My grandfather passed away on Sunday. He was the last remaining grandparent for me, my mother's father. Eighty-four years old, he died in a veteran's home where he had lived these last few years. Last night was the visitation, tomorrow the funeral. And then, what?

For my mother and her siblings, life has not been the same since their mother left them in January. She meant so very much to them, to all of us who knew and loved her. Still, she was only half of who they are. Now the other half is gone. Their loss is my loss, trickled down a generation.

I sense their loneliness, their desperation, their new-found and unwanted independence. I empathize, as I have previously lost my father. But the other half of me knows not the hurt and loss, as my mother may actually outlive me. Thus I take comfort in having her to turn to. Merely knowing she is there provides strength within.

My grandfather told me jokes. He took my brother and me to his farm to cut down our family's Christmas tree. He built a clubhouse for me and my brother. He showed us how to make clouds disappear (never could make them re-appear). He gave me my first pocket knife. He made me a pair of stilts. And I used them.

My most memorable time with him was one particular trip to his farm. He actually let me drive his truck, saying he was too old or too tired to drive himself. I've forgotten the year, but it was summer time. He was retired and I was out of school for the year. This made the drive and the day very easygoing.

Our mission was to recover a large piece of a rock - I don't recall the name, but it was something like "dopolite" - that had settled on the bottom of a creek bed. It was discovered by Grandpa's best friend, Joe, for whom it was intended. Grandpa wanted to surprise his best friend with exactly what he wanted - a slab of something he couldn't pick up and take with him at first sight.

We backed up to the creek, to the spot where the stone lay. I still don't know how Grandpa knew where this thing was, but he pointed me right to it. I could not dead lift it, but I did manage to roll it up my hip and onto the tailgate of the truck. Grandpa complimented me on my strength, to which I may well have said, "aw-shucks", in embarrassment.

On the way back to town, we stopped at a country store. We might have bought gas, but I know we bought some of those fruit pies. The ones made of Crisco crust and stuffed with a fruit filling that requires an immediate dose of insulin. I think he ate two of the things and asked me not to tell Grandma. As if she weren't all too aware of his junk food binging.

We pulled into Joe's driveway and presented him with the largest piece of this important rock in the Western Hemisphere, or so he would have you believe. The man was truly grateful, regardless of the fact he already had a garden full of similar gems and minerals and little or no place to put any more.

On the way home, Grandpa expressed to me the significance of the good deed I had done, how Joe would remember it always. Soon thereafter, Joe died. I like to think Grandpa knew Joe's death was impending, that what we did together was one last thing that could be done for Joe. It reminds me today to do all I can, for it may be the last thing that can be done for a friend. It will never leave me, this lesson Grandpa taught me that day.

I have to take exception to something President Bush said recently. Actually, it was how he said it that bothered me. In pseudo-response to Cindy Sheehan's protest outside of his ranch in Crawford, Texas, Mr. Bush noted how U.S. troops in Iraq 'gave their lives'. This to justify the need to stay the course and finish the job, and in honor of those who have fallen - this to demonstrate how I personally have picked up on the diatribes of the Administration.
Look, Cindy Sheehan's son, Casey, as well as the other 1800+ who have died needlessly, did not "give" his life. His life was taken. It was taken by an insurgency that has arisen in response to an ill-advised occupation by an ill-advised invader who has indeed given the lives of hundreds of men and women. And in return this invader has taken many times more lives in the form of innocent Iraqi women and children.
President Bush gave the lives of our fallen troops. It is he who has sacrificed them. It is President Bush who has taken the lives of innocent Iraqi women and children. Perhaps a better commander-in-chief would take as much responsibility. I know of lesser leaders who would.
Still, Bush persists to make the comparison between those fallen with Jesus Christ. By using language consistent with an evangelical preacher describing the human sacrifice of Christ, Bush mesmorizes his hand-picked audiences into believing this war is justified. Marx was right - religion truly is the opiate of the masses. Bush proved no less in Idaho this week when he used the language of religion to persuade a mass of proverbial drug users.

