The one bedroom/loft apartment Julie and I moved into in 1995 had an air about it that rang true of a twentysomething married couple laying down roots. Located on Moorpark Street in North Hollywood, it wasn’t a large place, per say- a modest kitchen, a small balcony off the living room, an even larger balcony off the loft- but it had high ceilings and an openness about it that was very inviting.

Unlike our first place, located around the corner from North Hollywood High School with its regular bell schedule and heavy traffic, plus a lack of air conditioning in the sweltering summertime, the Moorpark apartment backed up to a quiet neighborhood. It was also within walking distance of plenty of shops and restaurants. A quarter mile from the front door was Henry’s Tacos, a San Fernando landmark with great Mexican food. Across the street from Henry’s was a shopping plaza with a 7-Eleven, a laser disc rental store (until it closed a year later) and Sushi 101, one of our favorite hangout’s with my brother, Budd, and his wife, Karyn.

If you walked south of Henry’s you’d find another plaza, one that housed the Laundromat where we washed our clothes, some small boutique stores and a teriyaki stand that made some of the best chicken teriyaki you could find (pretty cheap, too). I wouldn’t call the area we lived in trendy- our apartment was one in a row of buildings along Moorpark- but the side streets behind Moorpark did have some beautiful, expensive houses I would admire during morning jogs. I’d look at those homes and dream of the day when Jules and I would be able to afford our own house. Until then I was content with our cool, loft apartment.

During these years, Julie worked at a small flower shop in North Hollywood. The hours sucked, she worked almost every holiday, and the owners were assholes. I oscillated between Alterian Studios, the make-up effects company where I’d done my summer internship in ’91, and a production company that turned out sing-along videos for children. Of the two jobs, I preferred Alterian, where I’d moved up from production assistant to coordinator. It was stressful, but fulfilling. The other job was essentially a paycheck, even though I worked with good people. I just never felt committed to them; I sense that they felt the same way about me.

In truth, I wasn’t going to be satisfied with either job because my goal was to write and direct movies, a goal that the space in the loft provided me room to pursue. Despite the closeness to the living room, the loft felt separate from the rest of the apartment. No door closed it off from the downstairs, just a long staircase that led up to my creative zone. It was up there that I wrote Southern Cross, the screenplay that evolved into my film, King’s Highway.

Whether is was a big dinner party, in which the guests had plenty of space to socialize, or an intimate gathering with close friends, the Moorpark apartment exuded hospitality. Many of our best memories came from spur of the moment decisions to take in a meal at Sushi 101 with Budd and Karyn and return to the apartment with a six-pack and a bottle of wine. One Saturday night in ’96, the four of us laughed and reminisced, as couples will do, when Karyn had the great idea for a lip sync contest. It wasn’t really a contest because Julie was the only one to “perform” (to the best of my recollection; we were pretty loose that night). Karyn chose Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” for my wife to begin the show. Julie ascended the stairs, part of some choreography worked out with Karyn, and I started the music. As Reverend Green began to sing, Jules appeared over the railing, masterfully mouthing the words to the song. In perfect stride to the beat of the song, she walked down, step by step, until she was “on stage” in front of us.

Julie’s years in high school show choir came out as she put on a great performance, one that had us laughing and applauding. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her, my cheeks aching from the huge grin on my face. Watching her, I had a longing in my heart to have known her back when she was a teenager. How I wish someone had videotaped her on stage in front of a real crowd. Julie has such a beautiful voice. Moreover, she commands your attention when the spotlight is on her. Even when merely lip-syncing to a 70s soul staple like “Let’s Stay Together,” she’s a star. It’s a quality that she’s passed down to both of our children.

My God, I was so in love with her in that moment. To have this funny, beautiful woman by my side, supporting my dreams, never doubting me. Whereas the first year in our hot, awful apartment was about getting established, our second place and those next couple of years saw us getting established. They proved that we could make it.

