I enjoy my life.  There’s not much I have to complain about, aside from a pending divorce.  But of the few things about my life that I could actually say suck — and it’s generally a relative concept, as in, “relative to winning a million dollars on the same day a Belgian supermodel falls in love with me, not having a garage is kinda crappy” — there’s one that stands out and truly pains me every day.  It’s the fact that I can’t save the world.  By God, I’ll try my best, but I’m just me.  And the only man who can do it hasn’t come back yet.

But, yes, not being able to fix what’s wrong truly burdens my heart.  I see so much war, crime, bigotry and just general hate in the world, and I want to tell these people that it is the meek, humble and compassionate who shall inherit the earth, not the dictators and warmongers.

But there is something I can help fix, and I’m going to do all in my power to do so.  And you can help.

You all know I’m a single father, and we’re hundreds of miles from our nearest family.  My life revolves around that little girl, and I spend most of my time worrying about her.  When she has the sniffles, my heart aches for her.  When she cries for her “Dedo,” I want to cry too.  All minor, passing afflictions, to be sure, but she’s not just someone who depends on me; she’s part of me.

It’s that build-up that brings me to Katie Fitch, a beautiful little three-year-old from Florence, South Carolina.

See, Katie has hepatoblastoma.  Don’t try to say it, or you might wind up with your tongue in a splint.  But, essentially, it’s a cancerous tumor of the liver.  Cancer.  In a three-year-old.

My next-door neighbor and close friend is a pediatric nurse who deals with cancer patients all the time.  I have no idea how she can see this stuff on a regular basis and be anything more than a basket case for her entire shift — I merely read a story about someone and almost broke down crying in part because of the innocent child being afflicted with such a horror, and also because I can’t do anything about it.

Katie’s family is taking donations; you can contribute directly from the Web site they’ve set up for her.  I ask anyone who can give to do so.  Help make a future for someone who doesn’t even really have a past yet.  I implore you to find some way to scrape up a donation, even if it’s only a few bucks you scraped together by foregoing a cup of coffee, a Big Mac or a pack of cigarettes.  And please, tell your friends and family.

None of us can save the world.  But if everyone tried to save a small slice of it, we wouldn’t just save it — we’d make it infinitely better.

You can read all about young Katie and make a donation at KatieFitch.com.

Do I really look that old?
We often develop close relationships with the people around us at our jobs.  Those relationships, though (in Information Technology, at least) are usually tightly based on alcohol consumption, and not so much on actual personal knowledge of one another.  On my birthday a week ago, at a small celebration in my honor held by my manager and open to my coworkers, a friend speculated on my age.

He guessed 35.

D’oh!

I decided to let him live, but that wasn’t a decision I came to lightly.  I think it was based largely on the fact that there were several witnesses (if you so much as say “cake” in an IT department, you better have experience running with the bulls in Pamplona).

And They Partied On…And On…
I vowed this year that I would make up for last year’s birthday — the only way my 27th could have sucked worse is if someone had kicked me in the cajones, repeatedly, the entire day.  So, with that in mind, the party kicked off on Monday, August 11.  A trip to the beach — the Outer Banks is my new Favorite Place On Earth™ — launched the festivities.  A week of U.S. Olympic triumph, presumably in my honor, then ensued.

We won’t go into all the details — no, there was no debauchery, but there was food, music, general fun to be had by all, and even a $10 prize for finishing third in a beer pong tournament at a local bar.  I finally let the party give up the ghost on Monday, August 18, sometime around 11:45 p.m.  And, I’ve got to say, I think it ended a little too soon.  I had a semi-crappy 19th birthday too, so I still have a little bit of karmic make-up to do.

I've always loved the Olympics, because it's always fun being able to watch your country kick the snot out of another one without having to pick up a gun.

The Men's 4×100 Freestyle Relay (swimming) had belonged to the United States for considerably longer than I have been alive until the 2000 Olympic Games in Sydney, Australia.  We also lost in 2004.  Coming into these games, the French team was favored, and their athletes didn't take that position lightly, saying they were going to "smash" (their words, not mine) the U.S. team.

In the words of Bob Costas, "au contraire, mon amie."

The captain of the French team would have had plenty of reason to celebrate — he was part of the team that held the previous record, and their 2008 Olympic team broke it Monday morning in Beijing by nearly four seconds.  Unfortunately for him and his teammates, history doesn't care about second place when it comes to records.  What will be remembered from these games, much to the chagrin of our arrogant "allies" across the pond, is the fact that the United States came from behind in the final 25 meters of the event to take the gold in 3:08.24, just .08 ahead of the French.

All that got "smashed" was a record previously held by the Parisian team.

As a former swimmer (one season, but it counts, dadgummit) and a participant in several of these relays, I can attest to how difficult the event is.  The problem isn't normally the swim itself, but rather your dive for your leg of the relay.  Races can be won and lost by how well someone comes off the blocks (in my case, I didn't "dive" so much as I "smacked").  Monday, though, it was pure guts, as Jason Lezak came from half a body length behind at the final turn to win by about a knuckle, and turned in a leg of just 46.06 seconds — nearly .6 faster than the next best in the entire race, and a swim that ranks as one of the best single legs in 4×100 relay history.  This single event could be the national rallying point to unite two sides of a horribly policially-divided nation, even if just for two weeks.

And, since Bob Costas can turn a French quote around and smash it in their faces like a cream pie, I am going to do the same: Hey, you Frenchies — your mothers were hamsters, and your fathers smelt of elderberries!