I am supposed to be in Fort Worth, settling into my new position as Video Producer for one of the world's best distributors of motorcycle aftermarket parts and apparel. Probably the best job I've ever had.

Instead, I am waking up in what would otherwise be paradise: Vero Beach, soft bed, pool right outside my room, meals. The "otherwise" unfortunately is my youngest brother in ICU from double-transplant surgery and my Dad, or his shell, lying in another hospital. Both clinging to life.

Breakfast? Not today. Caroline is shell-shocked. Her first husband died suddenly in a car wreck and now she was facing that again: a sudden ripping away of her husband from her.

A meeting at the hospital with all the doctors followed. Ed was resting comfortably and his blood was suitable for surgery but would it matter? All tests for brain function and consciousness revealed nothing. You could stab him the eye and he wasn't going to react to it. Every test possible showed no more brain functions. Proof? He could not breath without the ventilator. Even the autonomic functions of the brain were dying off. His body was unmarked and unbruised but his mind was gone.

Caroline and I sat with him, watching, looking for some signs of life. This body lying in bed, this former giant, was not my Dad anymore. What was once vital and alive lie motionless now. Worse, he was in a place that days earlier he SWORE he never wanted to be; in a hospital being kept alive by machines. Though we dreaded doing it, Caroline and I quickly came to the consensus that he must be taken off of them. His brain was dead and if his body couldn't live without the help of the machines than there was no point in keeping him in this state of healthcare purgatory.

I called my wife, my sister and my other brother. All agreed reluctantly that is was for the best and certainly what he wanted.

Trouble is, they didn't have to "give the word" or "pull the plug" as it were. That was left to Caroline and I. Caroline, still in a daze by the dramatic turn of events in the last twenty-four hours, wasn't sure what to do even though she knew he was truly gone.

So it's up to me.

My Dad, Edward James Gomersall, made it possible for me to have a life where I could pursue my dream of becoming a filmmaker, the only dream I've ever had. He got me my first job, took me to golf tournaments, car races, football games, vacations­— you name it. He stood up for me and put me in my place when necessary. He taught me the value of hard work, education and integrity. Everything I am is because of this man, this gregarious hulk of a human who looked for the best in everybody as he strived to be the best himself.

As I stood beside his static shell, I faced the fact that the best thing I could do for this man, my dad, my hero, was to let him go. Hell, he was already gone anyway. This man, who looked otherwise healthy, had no more brain function. As much as we value "heart" it's the brain that defines us. My dad's life essentially ended yesterday. It was up to Caroline and I to make sure he had a dignified exit.

The word was given and the medical personnel advised us to leave his room momentarily so they could remove the breathing tube and all the other connections sustaining his body.

Caroline and I returned to his room to find him still there, still motionless. Her sons and ex-daughter-in-law (you could divorce the family but not Ed!) filed in to be in his presence as he took his last breaths on his own, no machines. His heart rate slowly dropped and without the respirator his breathing was as shallow as a kiddie pool. It took what seemed like hours but in reality it was less than one. As he declined he lost color and his features began to change. It's really shocking how life sustains you. The minute it's gone you look… different. Your eyes are dead. Your lips peal back from your teeth. I will always question my decision to be there for that part. To this day his lifeless, distorted visage is burned in my memory.

Ed Gomersall was declared dead that morning, twenty-four hours after he succumbed to the stroke that made him fall. The only way to describe the scene was surreal. I laughed to myself when I realized I was an orphan now. Without inhibition I closed his eyes, wept a bit, hugged his lifeless body and said my goodbyes, as did everyone else. You want to stay in the room with him, like he'll miraculously re-animate and it'll all be a bad dream but, no, that's not going to happen and slowly we shuffle out. All of us left a bit of ourselves back in that room.

After that it's quite a business-like operation as you tell the hospital which funeral home will be picking up the "the deceased" and you leave. Trouble was, neither Caroline nor I wanted to go home. But that's what you do.

Returning to the house was stunningly painful. Evidence of his life is everywhere. Car models, photos, books— everything but him. I kept feeling like he would emerge from the garage and ask me to have a drink and watch a race, something I would pay dearly for now.