Notice of a rent increase came in mid 1997, around the same time Budd and Karyn became pregnant with their first child. Watching them go through the trials and tribulations of becoming parents made Julie and me evaluate our lives. We seriously discussed when we would want our own children and whether the Moorpark apartment would be the right place to begin a family. Although we loved the area, we didn’t think the apartment was accommodating enough. By September we had moved. When I recall our first year of marriage, it’s a blur. So much happened that the first apartment feels like a weigh station in our journey. The second place felt like our first home, as we had a comfort in that aparment that made us feel secure. Julie and I created lasting memories on Moorpark Street and proved to ourselves that we were survivors. This was a vital lesson in the years to come.

We snuggled on the big chair as the Twentieth Century Fox Fanfare played.

“Drun dun, drun dun, drrrrrrrrrrrrr, drun dun. Ba pa da da, babababababaaaaaaah!”

It was one of those rare mornings- Memorial Day, no less- when my daughter and I were the only ones awake. She was an early riser back when she was 8, even on holidays. As it didn’t seem like her mom or brother would be up anytime soon, she requested to order a movie on demand. Her choice was Night at the Museum, the fantasy comedy starring Ben Stiller. For her seeing the film was about the adventure and humor; for me it was watching Stiller, an actor I’d admired ever since his Color of Money parody aired on Saturday Night Live in the late 80′s. For both of us it was about having some father/daughter time while the rest of the family slept.

I must admit my expectations for Night at the Museum were low, even if the movie featured Dick Van Dyke and Owen Wilson. But you can’t beat having your arm around your little girl and having her prop her feet up on yours while watching a movie at home. As the film progressed, I found myself laughing just as much as she did. Moreover, I found myself getting emotionally involved with the plight of Stiller’s character, Larry, an inventor who takes a job as a janitor so that his son won’t be disappointed in him.

The script by Thomas Lennon and Robert Ben Garant (two men known better for the acting on The State and Reno 911!) adheres to a tight, Hollywood formula. Yet the writers peppered it with enough adult humor, action and mystery to lift Night at the Museum above so much of the treacly crap sold as family entertainment. Director Shawn Levy uses a light touch and allowed not only Stiller room to have fun, but also the great supporting cast that also includes Carla Gugiano, Steve Coogan, Mickey Rooney, Bill Cobbs, Ricky Gervais and a reigned in Robin Williams. Even the cameo by Paul Rudd is a hoot. However, it’s Stiller who really delivers.

The first night on the job, Larry discovers that all of the museum exhibits come to life thanks to an ancient Egyptian tablet. Stiller had the difficult task of making us believe that the walking T-Rex bones were real, or that he was about to get eaten by lions, or that the miniature people who come to life are actually throwing tiny spears at him. Of course, all of the fantastic elements I just described were done with computer effects. Stiller had my daughter and me believing. One need only watch Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, in which excellent actors like Ewan McGregor and Natalie Portman appear lost in their CG universe, to appreciate how hard it is to pull off this type of acting.

We had to keep our voices down, laughing loud and often. My daughter clutched my arm during the scary moments, and rested her head on my shoulder when the movie got sentimental. You can’t ask for a better movie experience than this one. We both loved Night at the Museum so much that I recorded it later that day just to make sure that Julie and Jacob had a chance to see it. When they did, they, too, fell in love with the movie. It wasn’t long before Night at the Museum became a Malchus household favorite. Five years later, if there’s a disagreement about what to watch on family movie night, Night at the Museum is a sure way to please everyone.

Since the death of my brother-in-law, Seann, in December, it’s no secret that my family is hurting. I’ve heard that eventually the pain will lessen and I won’t feel guilty when I laugh at a stupid sitcom or an inspired movie. In the meantime, we’re all trying to movie forward and return to the routines of our regular lives. This includes going on dates, as Julie and I did a couple weeks back, a belated anniversary dinner. Our night out happened to take place on the same day that Seann would have turned 30. As you can imagine, the entire evening was very emotional. After dinner, Julie and  I returned home to the kids, who then wanted a family movie night. It could have been a situation when some inane comedy or a loud animated film was chosen. Instead, we all agreed on Night at the Museum.

