I should be writing out my Christmas cards right now.
Scratch that, I should have written them a week ago.
But Christmas approaches and, though the mail carriers may not be held back by sleet, rain, snow and wind, I am more easily deterred.
Instead of placing my trust in the United States Postal Service, which can't even seem to deliver its own paychecks these days (the deficit this year alone is $4.2 billion), I've taken to the digital realm to disseminate the first annual (and, if you're lucky, last) Christmas newsletter exploring the joys and travails in the Starck household during 2010.
Nobody wants to be that guest who arrives at the party as the others guests are already leaving, but I'm still proud of the fact that, in 2010, I finally joined the digital age.
Readers of this blog (all three of you) might know that I'm referencing the stunning debut of this here corner of cyberspace in late August.
Still in a period of infancy (and lunacy), in just a short time, Starck Reality has notched double-digit readership numbers, the kind of exposure CNN news anchors would die for.
The prospect of baring my soul in some impersonal, bits-and-bytes based world has always been tempting, but it took a summer day and the national pastime to spur me to action.
And, four posts later, here we are.
So what if blogs are so 2005, right? Everybody and their grandmothers have them by now. In a world of Facebook and Twitter, blogs are the MySpace of the social media atmosphere. Blogs are the Pluto of planets, the Billy of the Baldwin Brothers.
The debut of this portal into my brain just means that I'm right on time in adopting technology, if you measure in Starck-years.
Growing up, when new technology debuted, offering covetous features like color on the television screen, or a static-free signal to boot, my family usually took a pass. Too fancy for our liking, I suppose.
Now, I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure that our family's first VCR could already be found in the Smithsonian by the time my parents finally bought one.
I like to think that the inauguration of a blog about five years after it is all the rage just seems to uphold a family tradition.
One area in which I was on the cutting edge in 2010, literally, was surgery.
Nothing instills the true value of life like the threat of losing your own, and my third visit to the operating table in six years was memorable and exciting in its own right.
It remains remarkable, though, because my physician did not leave to buy a house, or pack for vacation, delaying the surgical procedure in a way all-too-familiar.
Speaking of the value of life: let us pause to remember another low point of 2010, an event that struck us like the blow from a 2x4 upside the head. 2010 will always to me be the year the family lost its matriarch, Grandma Starck, and there is nothing funny, or sarcastic about that.
As fun and exciting, and sad, as all these events have been, the year might be best summed up in the word "travel."
From jetting off to New York City to Berlin, to Chicago and Boston, and St. Louis a few times, I've put a lot of miles between myself and the earth.
Unfortunately, all of these trips pre-dated the recent re-branding effort by the TSA, which apparently changed its name to Touched in Special Areas, so I haven't had a chance to tell a TSA creep to stay out of my junk drawers.
With business trips planned again in early 2011, soon enough I'll get to enjoy a level of humiliation and invasion of privacy that some folks pay good money to experience.
You can read all about it in next year's newsletter.
Until then, Merry Christmas and have a blessed New Year.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
The center is gone
The center is gone.
Perhaps the only way to describe my grandma is that she, and her house, were the center because, for as long as I can remember, "Grandma Starck's" house was more than an extension of home, but the center of our world.
When we were in grade school, Jamie and I would go to Grandma Starck's after school to wait for our dad to come back from working with our grandpa.
Several of our cousins would usually also be there, and Grandma would always have a soda and a snack waiting for us. Dinner would be cooking on the stove, and, if there was a day game, the voices of the Cardinals' announcers would be emanating from the little radio on the counter.
Summertime and the scene replayed, without the pesky interference of school.
We'd play outside, chasing pop-flies, taking turns on the swingset, or riding bikes up to Glaser's store, and when we were finally ready to let the sunlight fade into the western sky without us, we'd return to the house, hunting for dinner, and there she was.
As we grew older, even when we no longer needed to seek refuge there after school, Grandma's house remained at the center.
Sunday meant church, and after church the Starck clan would almost always gather for lunch at Grandma's, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends filling the limited spaces, dress shoes clip-clopping on the linoleum floor, voices rising like a geyser in spurts and bunches.
This scene was replicated on countless holidays, family gatherings and get-togethers, the storyline the same even as the family gained more actors.
Usually a boisterous place, Grandma Starck's was also a place for sadness, for standing together to support each other as we celebrated the lives of passed family members.
She, too, was the center of the family; she was the one who kept the family together, drawing the line in the sand that forced grandpa to drop the bottle for good.
For some people, the house actually was their home: when Jamie and Sam and John and Stacy and Jason needed some place to stay, it was to Grandma that they turned, and were welcomed with open arms.
How lucky we were to have such an anchor, a foundation for this crazy family. I'm going to miss you, Grandma.
Love,
Jeff
Perhaps the only way to describe my grandma is that she, and her house, were the center because, for as long as I can remember, "Grandma Starck's" house was more than an extension of home, but the center of our world.
When we were in grade school, Jamie and I would go to Grandma Starck's after school to wait for our dad to come back from working with our grandpa.
Several of our cousins would usually also be there, and Grandma would always have a soda and a snack waiting for us. Dinner would be cooking on the stove, and, if there was a day game, the voices of the Cardinals' announcers would be emanating from the little radio on the counter.
Summertime and the scene replayed, without the pesky interference of school.
We'd play outside, chasing pop-flies, taking turns on the swingset, or riding bikes up to Glaser's store, and when we were finally ready to let the sunlight fade into the western sky without us, we'd return to the house, hunting for dinner, and there she was.
As we grew older, even when we no longer needed to seek refuge there after school, Grandma's house remained at the center.