You don't really want to speak to anybody in times like this but that is impossible. Dying sets in motion a series of events that you must deal with. Funeral arrangements, flowers, notifying friends and family, obituaries— the list is virtually endless.

In the days that followed I talked to dozens of people, all of whom were surprised that Ed passed so suddenly. Many had talked to him just days earlier. We all agreed it was an end that suited him though, because being paralyzed or wheelchair-bound would not have suited him in the least.

Caroline, my family and everyone else I talked to afterwards reminded me of something extraordinary. I was here to be with Dad through Andy's transplant. We sat and talked and ate together, without interruption, for three days and in the end, I was there for him when it mattered the most. While not "lucky," I had to admit I was fortunate.

Andy was turning the corner as well. Awake and talking he was asking for Dad. His doctors pleaded with us not to tell him yet but that was difficult because he and Dad were close and Dad's face was something Andy expected to see during his very successful recovery. Melissa and I had to construct a lie to save his feelings, if only temporarily, from the pain of this loss. When we finally told him, three days later, he insinuated that he had suspected that was the case. To add insult to injury, Andy's condition was still too delicate for him to travel to Vero Beach for the funeral. The service was well-attended, a testament to how much he was loved. The few days leading up to it and the months after are a blur to me now. My employer sympathized fully and allowed me a week to take care of his affairs and that was that.

Now, very nearly a year later, I still struggle with his passing. Every day I see or read something I want to talk to him about. He was not just a great Dad, but a good friend. You cannot hear me anymore but I will say it anyway: I love you, Dad, and I'll miss you forever.

Writing this was a necessary act on my part. This story has bounced about in my head for months and if I didn't write it and share it I might have gone a bit bonkers. However, in my sadness and grief, if I got some small details wrong or offended, I apologize. In the end, I did as my Dad always asked of me: I did my best.

Dad was an early riser and was already outside fiddling with the pool pump. When breakfast hit the table I ventured out back to call Dad in to eat. I found him in the pool pump area looking at the valves, trying to figure something out. We went inside together and sat down for breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast.

Dad made a fuss about not having any eggs yet and Caroline and I both reminded him that they were right in front of him. Crazy old man, I thought, pay attention. We ate and shared with Caroline the events of the last three days. Everything was calm.

After breakfast I was straightening out my suitcase when Caroline asked my for some computer help. Finally, I get to do something for her. She always made me feel like royalty when I visited and I jumped at the chance to assist her in any way possible. While helping set up a new internet email account I had a question for Dad. I don't recall now what it was now but I do remember that I sought him out for something. Moving to the main living room I called out for him. After a few seconds I heard Dad's voice call out from his bedroom.

I followed it and found him on the floor next his bed with his head against the wall. I immediately went into rescue mode tried to get him up. He wasn't much help, other than saying he was trying to get into bed for a nap and didn't make it. Worse, I found he was unable to move his left side.

WAIT!

I flashed to his confused look at the pool pump.

I flashed to his inability to see the eggs on his plate right in front of him.

Now he can't control the left side of his body.

STROKE ALERT!

I called out for Caroline and she and I helped get him stable and quickly called 9-1-1 and declared a Stroke Alert. This is supposed to be a "shortcut" to let the EMTs know what's going on and to hurry up. This wasn't any cat stuck in a tree!

I'm no doctor but I know a lot about strokes and their effects. I looked Dad in the eyes and talked to him, trying to get a gauge on how severe this was. I had been very discreet with the 9-1-1 call so as not to alarm him. As I kept testing his strength on each side and his ability to repeat words I spoke him. I DID NOT want to let on to him that he was having a stroke. He was thirsty, he said, then he expelled a bit of breakfast. Even in his state he wanted me to wipe him off before the EMTs arrived. As I was removing his jewelry, they did. I didn't want them to have to mess with that. He needed to be in the emergency room NOW. They did essentially the same tests I did: recognition, speech, movement tests. We gingerly loaded him on the gurney and we brought him out to the ambulance. He was still talking. Caroline had wanted to ride with him but the EMTs, who'd initially encouraged it, were now balking because of space limitations. Whatever. Let's just GET there, I thought. The ambulance took off and Caroline and I were right behind following in her car.