As the family snuggled on the couch and the Twentieth Century Fox fanfare played, it was like an old friend announcing his arrival, coming to help us heal. I don’t know when things will ever be okay, but for a couple of hours it felt like we’d be able to get through another night and face the next day. And it didn’t feel wrong to be laughing, as long as we were with each other, arms around each other, feet propped up together.

The night before, Thanksgiving, he’d joined us for a feast at my brother’s house. We hadn’t seen him in a while and it was a pleasure to catch up. All in attendance came from my sister-in-law’s side of the family and I always found it beautiful that Seann could effortlessly fit in with them.   Just as they had welcomed Julie and me into their lives many years ago, they did the same with Seann. It helped that he was so personable and an interesting person to be around. If you asked him he could talk to you about just about anything.

It wasn’t always that way. When I first met Seann, as a cut, ten-year-old kid, in love with the Cleveland Indians and the game of baseball. He was also pretty nonverbal. Our conversations generally went something like this:

Me: “What’s up dude?”
Seann: “Hmm. Not much.”
Me: “Indians look pretty good. I really like the team they’ve put together, including that Lofton guy! I loved him!”
Seann: “Hmm.”

And that was about it. I was content with having this type of relationship seeing as I’d bonded with her other brother, Michael, over similar interests in music, movies and comics.  Still, I hoped that someday Seann and I might connect, despite the fact that we lived in California and he reside in Northeast Ohio.  Everything changed the day Seann took up drumming.

Having played drums throughout my entire adolescence and into college, I could finally relate to my young brother-in-law and really get to know him. To my great surprise, Seann didn’t just bang around on the drums, playing to the radio; he excelled at the instrument through discipline, hours of practice and a innate sense of rhythm. He found a way to express himself and it was awesome. As any drummer  can tell you that it’s a joy to listen and watch a natural talent on the kit, and Seann was a true natural. We now spoke the same language. Instead of grunts and mumbles, Seann and I began having conversations about drum kits, tuning, cymbal brands, drumsticks and which drummers he admired the most.

I’ll admit that I took secret pleasure in being able to jam every time Julie and I went back to Cleveland, but Seann was always gracious and gave up the drum stool whenever I asked.  There were occasions when he hung out to watch me play. I wager to say that he didn’t receive as much pleasure in watching me as I did when he was behind the drum kit.

When the time came for Seann to apply to colleges, I was intrigued that he was considering Bowling Green State University, my alma mater. He wanted to major in music and seeing as I’d spent four years roaming the halls of the music school, I felt that I could offer my two cents. We discussed BG’s excellent music program and the great campus atmosphere. I’m not sure if what I had to say had any sway in his decision, but Seann chose BG in the fall of 2000.

At Bowling Green, Sean transformed from a great drummer into well-rounded percussionist and musician. His studies introduced him to a variety of instruments that added richness to his skills. Additionally, he became interested in sound engineering and began thinking about a career as a sound designer for films. It was a marvel to watch the light of his spirit shine. This was no truer than when he returned from a trip to Ghana, Africa. An openness and a joy for life were bursting from him as he regaled the family with stories of his trip abroad. Africa fortified his soul and gave him a new purpose in life.

In 2005, Seann graduated from college and moved to Los Angeles. In Southern California he really came into his own. For a short time he slept on our couch and made daily treks over the mountain into Hollywood. It wasn’t long before he hooked up with some Ohio friends in that area and took up residence on their couch. Eventually he found a place in Venice, a city close to the beach and full of culture. With the two industries he wanted to succeed in all around him, Seann flourished. Moreover, the access to nature- oceans, forests, mountains- kept him in tune with his physical and spiritual sides. We began seeing less of him as his new life began taking off and he became busier, working as a sound designer and composer for a small production company, and recording and distributing his own music.