It's been ten days since, but I had a conversation with a major league baseball player. Actually, he was Triple-A at the time, but has since been called up. We'll call him "Eddie" for the sake of anonymity, particularly in light of the fact he gave me some rather incriminating information. "Eddie" is from Venezuela, the same country to produce this year's Home Run Derby champ, Bobby Abreu of the Philadelphia Phillies. "Eddie" was very candid, willing to admit to using "greenies", which are essentially pills containing ephedrine.

You might recall ephedrine was banned by Major League Baseball, as well as other sports governing bodies, after a pitcher from the Baltimore Orioles died in Spring Training a few years ago. He had suffered a heart attack and was later to have been found to be using ephedrine. He had used the drug to overcome his lack of physical conditioning. A stimulant to say the least, ephedrine was believed to have sped up the young man's heart. Until it quit and he died prematurely at the age of 32.

Ephedrine is actually the man-made form of a naturally-occurring substance, ephedra, which is derived from the Chinese herb, Ma Huang. Yeah, I used to work in a health foods store, where we and others discontinued the sale of Ma Huang some ten years ago. Point being, the natural substance may not be quite so dangerous, especially if an individual isn't cheating nature him-or-herself by substituting pills, herbal or pharmaceutical, in place of proper training.

Back to "Eddie", who uses ephedrine for its performance-enhancing benefits. I say this because I met him and can vouch for his physical condition. I can also attest to the effects of ephedra, the herb and not the drug, which I used a couple of times. What I recall was feeling warm and very intensely focused, as if there were no need for adrenaline. In any event, I didn't care for the stuff, and have settled for caffeine, mainly in the form of green tea, which provides all the stimulant I need.

"Eddie" intimated to me that many baseball players do indeed use steroids. He pointed out how Sammy Sosa was much smaller now than he was a couple years ago. And those of us who follow baseball know Sammy won't be hitting half of the 66 home runs he managed in 1998. "Eddie" and I also recounted the back injury Sammy suffered in the last few seasons, not from swinging a bat or diving for a ball. No, it was a big league sneeze that sidelined Sammy from action. "Eddie" used the incident to illustrate how steroids destroy skeletal tissue while building muscle.

We also thought of Ken Caminiti, a former MVP who admitted to using steroids, not long before dying of a heart attack around the age of 40. Again, the coincidence was too much for either of us to ignore. "Eddie" made clear that players know what they are doing. This in response to my question of how they could when nutritionists, doctors, and personal trainers are filling them full of all kinds of things. "Eddie" assured me they not only knew exactly what they were taking, they also knew the potential consequences. Still, he told me, the players remain undeterred.

The impression I was left with was that little will be changed by Baseball's war on drugs. Players will forever look for an edge, whether it be chemically with steroids, or cheating physics by corking bats or scuffing the ball. I have to admit there is an element to this I appreciate about baseball. One that only those of who played can understand. Consider how baseball actually rewards players for "stealing" a base, and bunting, which is essentially trying to deceive the opponent by hitting the ball well short of the infielders. Pitchers only want to fool hitters by making them guess wrong on which pitch is coming.

In so many ways, baseball is a game within a game, one that is very mental, one that requires a gambler's heart. While I am personally opposed to steroid use, I don't feel it is the responsibility of any governing body, be it Major League Baseball or Congress, to dictate to any adult what they can and cannot use to pollute their bodies. For me, individual liberties trump public health, so long as there is no danger to the general public. If baseball players want to risk their health and well-being with steroids, it's their risk to take.

Similarly, and not so coincidently, young men are risking their lives on a different field every day. That would be a battlefield in Iraq, where this whole steroid nonsense would be laughable. Before Congress cleans up Baseball's steroid problem and the potential loss of life, perhaps they might consider the Mess O' Potamia (borrowed from the Daily Show) in greater need of cleaning. Want to save some lives? Bring the troops home. Their chances back here on steroids are far greater than over there on a land mine.

In the meantime, try to convince "Eddie" and other players living the Major League lifestyle to discontinue their use of banned substances. I'm sure "Eddie" would much rather be back in Venezuela playing ball for the fun of it, working a day job for a measly Third World wage. That would beat dodging land mines in Iraq. Forgive the straying, but this entry has become about priorities. And asking ourselves as a country and culture just where the hell ours have gone.