Caroline is driving because I don't know where Indian River Hospital is. Now my mind is in panic mode. My Dad's having a stroke and my brother— jeez, I had forgotten all about him! One fire at a time, I thought, as we raced to catch up with Dad. Melissa was safely by Andy's side and would have to handle that solo for now, something she's used to anyway.

Caroline and I fly into the emergency room and, as usual, the admins there are more concerned with protocol than your feelings. It was a Sunday morning and the ER had it's share of people but NONE of them were having a stroke... except one.

We were reunited a few moments later in the ER. Dad is lying on an exam table. Already, his eyes are closed but he is conscious. He is talking but, as I grip his hand, I cannot understand his words no matter how close I put my ear to his mouth. I am now certain he is stroking out and I cannot understand him. Regardless, I operate on the assumption that he CAN hear me and I put my mouth close to his ear and reassure him we are taking care of him and he's going to be fine and that I love him SO VERY MUCH. He continues to fade but I do not let go of his hand because when I ask him to squeeze it if he understands me, he does. The moment Dad hit the ER he was taken for an emergency CAT scan. Now a neurologist is waiting to speak to Caroline and I but I'm still holding my Dad's hand. Right before my eyes a POLAR shift in my life is taking place. The once-strong Ed Gomersall was now slipping away: silent, helpless and finally, completely unconscious. Mere minutes later he was no longer squeezing my hand on request.

I didn't want to face it but I had likely spoken to my Dad for the last time.

The neurologist was a get-to-point guy not overly concerned with bedside manner. He took Caroline and I aside and showed us the CAT scan of Dad's brain. The normal oval shape of a brain was now the shape of a half moon. with the rest of his skull cavity looking black. That was blood, he said. The blood thinners he was on for his heart has enabled a small stroke to become catastrophic. His brain had been pushed to one side of his skull from the bleed-out. The neurologist then explained, very clinically and without much tact, that no operation was possible for at least 10 hours, the time needed to work the blood thinners out of his system. Any attempt made before that would see him bleed to death on the operating table. Unfortunately, he wouldn't make it that long, the doctor concluded, and rightly so. The guy that was my Dad, was gone. Oh, he had a pulse and was breathing but that was it. I knew this already but having a doctor confirm it made my legs collapse. I caught myself as I realized what kind of nightmare I was right in the middle of.

I quickly returned to his side to find him "presenting" his left arm, the stroke side. Presenting is a stroke symptom where the victim’s arms involuntarily jerk at their sides. Not to be dissuaded in case he can still hear us, I gently took his right hand in mine and began to tell him in his ear that we are taking care of him and we ALL love him very much. I really don't know what else to do at this point. All I know is that if there is even a small percentage of consciousness left in him, I want him to know these things. Caroline came and comforted him as well as I moved out into the hallway to make calls to my wife, siblings... and Melissa.

Kim, my wife, was very close to my father as hers was less than stellar. Dad always treated Kim like a daughter and she loved him deeply as a result. Her cries of agony over the phone were heart-wrenching. My sister and other brother were stunned and quiet as I told them. Melissa was very concerned but her plate was full. She loved Dad as well but could not yet fully process what was happening.

Lucky her.

Dad was put on a breathing tube and IVs and secured in a room upstairs. Meeting with the doctors again, we decided to keep trying to work the blood thinner out of his system and see what tomorrow morning would bring. It was late and two of Caroline three sons arrived at the hospital to help. Her kids were like my other brothers and sisters. I'd known them my whole life. As much as Caroline was like my mother now, they were my brothers and I loved them. All of us took some time with the now prone, unconscious and helpless body of Ed Gomersall. After a few hours we decided we had done all we could that night so I kissed my dad on the forehead, told him how much I loved him (as everyone did) and we went home.

What would tomorrow bring? I knew already but did not want to face it. We were going to do more tests in the morning and talk to the doctors again and that was that. I could not face any other possibilities head on right now. I was here in Florida to support my brother and now this?

My brother!