Still, he was never too busy to visit when we called. All it took was the pleading voice of my daughter on the other end of the phone and he was making a weekend trip to have home cooked dinner and catch up. Each year when it came time for the CF Great Strides walks, he never had to be reminded. In fact, he would ask when the walk was taking place so that he could program it into his calendar. I will never forget his dedication to the children, not just to my kids, who had the good fortune of seeing him regularly, but also to his nieces and nephews who lived on the other side of the country.

Whenever the two of us got together, I was eager to talk shop, whether it was film, music or baseball. I never would have given Avenged Sevenfold a chance if it wasn’t off of his recommendation, nor would I have been able to say that Thirty Seconds to Mars is not my thing. I never would have discovered Porcupine Tree, the British prog metal band with a cult following in America.

Last Christmas, as I scrolled through his iTunes, their album, In Absentia, popped up on the screen. “Those guys are great,” he told me, “you really should listen to them.” Intrigued, I copied the album to my iPod. Months later, while commuting to work, I fell in love with the record. The multiple time changes, the lush harmonies, the slick production- everything reminded me of my favorite Yes album from the 80’s, 90125. In particular, the second track, “Trains,” stuck its hooks into me and had me singing it for days. Because he was the only person I knew who’d ever heard of this band, I always associated the album with Seann.

It should come as no surprise that when Seann was killed in a motorcycle accident last December, I sought comfort in the music that made me feel closest to him. To numb the hours, days and weeks following his tragic death, to block out the screaming in my head and the hot tears of sorrow, I listened to “Trains” over and over again- on the train, in my office and before I went to bed ad forced myself to sleep. Sometimes it’s a great help, and others it’s just the noise to help me get through the grieving.

I am blessed to have known this man. As I said, he was a good uncle, a good friend and a brother to me. Was Seann perfect? No. But who is in their 20’s? He was still learning, growing, trying to figure out this world and how to make it a better place; trying to find his place in it. I’m so glad that he decided to spend Thanksgiving with us this year, to have him join us in the good food and company that the holiday symbolizes. The next morning, while Jacob slept in another room, and Julie was out shopping with my daughter, Seann stopped in my bedroom to say goodbye before riding off for the studio where he worked. It was the last time I ever saw him.

He stood at the end of my bed, dressed in his motorcycle jacket, his backpack hanging over one shoulder. His mouth curled into the cocksure smile that never seemed to leave his face. I craned my neck to look at him.

“S’up?” I asked.
“I’m taking off,” he replied.
“Mmm, yeah.”
“Tell Julie I said goodbye.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Sure.”
“See ya.”
“See ya.”

I fell back on to my pillow while Seann exited the house, walked across the driveway and started up his motorcycle, parked right outside the bedroom window. As I drifted back to sleep, I could hear his motorcycle drive down our street and fade off into the distance.

My daughter is now thirteen. A teenager. She’s reached one of life’s biggest milestones… at least, what I considered to be a milestone back in 1982 when I turned thirteen. That year, as a seventh grade student at Chestnut School in North Olmsted, was a turning point for me. Music became the second most important thing in my life. The first, of course, was girls. At thirteen I experienced mind-dumbing crushes on my female peers, as hormones raged through my body. It’s a wonder I passed any of my courses. Each class had at least one young lady that I pined for, a girl I tried to impress with smartass remarks and rude outbursts in class. It’s also a wonder that my teachers were so lenient on me. It takes a patient and graceful instructor to tolerate the changing minds and emotions of teenage boys. I was lucky and I know it. I sometimes wonder if my daughter likes any boys; I try not to dwell on it. Does she pass notes or do they exchange texts between classes? She’s a bright girl who is focused on her schoolwork. That’s what my parents thought about me, too. Should I be worried?