Some day I hope to be like Mr. Durham, a kind man I met on Tuesday. I was in Clermont County, Ohio, just east of Cincinnati, going door-to-door for Paul Hackett, Democrat for U.S. Congress. While I knocked on many doors, and encountered many people that afternoon, Mr. Durham left the most favorable impression.

A little slow to answer the door, Mr.Durham had plenty to say about the race. First, he told me he voted for "our boy" in the morning. He also told me he had met Mr. Hackett's opponent at church. She told him she was running for Congress, he asked from which party. When she responded Republican, he told her he had never voted for one in his life.

Mr. Durham will be 89 next month, on the 12th of September. If my math is correct, this man was born in 1916. There's been quite a few elections since the mid-1930's, when he first would have been eligible to vote. A long since retired iron worker, Mr. Durham lives in a district that voted Bush 2 to 1 in last year's presidential election. Still, the man has never voted Republican.

Not Eisenhower, not Nixon, not even Reagan. Mr. Durham did tell me he respected John Voinivich, a Republican senator from the Buckeye State. Point being, while many of us vote straight ticket, few of us can acknowledge a good legislator from the opposing party. I struggle to find redeeming qualities in Republican politicians, but Olympia Snowe from Maine comes to mind for her efforts to protect the environment.

Mr. Durham invited me in to his home, which I had to decline as there was hardly an hour left until the polls closed. He also said another kind thing. He wished me at least 89 years of living. While that remains to be seen, I would like to add the hope of never voting Republican. After Tuesday's encounter with Mr. Durham, I am all the more inspired to make it so.

Subway's Jared was on TV today giving a speech to an elementary school. And I listened in for the rest of his story, as I had seen the abbreviated version in the commercials. No inspiring breakthroughs, but I may have learned of a way to succeed in life.

Jared began putting on weight in 3rd grade, when he received a Nintendo for his birthday. He told the kids he played for five or six hours per day. He also enjoyed "junk food" regularly. By 5th grade, he was wearing "husky" clothing. By high school, he was over three hundred pounds. He peaked out his junior year in college at 425.

Then, of course, he began eating Subway sandwiches for lunch and dinner each day. Not the ones that taste good, Jared was wise and chose the turkey and/or veggie subs. Every day. After dropping nearly 100 pounds in about as many days, he added walking to his regimen. In less than a year, he was 245 pounds lighter than when he started. Remarkable, and the rest is history.

This brings us to seeing Jared on TV, telling the kids about nutrition, how if they don't eat right they'll end up like him. This is the point where Jared holds up his old 60-inch waist pants. BTW, they are friggin' huge, like big enough to make you fast for the rest of the week. Anyway, my point is that's how bad it was, but now Jared is living the good life.

Sorry, Jared, but if I'm a kid in that audience, I'm thinking of how I could eat my way to 500 pounds. Then I'd go on the Subway diet, lose over 300 pounds and take your job, man. Warn me if I don't eat right, I'll end up like you? You are the national spokesperson for the largest chain of restaurants in the world. Pass the Twinkies and keep preaching the gospel, brother.

One of the kids asked Jared what he drove. He responded that he drove an Acura MDX. Not exactly 'living in a van down by the river'. But, kids, eat right or you'll end up like me. Eat right and you'll have to get a real job and actually work for a living. Eat right so Jared can eat well. Eat Subway so Jared will never have to again.

It was just over a week ago, I had the opportunity to shoot it with a former Navy SEAL. No, it wasn't the one Demi Moore tried to portray, as the odds of encountering her are not so good - like say as likely as founding one's self in the presence of Demi Moore (note to readers: my real name is not Ashton Kutcher). Chris was this man's name, actually.

To the point, Chris supports the war in Iraq. Why, I asked? Because the problem of terrorism won't go away on its own, he said. Definitely a pro-active guy, one who didn't see American presence in Iraq as provoking terrorism. He believed the terrorists should be hit hard, then hit harder. Repeat steps one and two until there is no terror.

Chris, in his defense, was speaking from first-hand experience. He's been all over the globe, asking questions first and, well, shooting too. But unlike the majority of the enlisted, Chris earned a master's at the University of Virginia while training as a SEAL. He was required to know his enemy through and through, which is why he studied the Koran for three months.