Sunday meant church, and after church the Starck clan would almost always gather for lunch at Grandma's, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends filling the limited spaces, dress shoes clip-clopping on the linoleum floor, voices rising like a geyser in spurts and bunches.
This scene was replicated on countless holidays, family gatherings and get-togethers, the storyline the same even as the family gained more actors.
Usually a boisterous place, Grandma Starck's was also a place for sadness, for standing together to support each other as we celebrated the lives of passed family members.
She, too, was the center of the family; she was the one who kept the family together, drawing the line in the sand that forced grandpa to drop the bottle for good.
For some people, the house actually was their home: when Jamie and Sam and John and Stacy and Jason needed some place to stay, it was to Grandma that they turned, and were welcomed with open arms.
How lucky we were to have such an anchor, a foundation for this crazy family. I'm going to miss you, Grandma.
Love,
Jeff
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Getting political: Gore blasts e-mailers, announces new alternative energy venture
Gore criticizes e-mail users
for ‘carbon copy’ footprint
Plans Second Chakra energy
By Jeff Starck
Disassociated Depress
(TOKYO) – E-mail users need to change their ways, claims Al Gore, chief evangelist of the global warming movement.
The use of the “CC” function in sending e-mail messages is a leading contributor to the phenomenon known as global warming, Gore told reporters at a press conference following a worldwide gathering of global warming action group Keep Our Oxygen Klean.
“It may come as an inconvenient truth, but the wanton use of the ‘carbon copy’ functionality in e-mail messaging has created an untenable situation,” Gore said, at the global conclave. “Those who use the ‘CC’ function, for any reason, are recklessly inflicting harm to our Mother Earth. You may as well stab your momma in the back.”
Between school, work and entertainment, residents of the overdeveloped world use computers an average of 10 hours a day, itself a massive contributor to global warming. But the 230 e-mails that people send daily, on average, is the true culprit.
“I’m sure these messages have filled up your Inbox. Whether it’s racist rhetoric questioning President Obama's heritage, jokes about stupid conservative voters or a chain message claiming Bill Gates will make you rich if you forward e-mails, everyone who uses the ‘CC’ function is to blame,” Gore said.
The harshest e-mails for the environment, Gore said, are those questioning whether global warming actually exists, according to global warming's chief hypocrite, er, messenger.
“I will not let dangerous talk radio spouters like Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck defeat democracy and destroy our Mother,” Gore said. “They’re dastardly defiant refusal to accept what we know about global warming is definitely cause for alarm.”
Because talkers like Limbaugh and Beck have millions of listeners and e-mail subscribers, the impact of their carbon copy footprint is multiplied, according to Gore.
But, there’s a simple remedy concerned citizen soldiers in the global warming army can employ to decrease their carbon copy footprint, Gore said.
“As most of you know, all you have to do is list all the e-mail recipients using the ‘To’ function. This eliminates excess carbon emitted using the carbon copy method,” he said.
For e-mail senders that desire a little privacy, the ‘blind carbon copy’ option will also work, Gore said.
“Because none of the other e-mail recipients can see those listed on the blind carbon copy line, the carbon copy footprint isn’t traceable, and thus doesn’t count,” Gore said.
Following the KOOK gathering, Gore returned to his Montecito, Calif., mansion and began drafting plans for a new venture in alternative energy, tentatively titled Crazed Poodle Industries.
Gore said that homeowners who find a way to tap into their "second chakra" can lower their heating bills by half, mostly offsetting the cost of divorce lawyers that would result by engaging in such carbon-saving activities.
Upon Further Review: A sleeker column about a game of catch
It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth, and it involves my first love: baseball.
Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.
When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.
I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.
But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, after all) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? Not at all.
See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and other sports, and it was all he could do to interest me. Most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And many a time I did.
It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).
Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.
Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.
On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.
It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.
I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.
That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.
In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).
Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.
And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.
For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a something to ease his painful heart.
There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)
Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.
And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.
As you might imagine, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.
Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.
Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth, and it involves my first love: baseball.
Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.
When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.
I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.
But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, after all) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? Not at all.
See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and other sports, and it was all he could do to interest me. Most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And many a time I did.
It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).
Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.
Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.
On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.
It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.
I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.
That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.
In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).
Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.
And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.
For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a something to ease his painful heart.
There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)
Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.
And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.
As you might imagine, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.
Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.
Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Inaugural post: A simple game of catch?
It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth. A particular folly, but a youthful one at that, and it involves my first love: baseball.
Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.
When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.
I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.
But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, I hear) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? No, that's not it at all.
See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and the million other sporty games that most young boys play.
It was all he could do to interest me, but most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And I did, many a time.
It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).
Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.
Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.
It wasn't much, but then inflation sure has taken its bite out of the ol' dollar.
On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.
It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.
I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.
That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.
In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).
Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game (I went to the 2009 All Star Game, alone, because I had to be there) or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for five, seven or 11 years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.
And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.
For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a salve to slather on his repentant heart.
There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)
Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.
And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.
But, like the sound made by one hand clapping, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.
Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.
Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth. A particular folly, but a youthful one at that, and it involves my first love: baseball.
Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.
When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.
I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.
But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, I hear) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? No, that's not it at all.
See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and the million other sporty games that most young boys play.
It was all he could do to interest me, but most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And I did, many a time.
It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).
Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.
Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.
It wasn't much, but then inflation sure has taken its bite out of the ol' dollar.
On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.
It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.
I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.
That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.
In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).
Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game (I went to the 2009 All Star Game, alone, because I had to be there) or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for five, seven or 11 years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.
And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.
For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a salve to slather on his repentant heart.
There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)
Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.
And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.
But, like the sound made by one hand clapping, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.
Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.
Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?
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