In seventh grade I also kissed a girl for the first time. It occurred during a party and an innocent game of spin the bottle. Well, I thought it was innocent until I mentioned this to my wife and her sister. Their incredulous stares made me feel like some kind of gigolo. “You played spin the bottle in seventh grade?” Believe me, I was no Tom Crusie.  Nearby, my daughter listened in on our conversation. Looking at her, I thought, “Uh-uh. No way. No kissing for my baby girl.” But she’s at that age, understand? Well, the boys she around are at that age. I don’t know what teenage girls think about. It’s not like she’s going to share these things with her dad. I’ll have to wait to get the intel from her mother.

As I said, music was the next most important part of my life at thirteen. I attended my first rock concert that winter, accompanied by my older brother, who was in high school at the time. The show was Pat Benatar, supporting her album, Get Nervous (“Shadows of the Night”) and the opening act was the Canadian prog rock band, Saga (“On the Loose”). Three months later I took to my second big rock concert, Billy Squier with opening act, Def Leppard (although most people were on hand to see Leppard, burning up the charts with Pyromania). For that one I went with my friend, Bob H. and his high school sister. As a parent, the thought of letting my daughter into the car with a high school student as their chaperone scares the crap out of me.

Besides my first taste of live music and the first time my ears began ringing, rock ‘n’ roll became my savior, an outlet for my frustrations and feelings of isolation. I’d begun playing the drum set religiously, spending hours shattering Pro-Mark drumsticks against the rims of my brother’s black Rogers five piece and Zildjian cymbals. Oh how I imagined being on stage in a spotlight, looking out at a mass of people. Guys thrusting their fists in adulation and girls shrieking my name, hoping I’d look their way. It was later that year, when I played in my first rock band, that I learned that the front men received all of the glory and the drummers were around for comic relief.

Although I had begun collecting albums, I still obtained most of my music the old fashioned way: by setting my portable cassette player next to the radio speaker and recording songs off of the radio. Using recycled tapes my dad gave me, or cheap ones bought 3 for $1 at Gold Circle, I had hours of music to cull from when trying to advance my mad skills as a rock drummer. Furthermore, those tapes gave me a window into the world of other genres- new wave, soul, 70’s cock rock and 50’s doo-wop. My collection of tapes always included minor discoveries- songs that received limited airplay and happened to come on while I was still recording. One such song was Marshall Crenshaw’s “Someday, Someway.” It was one of my favorites from the summer of 1982. As the year progressed and the song faded from most people’s memories, I still had my copy of that timeless pop song to play whenever I wanted. It had an aching beauty that filled the gaps between the beats of my lonely heart.

A few years back I wrote about The Buggles hit, “Video Killed the Radio Star.” I recalled how my daughter would bounce her legs along to the music while in played in our car. At that time, my daughter had no recollection of her other most requested song from when she was a toddler, which was “Someday, Someway.” Soon thereafter, I made my kids their own “Rockin’ CD,” featuring the songs they knew from movies (such as “All Star” from Shrek and “Ballroom Blitz” from Daddy Day Care). I made a point to include the Buggles and Marshall Crenshaw to the collection. When Jacob first heard “Someday, Someway” he looked at me and said, “I don’t know this one.”  My daughter quickly replied, “That’s because it’s one of my songs.”

To this day she still calls “Someday, Someway” one of her songs. It blows my mind that she’s reached the age when I first heard many of my favorite tracks, and that some of them have become her favorites, too. Instead of recycled tapes, she has an iPod to listen to them; instead of waiting by the radio in anticipation she has Spotify and Amazon to appease her.

The “Rockin’ CD” has become a “Rockin’ Playlist” and even though she doesn’t listen to it as often as she used to, whenever the family is on another long drive to the beach or a relative’s house, those songs eventually come on. When they do, I can’t help glancing back during Crenshaw to see how she reacts. These days, instead of bouncing her legs with the music she usually stares out the window, mouthing the words. If she catches me looking, she’s most inclined to give me a quick, embarrassed scowl, as if to say, “stop looking at me” (she is a teenager, after all). But there are times-times that I treasure- when she reacts with a smile, a quiet acknowledgement of the link this song has between the two of us.