I talked to Melissa that evening and learned Andy was recovering well. The perforation in his intestine was no longer an issue and he was gaining consciousness. I took comfort in that as I lie awake in bed trying to sleep.

Good luck with all that.

Where am I?

It takes a few second but it slowly comes back to me. Hotel. Orlando. Andy. Hospital. Yeah, that was it.

I sprung up with a start as I remembered why I was there. Dad had already awakened before the alarm to dress. Job one was to get to the hospital and check Andy's progress. Dad and I packed and left without ceremony.

In the ICU, Melissa is worn down to a frazzle. Taking care of Andy, her pets, their home­— had all taken their toll on her as she told us how she has lost it last night at home and simply screamed, alone, to the heavens in frustration. One could hardly blame her. I'm sure Dad was wondering how it is that Andy had avoided the curse of his late children until he was older. That had to be a special brand of torture.

Andy was in an out of tepid consciousness. As I had done when I arrived two days earlier, I moved close to him and tried to make sure he might feel my presence. A fluttering eyelash and a head roll told me he was still out of it. Part of me wanted to believe he could hear me. Who was I doing this for? Him or me? I pondered this question later as Dad and Melissa both had their time with him. Andy looked pretty rough. Unshaved. Unwashed. Unconscious. But his doctors had a great deal of optimism that morning. His fever was receding; his blood counts were looking more favorable. I'd slept that night but my Dad might have laid awake all night wondering about his son. I suspected as much as his weariness was beginning to show through his brave veneer. Andy was on a respirator, standard for his condition, but all of us looked him in the eye, hugged him and reassured him that we were there for and with him. My arrival two evenings ago had brought him to tears and I thought I could see another brave little tear well up in his eyes when we saw him that morning. This was a tough little (apologies to mom) son-of-a-bitch. He may shed a tear, like my father, but clearly he was tougher than most and was unwilling to give up on himself. If he had, I was quite certain his wife would have dragged him right back to this mortal coil, failed liver and kidney be damned.

Our vigil that day was a tenuous one as we waited for the worst, yet it never came. Andy was holding his own, fighting for his life, and I was as proud of him as a brother could be. Tough little (apologies to Dad) bastard.

Late that afternoon I could see my Dad's age was showing. Three days spent in a hotel and hospital waiting for a verdict had left him a shell of his former self. He kept up appearances though and, at least, felt some certainty that Andy wasn't going anywhere quite yet.

At this point I took control of the situation. I told Melissa I was driving Dad home to Vero Beach for a home-cooked meal and a night in his own bed. Dad protested meekly but relented without much of a fight, confirming what I already knew: it was time to take him home. Both of us comforted Melissa, told her my plan about returning tomorrow afternoon, hugged Andy and left the hospital together.

I drove us the two hours back to Vero Beach in his car. I had been driving everywhere since dad picked me up two nights ago, at his request, but it wasn't until now that I realized what a paradigm shift this represented. Dad ALWAYS drove. I drove him around a bit when I was learning to drive and I drove my own car when he visited me but otherwise, he was behind the wheel. He loved cars. He loved driving. That was a given. So here I was driving him home. More evidence he was tired. Tired of hotels. Tired of hospitals. Tired of fighting for his loved ones. That was his choice though. We all have our battles and destiny had determined that fighting for his kids was his, whether it was making sure they got in the right school or struggling with their very lives.

It was early evening when we pulled into his driveway, met by his lovely wife, Caroline. He had married her after Mom died. Most kids would bristle at this but we had known Caroline (and her late husband, Bill) as long as we were alive. They had been friends since college and when both their spouses died (his wife, her husband) it was a natural fit. Dad was a loving guy who wasn't designed to spend his days alone and Caroline was a generous saint-of-a-woman who loved Dad dearly and loved us like her own. She is a blessing. And not just because of the home-cooked meal and warm bed. Her easy manner, forgiving spirit and youthful sense of wonder made her a great match for Dad… and us.

