to figure out how I might make the second half of my life a bit more satisfying than the first.

“Parachute” (as we in the mid-life crisis business like to call it) is a self-help classic that has sold millions of copies and helped generations of confused, career wanderers figure their shit out.  Its original copyright dates back to 12 B.C., and it is well-documented in my imagination that the book was instrumental in convincing the Apostle Paul to ditch his career as a tax attorney for a higher calling as VIP wine taster. 

I was given a copy of Parachute when I first graduated college in 1989, and proudly displayed it on my bookshelf for years thereafter.  The problem, however, is that I never actually read it.  I mean…it’s a really thick book.

But when I downloaded my new Kindle version of Parachute from the cloud last month, I plowed through it without hesitation.  That was easy, because you can’t tell how thick a book is when it’s downloaded into a Kindle.

The heart, soul and genius of Parachute’s methodology is a series of seven, precisely-structured exercises designed to make the reader think—really think!—about who he is and what he wants out of life and career.  These are not simple exercises that you’d start and finish while watching an episode of Duck Dynasty.  No…some of them involve multiple steps and require page after page of list-making and brain-dumping. 

Each of the seven exercises focuses on one important aspect of self-discovery:  1) your fields of interest; 2) the kinds of people you prefer to work with; 3) your favorite transferrable skills; 4) your favorite working conditions; 5) your required salary range; 6) your preferred place to live; and 7) your mission in life.

I limited myself to just one exercise per day, in order to keep the mind sharp and boredom at bay.  And although each exercise was bloody hard work, each—without fail—yielded a golden nugget of self-discovery that was self-evident yet surprising at the same time. 

But it was the seventh and final exercise—the “mission in life” exercise—that made me sit-up straight and say, “Fucking hell.  There it is!”

So…what is my mission in life?

To make people laugh and learn through clear, concise writing that is entertaining, engaging, intelligent and informative.

And that, my friends, is the roadmap for the second half of my life.  A roadmap that I wouldn’t have in hand without the assistance of What Color is Your Parachute?

Where’s your roadmap?

Tuesday, March 19, 2013


After years of resisting, the allure of 140 character workweek finally proved too seductive.

As such, you can now following me (actually,'s a tag-team effort with my wife) on Twitter:


Monday, March 18, 2013


Damn, I'm loving this song!

Impossible to find a download to buy.

Friday, February 08, 2013


A half-marathon is a great excuse for a trip to Miami!

But let's be honest. An unanaesthetized root canal is also a great excuse for a trip to Miami.  It's Miami, for god's sake! The excuse part is strictly optional.

But an excuse is an excuse, and there's no reason to waste one.  So, kudos to Coaches Joe and Suzy--owners of the triathlon club, "ET," to which my wife and I belong--for spotting the marketing genius in leveraging Miami as a destination to get us ET'ers off of our expanding, off-season asses and into our race gear.

When all was said and done, 35 ET athletes and cheer crew members treked southward for the ING Miami Half-Marathon that took place on January 25th.  Certainly, a far better outcome than last year's failed attempt to organize an ET outing to the East St. Louis "Run For Your Life! Half-Marathon."

Team ET stayed at The Albion Hotel.  What the Albion lacked in functioning wifi, air freshener and in-room coffee makers, it more than made up for in location, location, location.  Just three blocks away was South Beach! 

Or was it Miami Beach?

 It doesn't really matter, I suppose.  It was January, it was warm, and it was a beach.  We'll just call it "ET Beach." And it was in our back yard, baby!

ET Beach was lovely and inviting, with white  sand and silicone spanning as far as the eye could see.  Everywhere you looked, fit and shapely Latinas demonstrated picture perfect breast strokes. Some of them even went swimming.

Framing ET Beach were an endless line of whitewashed, Art Deco hotels sporting beautiful outdoor bars where famished athletes could enjoy four cocktails and a Caprese Salad for $87. Truly, paradise on earth!

But let's not get lost in all this decadence. We were in Miami for serious business.  The business of kicking some endurance sport assification!

First up was was a new ET member named "Flecky."

The day before the half- marathon, Miami hosted a 5k race.  It was Flecky's first 5k, and she was pumped  for the challenge.  

Rising that morning at 5:30am, she prepared for the battle by meditating at ET Beach while the sun rose.  Raising her arms to the heavens, she dedicated the race to the Greek god Apollo, kicked a snoot full of sand into a sleeping vagrant's face, and then leaped into the back seat of Coach Joe's studly Chevrolet rental car.

The outcome exceeded all expectations. She not only finished her first 5K race with vigor aplenty, but also took first place in the "Runners Named Flecky" category!  

Great job, Flecky!...if that IS, in fact, your real name?

After flagons of mead were drained in honor of Flecky's triumph, thoughts turned to the following day's half-marathon.  

For reasons that could only be understood by the Spanish Inquisition, race organizers decreed a 6am start time. But Coach Joe was unperturbed.

He wisely counseled all ET athletes to carb up at a 5pm Italian dinner, abstain from all forms of alcohol, and get to bed no later than 8:30pm. And every single ET athlete heeded the sage coach's advice.

Except for four.

Lamentably...your author, his wife Anne, our good friend Sue and her sherpa, "Eric with a 'C',"felt it prudent to indulge in two bottles of wine over a multi-course, multi-table, Indonesian feast that lasted well into Coach Joe's sixth REM cycle. 