The last day of a long, holiday weekend seemed like an opportune time to organize our garage. With the beginning of the advent season upon us, what better time to clear out the flotsam piled up in the rafters, souvenirs of the past that have collected dust and water damage, becoming less valuable as I’ve grown older and my priorities have changed.

From my college years I dug through old magazines, having no trouble recycling articles about horror movies, Roy Orbison’s death and Nelson Mandela’s freedom. I tossed the many copies of the Bowling Green campus newspaper that made a small mention of my senior film.  All of them were nice to look at once or twice, but their value means less to me than it did before I had kids.

Not everything from that part of my youth found its way into the big blue canister. Something compelled me to hold on to the several concert tour programs from my past. Even though these glorified pin-up books for Clapton, Journey, U2 and Yes are worthless, I still wanted them, the same way I hold on to my LP’s that never get played, or mix tapes that I never listen to. Something about knowing that I can still hold something physical from those concerts made me happy.

From college I dove into a bin full of old scripts, the  stories I’d written that will never see an inch of celluloid and words that will never be spoken by an actor’s mouth. Out they went, including early drafts of The American Standard, a movie I co-wrote that eventually became Deceit after the director did his rewrite. What good was it to hold on to my version of the script? Who was I ever going to show it to to point out the differences? It was finally time to throw out those feelings of disappointment. Yet, while I threw out the many screenplays I’ve written over the years, I also felt a sense of relief, as if getting rid of this detritus made it okay to say to myself, “I may never make another movie, but at least I pursued this dream of mine.”

I may have reached my dream with King’s Highway, the movie I did make. I didn’t throw out all of the material from that film shoot. Perhaps someday my children will ask me about it. If that ever happens, I’ll have the pictures and shooting scripts and edit notes to show them that, yes, kids, it’s possible to shoot a romantic comedy road trip movie in 10 days on $5000 if you put your mind to it. The end result may not be a masterpiece, but at least I can say I did it my way.

From the old manuscripts I opened a box full of photographs that date back to 1998, a year before my daughter was born. Hundreds upon hundreds of photos had mixed together, twelve years becoming a montage of memories. While I did my best to sort through the pictures, I couldn’t help but pause every minute or two to stare at my daughter as an infant, or to be reminded of the day my son was born ten years ago. In my hands, not only were there documents of my children growing up, but also the faces of friends and family, people I hold dear to me and others I don’t speak to anymore. Some are dead; some have floated out of my life, like leaves in the wind.

Sifting through these boxes full of the past made me think of Christmas, of spending time with the family and rushing to see as many friends as possible before an all too short vacation comes to an end. It’s such a joyous time of the year, yet the music of the season always makes me feel heavyhearted. Take Frank Sinatra’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” for example. This has to be one of the most beautiful and popular recordings the legendary singer ever put to vinyl. Sinatra’s rich, smooth voice conveys the love and spirit of Christmas, yet it drips with melancholy, as if he tossed back a couple of tumblers of Scotch before stepping to the mic. Whatever may have been troubling him rose to the surface and became a part of his classic performance. I can’t imagine the holiday season without this song. It says Christmas to me; it says home.

Home.

Despite the many flaws I have, the mistakes I’ve made,  and the hurt I’ve caused in my lifetime, I’ve always striven to be a good man. Luckily, I have a home to return to each night and loved ones to embrace me and lift me up.  As the sun set on my Sunday chore, I felt no remorse for cleaning house and ridding myself of some of the clutter from my past. The present, with my wife and children, is what matters. Whatever memories we create in the years to come will always have importance over the ones buried somewhere in my garage.

Sunday morning, as rain flooded the streets and the sun refused to break through the dark clouds, the family and I woke up at 5:30 AM and prepared for the annual Santa Clarita 5K race. My son, Jacob, and I made plans a month ago to run it together, a sort of celebration of the end of his first year on the local cross country team. When we signed up, the two of us were excited about the prospect of running side by side through the paseos of our hometown and crossing the finishing line, father and son together. Needless to say, with the temperature 45 degrees and the rain coming down in a steady pour, that excitement was definitely missing.