A meal, a phone call from Melissa updating Andy's condition and a little TV was all I needed to feel a deep sleep tap my shoulder. Dad was safe in bed, Andy was holding his own and I raised the flag of surrender and went to sleep, wondering what the trip back to Orlando tomorrow would bring. I started a new job in two days so I had to fly home tomorrow night from Orlando and I was reasonably certain that when I left tomorrow for Fort Worth, Andy would be stabilized with Melissa and Dad by his side.

But, like most well thought out plans, it was not to be.

Dad is a bit of a CNN and Larry King fan so I was more than a bit surprised when the TV did not get turned on that evening. Instead, talk of Texas, work and days gone by served as bedtime fodder. Lights out came quick as we two old men ran out of gas that night.

The next morning started early. Dad was always an early riser and I, his oldest son, was no different as an adult. Funny how that works out. As a young man I liked nothing more than to sleep 'til noon. No more. Kids and work will drill that right out of you. We dressed quickly and headed back to the hospital.

We made it their and found our way to Andy's room in ICU. The closer we got to Andy the quieter Dad became. I thought about trying some small talk but I had to force myself to remember that Ed had done this a few times already and it never ended well. Better to keep quiet. On the ICU floor, we found Andy's room and discovered him asleep. His wife arrived shortly thereafter and checked in with Andy's doctors. Watching her interact with them was a thing of beauty. Andy's illness has occupied her for a long time and she made it her business to know EVERYTHING about what was going on with him. More than once she caught things that were done wrong or not done at all as she worked to keep her husbands tenuous health afloat. The defining moment, for me, was seeing her in a conference with the doctors and their assistants and she SEEMED like a staff member. Melissa was asking questions, offering solutions— everything a doctor or nurse would do in that situation. Clearly I had underestimated her. The person I once thought of as simply my brother's wife had transformed herself into a machine dedicated to single-handedly rescuing her husband, my brother, and I re-learned how to love her that day. I resolved to make sure that, whatever happened to Andy, we would be close friends forever. In the meantime, Andy is unconscious and he has a low-grade fever which is not a good sign. The morning saw many meetings between Mel, the doctors and nurses in hushed tones as our spirits, once high, dropped.

Noon found Dad and I looking for the hospital cafeteria. Something you have to know about him is that he loves food. While not overtly obese, he has carried a gut around for my whole life. His relationship with food could only be described as a love affair and a little "afternoon delight" in the buffet line was a good way to take his mind off his son lying in ICU fighting for his life.

Food together brought out the conversation that would not come as we waited upstairs. As it often did, our talk drifted towards days gone by. I couldn't bring myself to ask about how he'd handled this situation with his other kids. Instead, I chose to remind him that he was my hero, that I could not imagine going through this with my kids. Ever the modest man about himself, he gently deflected my words but I could tell he was in a great deal of pain... or worry. Aren't they the same? Worse, emotionally stressful times like this usually lead him to second-guess decisions he made about his family. One such decision? My Dad changed jobs and our family moved during my senior year in high school. Great, right? Wrong! While I complied with the decision without a fuss, it was clear I felt cheated. But now, 30 years later, I truly valued the ability to pick up, move, and integrate into new environments with relative ease, something they do not teach you in school. I assured Dad that it was, quite unintentionally, one of the greatest lessons I came away with as a young man. He seemed genuinely puzzled by this but I was sincere and he left it at that.

Making our way back to the ICU, we passed many sick people in their rooms. I flashed back to the one time I was allowed to see my little sister in the hospital as she fought for her life. Seeing a tiny girl hooked up to what seemed like miles of tubing changes you.

I actually found the hospital and staff pleasant as we waited for news about Andy but Dad and I shared a mutual distaste for hospital rooms and the things that invariably happened there. Watching Andy lie unconscious, Dad and I both reinterated our desire NEVER to be kept alive by machines. That started an avalanche of talk about what we would want after we passed. Burial vs. Cremation, that sort of thing.

In the meantime, Andy was fading.

His fever continued unabated and his blood counts were not normal. His abdomen was bloating again and he did NOT feel like eating. Something was up. Rejection is a real possibility anytime. However, in Andy's case, rejection was more than likely a death sentence. Compatible livers and kidneys do not grow on trees.