Now, there are those who might dispute the wisdom of this culinary lark by noting that the country of Indonesia has never--in its entire history--produced a single world-class endurance athlete. 

To which I respond, "Neither has Italy. So fuck off!"

The 4am wake-up call arrived with a BOOM!!! 

Actually, the call arrived with a whimper. The BOOM!!! occurred when Anne launched the hotel phone at the adjacent wall.

This is the point where Hotel Albion could have scored some large-scale brownie points by fitting our room  with a Mr. Coffee. Or even a jar of Sanka and an empty tuna tin!  But alas, opportunity lost. We were required to guzzle a pair of cold Cuban coffees purchased at...ahem...11pm the prior night as we stumbled out of Ristorante Indomania and into our waiting cab.

The Cuban coffee did the trick. Within thirty minutes, the trickle of blood had ceased flowing from our eye sockets and we were comfortably seated on the athletes' shuttle bus. Downtown Miami bound!

The race site was adjacent the American Arena, where the Miami Heat plays. It was a crush of bodies in search of the one, elusive, microscopic entrance into the race corrals. Most runners chose to simply hop the security fence when they located the corral that was theirs.  Or that wasn't. 

I was placed in Corral C--where each athlete is expected to sustain a 7:30 to 8:00 minute per mile pace for the duration of the race--and quickly found myself surrounded by "runners" from an orthodox religious charity that, for the sake of this essay, I will call "Team LifeLemon." Apparently, they mistook Corral C for Corral ZZ.

The  Team LifeLemon race wardrobe required its women athletes to wear knee length skirts, long sleeves and head scarves. Not exactly the most appropriate attire for a runner  facing 13.1 miles of south Florida humidity. But then, as became apparent from the very first mile, nobody in Team LifeLemon was much of a runner at all.  Including the woman pushing a baby stroller.

A baby stroller. In Corral C, for fuck's sake!

After the national anthem, the race director got on the bullhorn and--at 200 decibels--encouraged all athletes to power up their iPhones and tweet and Facebook at regular intervals throughout the race.  This was a request that, absurdly, far too many runners fulfilled.

As we waited for our turn to approach the starting line, I took a moment to take note of my fellow runners.  They truly were an eclectic and multi-national crowd.  There were athletes from Guatemala, sexy Brazilian women in skimpy spandex, runners from Mexico, sexy Brazilian women in skimpy spandex, triathlon teams from Puerto Rico, and sexy Brazilian women in skimpy spandex.

Boom, went the starting gun, and we were off.  The first mile was not so much a run, as it was a steeplechase.  We bobbed and weaved over, under and around Team LifeLemon's endless array of slow-moving human obstacles--a task made more difficult because it was still pitch black outside.

Two-thirds of a mile into the race, we climbed a long bridge spanning the harbor where three cruise ships were docked.   Whether it was their blistering 13 minutes per half-mile pace or the bridge's dispiriting .00001 percent incline, the vast majority of Team LifeLemon athletes hunched into an IronMan death shuffle, further bottlenecking the course. 

My gorgeous wife, Anne, further reports that one of the cruise ships blared its fog horn as she crossed the bridge.

And now for a personal message to Royal Carribbean cruise ship Captain Knut Fargstrom:  Listen up, Fargstrom! I don't know how you do things up there in Scandinavia--you know, with that Socialist free love thing and all. But down here in the USA (particularly in the deep south), we don't take kindly to having our wives honked at by lonely, blonde haired sailors. So the next time you see my wife running across a bridge...with her clingy Lycra and rippling, muscular thighs, you best keep Norwegian Wood inside its dust jacket.  

And now, back to the race.

Once we cleared the bridge and medical personnel cleared away the lifeless corpses of Team LifeLemon athletes,  the sun began to rise and the race opened up.  For the next twelve miles, the course was flat and fast.

As is my custom while running, my brain wandered into Teletubbie land and to be honest...I have almost no recollection of the remainder of the race. I do recall, however, that we ran past ET Beach and a few interesting sandwich shops.   I also witnessed two face-plants, a medical team lifting the legs of a passed-out runner, and our friend "Bill J" in the midst of a gastro-intestinal crisis.

Some time later, Tinky-Winky waved goodbye and my brain emerged from the BBC ether. It was at that point that I looked up and spotted the finish line. 

Throwing the hammer down, I made a turbo-charged sprint to the finish and crossed the line with lungs in throat.  And as I waited triumphantly for a pretty Latina to place a crown of olive branches on my head, I noticed that my fellow runners kept on running. WTF!?

I looked at my Garmin watch. "12.4 miles."

"Damn you, false finish line!!!"

Dispiritedly, I resumed running for what seemed an eternity. When I finally crossed the finish line...the REAL finish watch read "13.2 miles."  Which, I guess, makes me an ultra half-marathoner.

Shortly thereafter, Team ET congregated at the finish.  Coach Joe's dreadlocks were drenched with sweat, a sockless Annie Bananie sported Steak Tartar for achilles tendons, our friend "Chili Pepper" somehow sunburned her ankles, Bill J assumed the fetal position for the following four hours--but all were happy.

Team ET athletes all agreed that the Miami Half was a great one. We would certainly do it again.  

But next time, only one bottle of wine.