We dressed light. Long sleeved shirts to keep us warm; Jake wearing his team singlet on top, while I went with a blue t-shirt. He had on sweat pants and I chose to man up and just wear shorts. The family watched out the window, praying that the rain would let up in time for that start of the 5K. By 6:30, it looked as if the gods would comply, as the skies began to lighten and the torrential downpour became a light drizzle. The four of us piled into our Jetta and drove off to the mall.

As we rode, Jacob, a bundle of nerves for fear that he might lose me in the crowd, went through his pre-race ritual of selecting the music we heard on the way to the race site. He played the usual line up of popular artists, many of whom Jake and his older sister introduced me to. Personally, I would have preferred a Springsteen song or even “Don’t Stop Believin’. As we got out of the car and crossed the Target parking lot to head over to the starting line by the Valencia Mall, Taio Cruz’s “Dynamite” was stuck in the muck I call my memory and stayed there for the rest of the day.

The entire family joined the massive crowd waiting near the starting line. Jacob and I did a few warm up jogs before saying good bye to his mom and sister. They went off to cheer for us near the huge banner that indicated the beginning of the race. Never one for big crowds, Jacob’s nerves began to get the better of him and there were some tears shed. I assured him that I would never lose him in the race, even if I had to hold his hand for the entire 3.1 miles. At the age of ten, he was younger than I was when I ran my first 5K race and I was so proud of him for just getting out of bed early on a Sunday morning to weather the storm, literally.

My first race took place at the age of twelve, when I imagined blowing away all of the old people I’d be competing against. I can’t recall the exact event; it took place in the middle of the summer, possibly sponsored by the local Kiwanis or some other civic organization. Long ago, a picture existed of that big haired, gangly, twelve-year-old kid with huge glasses, a white headband, knee high socks and some awful running shorts crossing the finish line of that race… dead last. Not just last in my age group, but the entire race. I was embarrassed and never wanted to run another frickin’ race the rest of my life. I was going to be a football player. Screw running.

We all know how that worked out.

Jacob and I stood side by side as a small vocal group sang the “Star Spangled Banner.” As their voices blended in perfect harmony, the rain came back with a vengeance. Before we’d even crossed the starting line, the two of us were drenched. From that point on the race was… miserable. I’m not going to sugar coat it, this was a depressing, cold run. The rain never let up, our clothes were soaked through before we’d even completed a mile and Jake just did. not. want to be there. Can you blame him? I’ve run in some pretty shitty conditions before and this day ranked near the top of the list.

It was a struggle, to say the least, to maintain my composure and stay patient with my son. I even tried singing “Dynamite” to him. He immediately asked me to stop, not because I didn’t know the words, but because I was embarrassing him.  More than once Jake was ready to quit because he couldn’t feel his hands, he couldn’t feel his feet and because t was “insane” to be out in the rain like we were.

And yet, he soldiered on and didn’t quit. Like so many of the challenges he’s faced in ten years, he fought through the anger and frustration and wetness and coldness and his annoying father and kept moving forward. He did not give up.

As we ran the final half mile and passed by the cheering crowd, most importantly his mom and sister, a sense of accomplishment seemed to overcome my boy. He smiled broadly and sprinted past me to be the first across the finish line. Volunteers placed gold medallions around our necks and we finally took shelter from the rain under the awning of a nearby Buca di Beppo. By the time Julie and my daughter found us, Jake was near tears. It had been a long morning and I’m positive he was glad it was over.

I’m so proud of Jacob for completing the race. Sometimes it isn’t about running the fastest or posting your personal record; sometimes it’s just about getting across the finish line and saying “I did it.” That’s what this day was all about and we have the medals to prove it.

Father and son before the race.

Saturday morning, 7:55 AM.