As tests were done and doctors were consulted over the course of the day, Dad fell uncharacteristically silent. His easy laugh left him. Dad normally wears his heart on his sleeve but he was tough to read that afternoon. Understandable, I thought to myself.

That evening it was decided that Andy would return to surgery. The doctors could not determine what the issue was, leaving a look inside as the only option. An internist and surgeon were called and he went into surgery… again.

Waiting. Easy to type. Tough to do.

We attempted to pass the time with small talk. I try keeping a video blog of Andy's progress but I can't wrap my mind around what's happening. I'm going to lose another sibling and processing that sort of scrambles my brain a bit. As weird as I feel, I notice my dad has a look on his face like he's trying to ignore the pain of being kicked in the gut.

As we waited, we talked about everything under the sun. It made me realize how much I miss living near Dad. While I would rather not have to go through this, the silver lining is that Dad and I got a lot of face time over the days to catch up on the myriad of things that needed discussing.

After what seemed like hours, the internist emerged from surgery. Sitting us down, he explained that Andy's intestine had a very small perforation, probably from the transplant, that had leaked into his abdomen. He was repaired and buttoned up again. Good news? He didn't go septic. We got it in time. Bad news? He's not out of the woods yet. He's being kept sedated and how he gets through the next twelve hours will determine his chances.

He will be in recovery for several more hours. Melissa stays to see him back into his room but Dad and I leave to eat and sleep.

Across the street from our hotel is an eclectic little Italian restaurant and, not wanting or feeling like searching around for other options, we go in. Food and wine keep the conversation going. Dad and I talk about so many things we haven't talked about in years: Mom, retirement, his relationship with my brothers and sisters. We were always pretty close but we bonded even tighter that day. Andy had a fighting chance now and Dad seemed, once again, cautiously optimistic. Meal finished, bill paid, back to the hotel room. Dad MUST be feeling better because he turned on the TV to watch Larry King.

I am exhausted.

My parents met in college, married and started a family. Like many they began to have and raise children. Sadly, things did not go so well in that department. Of the seven kids they eventually created, three were buried at too young an age. A congenital birth defect that science could not fix took three children from them. As a young man I was affected by this but not as much as when I became a father. The avalanche of emotion I experienced when I thought about even the POSSIBILITY of losing one of my kids was enough to knock me down. I was very certain that a severe sickness or death of one of my children would reduce me to a weeping mess in the fetal position on the floor in the corner, never to return to normalcy. I was as certain of this as anything in my life. Having had this realization it dawned on me just how heroic both my parents had behaved. With other kids to raise and feed, a long grieving process was not practical. However they processed it, they did, and moved on. In hindsight, it was a colossal task that I knew, as a new dad, I would not do well with. The disease that randomly struck some of my siblings, but not all, showed itself at a young age. The older brother I never knew, Edward, passed at around five. My little sister, Jennifer, left us at two and "Baby" Gomersall lived only an hour, too young for a real name.

By 2010, all my remaining siblings, and me of course, had grown up healthy with no sign of the defect that had taken some of us. Andy, ten years my junior, had inexplicably contracted Diabetes a few years earlier but it was under control and no one thought much of it. No one except Dad. Mom had passed from cancer years earlier and Dad still watched Andy's health like a hawk. It was he who had taken Andy to the doctor when he had lost a staggering amount of weight one summer years ago, only to discover the Diabetes. Clearly, having lost several kids, that feeling of dread never really leaves you even though many years passed without incident. Andy lived a normally for many years. Marrying, working and enjoying the life of a young man.

For reasons only our engineer knows for sure, Andy started to decline. The disease that took our much-younger siblings began to take hold of his fragile body as well. His wife Melissa, ever vigilant, practically earned a medical degree as she marshalled him through all the procedures necessary for him to live a normal life. Science has progressed much since the 60's and 70's and things looked pretty good for Andy. Whatever issues arose would be taken care of by some medication or procedure.

So, I was taken aback when I learned that he was on the transplant list and needed a liver and a kidney. If you know how the list works, you understand that it is a long arduous process that you must qualify for and re-qualify for constantly. Your "score" is determined by your age, disease type and about a dozen other variables that are in flux constantly. The wait on such a list is not a welcome one and I can promise you that no one comes away from that process feeling good about it.