Granted, and he admitted as much, the politics of war were not his concern. Chris did as he was ordered, with the provision to use his own ingenuity to accomplish the mission at hand. This meant inserting a hand gun into the mouth of his enemy, at times, in order to get information important to his mission. Whether that fell outside of the guidelines of the Geneva Convention, which Chris told me he swore to adhere to, I do not know. But I do know 'all is fair in love and war.'

So, my counter to Chris that American and other foreign presence in Iraq only stirred up terrorism, that he and I would respond similarly to Iraqi military here in the U.S., pretty much fell on deaf ears. I liken much of the Middle East to a hornet's nest - stay clear unless you want to get stung. Chris seemed to see it as an opportunity to take out the whole nest, once and for all. A little insensitive to the innocent lives lost? Perhaps, but Chris could only focus on the enemy. He truly did see things in black and white, and most certainly in good and evil.

At least he did as a SEAL. Now, he is content to drink beer and travel the country, living on his pension. Forty-six years old, with no wife or kids, a retirement check, and he's hardly going to hurt anyone any more. That would require putting his beer down. Seriously, the guy clearly could separate himself from his past, and perhaps for the first time question authority, though he expressed no qualms with the current government. He accepts the lies as a smokescreen. What matters to him is the reality of fighting the enemy, of good conquering bad.

Only a recent incident in which several SEAL's died in a helicopter crash made Chris even consider returning to duty. He knew when he had enough. He did not say exactly when that was, but it was near the end of the Clinton presidency. (BTW, Chris claims it was Hillary who coerced Bill to use force in Kosovo) He showed me a scar on his knee from a bullet he took in Grenada. Perhaps another scar I did not see made him walk away - while he still could walk away. Perhaps it was the countless scars he had inflicted on others, the look in that last man's eyes as he laid him to rest.

Chris told me he had dozens of confirmed kills, the exact number I do not recall, but it was in the triple digits. He scoffed at the Purple Heart, saying something to the effect of how it was a badge to show you screwed up. I asked how he was able to separate himself from his own conscience in order to take orders and heed them with little or no regard for life, least of which his own. His response was simply that he could. Then I realized that was exactly why he was what he was - because he, unlike the other 95+ percent who quit SEAL training, could function relatively normal in spite of all the abnormal he had encountered and experienced.

There were tests constantly being administered by the Navy to try to determine the psychology of those who would make the cut as a SEAL, Chris told me. He said they never could predict who would last based on these tests. Ultimately, only the hell they were put through could determine who would be a SEAL. Chris must have been what no test could successfully predict, for he made it through. He went on to serve all over the world. Apart from his story and visible scars, he was just another guy at the bar with an opinion.

Hardly a materialistic guy, somehow I have come to appreciate the importance of a nice car and a well-furnished home. And I have a couple of television shows to thank for opening my (straight) eyes. You already guessed one - Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. The other is Pimp My Ride.

The stars of these shows do more than fix up cars and update wardrobes. They actually raise the self-esteem of those they are helping. While any of us could shop for ourselves and very much improve the quality and condition of our homes and cars, we seldom transform our own self-image. Even if/when we might, it is hardly to the extent regularly acheived on Queer Eye or Pimp My Ride.

People react to their "makeovers" as if they had won the lottery or given birth. They jump up and down, they cry, they hug strangers. Often, these well-deserving people (it seems the producers do a heck of a job to screen for those who need help and warrant it) have difficulty being gracious in receipt of attention and gifts they would seem to have seldom known the likes of in their lives previously. This really touches me - when I see those who have never had much, being granted plenty, and the overwhelm makes them uncomfortable.

Recently on Queer Eye, a large family comprised of mostly foster children was featured. A remarkable group, of several different ethnic backgrounds, all led by a man who had no father to speak of growing up. While he was a likely candidate for help, he was a man who awkwardly accepted it. And he said as much when he told the camera he "just wasn't used to being given anything". He went on to say that it was always about the children, and he didn't know how to have it otherwise. What a guy.

And what special guys who share their talents for the betterment of others. Maybe the fame and fortune counter-balances any and all selflessness and righteousness. Still, I respect these guys for what they do, for putting their talents on display to the subjectivity of a cable TV audience. My hat is off to them and those they help.