After over a year of on-again-off-again list news and my own denial about his condition, I got the call one night that the operation was a "GO" and i should fly out to be with him. After I had a minor fit about getting on a plane I realized that my father, who probably thought he was out of the woods on matters such as this, was likely going to pieces now and, though he'd never admit, needed some (or one) of his other children to help get him through it. It dawned on me that it was my turn to help him and off I dashed to the airport.

As we drove to the hospital, Dad and I talked easy about all the news of the day but much went unsaid. He'd been here before, I reminded myself, and he had his own way of dealing with what had to be a tough situation: the possibility of burying another child.

Once we arrived at the hospital and went up to ICU, we were surprised to find him sitting up in a chair! The operation had gone well and his recovery astonished me. He was even hungry and asked for pudding. The operation had occurred a day and a half ago and I was told not to even show up until now because he'd be unconscious in ICU anyway. Now I find him not only awake and sitting in a chair, but hungry to boot! Things were looking good. Dad and Andy talked quietly for a few minutes. I had never seen them speak in these tones before. My father seemed cautiously optimistic but he had been through enough to know that it likely wasn't over yet. The guy was truly clairvoyant. As it stood, Andy was on the mend and getting back into bed as we bid goodnight to his wife, Melissa. Next task: Find a hotel in downtown Orlando on a Thursday night and bunk with my Dad, something I had not done since I was very young. This was going to be interesting.

If you haven't put yourself in front of this series yet, I suggest you run, not walk, to your (hopefully) HD screen and enjoy another amazing series presented by HBO. From the cast to the production values and, of course, the spot-on writing, this tale of prohibition era Atlantic City is rich with plot, character and masterful storytelling. Produced by (among others) Martin Scorsese and Mark Walberg, I give this show my highest recommendation. So has HBO and it's audience which has picked it up for another season. Hello, DVD extras!

ORANGE COUNTY CHOPPERs' Paul Teutul Jr. split from the show (and his Dad!) and now has his own reality show. A division of TUCKER ROCKY DISTRIBUTING, BIKER'S CHOICE is sponsoring the first bike to be designed by Paul Jrs. new shop & show. It will debut at Sturgis. I'll post photos of that later this week. I shot this press briefing while capturing the weeks' Dealer Show/Sales Meeting activities for the closing party highlight reel. So much fun...

On occasion, personnel at Tucker Rocky will give tours to dealers or vendors when they are visiting our facility here in Fort Worth. My video studio is a stop on said tour. Video is a big part of what Tucker Rocky is doing these days and they are not shy about it, touting our in-house production capabilities.

Yesterday morning, one of the V.P.'s came by with a group from one of our Chinese vendors, Alligator Brakes. They, with their translator, were very interested in what we do in video and I gave them the nickel tour which ends with me screening a sample of what we're doing lately.

This is where it gets odd because after I screened one of our videos for house brand BIKEMASTER, their group erupted in enthusiastic applause. Not wanting to appear rude, I took a modest bow and shook their hands as they left. Surreal.

Applause is something for stage actors and comedians, rarely video producers. I must admit that it felt rewarding but I still couldn't shake the feeling that they would have clapped at anything, just to be polite.

Still, it was nice while it lasted.

That's a wrap...

However, I must also add that when I was forced to do that an amazing thing happened. I produced something better. Yes, you read it correctly: better. We all have it in us to "start over" and re-think what we thought was "golden" and mine some platinum. Nowadays I view it as a part of the process and welcome the chance to challenge what I believe and try to do better, or different. Developing this ability is crucial to growth as an artist and a person and we should welcome the chance to improve ourselves in this manner.

Sounding a little Tony Robbins?

O.K. I deserve that.

Still, considering the success that I've personally had with Plan "B", I no longer hang my head when I learn my "great idea" has met with disapproval and/or failure. Now I look at it as an opportunity to learn something new about myself. And isn't that what it's all about?

Go carefully, my friends!

Easy, fast & cheap.

Wow. Should I make a site with it or date it.

Nevermind.

Enjoy. Comment. Suggest. OK?