I returned home after an hour at the auto shop. When I opened the front door, the kitchen light was on and voices called out from the television in the living room.

“Good morning, Daddy,” my daughter greeted me.

I threw down my keys and wallet and walked in to find her sprawled out on the couch watching the latest Disney sitcom, Jessie. She and I joke about the theme song for the show; the singer pronounces the character’s name “Jess-SAY.”

“What are you doing up so early?” I asked.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Our dog, Gareth, ran hopped up and down, begging for a walk. Since my son didn’t have a cross country meet that morning, I had plenty of time to take Gareth out for fresh air. I asked my daughter if she’d like to come with me, assuming that she’d turn me down. The two of us haven’t done much father daughter bonding, as of late. She’s twelve, practically thirteen; I don’t quite get her all of the time and she can get annoyed with me. She especially doesn’t like when I write about her on a blog post and won’t let me use her name if I do. It’s tough to discuss about your family when one of them is only referred to by pronouns or “my daughter.”

To my surprise, my daughter wanted to go. She went to get dressed while I put Gareth in his dog harness and attached it to his leash. The dog’s nails clicked on the kitchen floor as he awaited for my daughter. After only a few minutes we left the house and walked out into the brisk morning air.

The city park is just a hundred yards from where we live. One of our neighbors has a cut through on the side of their house that gives passage to the running trail that goes around the park. This is the path I take Gareth on each morning before I leave for work. He practically leads me on the walk while I daydream or concoct elaborate plots for books and screenplays I hope to write someday, but probably won’t. My daughter took the leash for the first part of our walk while I was assigned poop duty. I’m sure you don’t need me to describe what that means.

We talked about her school and how she was enjoying it. She’s an excellent student and I’m very proud of her, although it embarrasses her when I tell her that. As we spoke, most of her statements came out like questions. “I have this test in history? It’s taking place on Monday? It’s going to be really hard.” My replies were succinct and mostly “uh huh” and “that’s great.”  I wasn’t so interested in offering my two cents. Instead, I wanted to hear her thoughts and, truthfully, just spend some alone time with her.

The running trail was relatively empty, save for a few joggers, and the sun was already heating up the October sky. On the large park fields, a flag football league was holding games. Little boys ran around in shorts that came to their knees and jerseys that they would one day grow into. Parents and coaches barked encouraging remarks as the boys threw the ball, too big for their hands. Elsewhere, other dog owners were walking their pets, most of them creatures that towered over Gareth, a small, Chihuahua mix- we think he has some terrier in him. My daughter doesn’t like it when other dogs approach as Gareth thinks he can take on the world. It takes a pretty strong hand to keep him from getting into it with others.

We rounded the park and started for home. At times she slipped her arm through mine, other times she held my hand. I marveled at how much she’d grown, as fathers are prone to doing during a unique morning like this one. How could the baby that I held in my arms be this teenager next to me? Where had the time gone? How many more walks before she’s through with me? We spoke about one of her cousins, now a freshman in high school. In just two short years she, too, would be in high school. That time would fly by, just as the past twelve years have.

We returned home to our quiet house, where my wife still slumbered and my son was fast asleep.

I was in the mood for donuts. During my childhood, my dad always brought home donuts on Saturday mornings and this was the perfect day to uphold the tradition. My daughter and I went drove off to Donut Inn, one of those storefront donut shops that show up in small towns. Once there, we selected two donuts each and a couple for her mom. Since Jacob only likes the little powdered donuts found in the grocery aisle, we would stop at Vons on the way home. Leaving Donut Inn, her eyes were excited in anticipation for the maple ring donut she had picked for herself.

As I started the car, Death Cab for Cutie’s “No Sunlight,” came on the radio.

“I love this song,” I said, turning up the volume.

The song played the entire way to the grocery store and serendipitously ended as I shifted our Jetta into park at Vons. It is odd how a song with a catchy melody, yet depressing lyrics, can bring a tear to your eye because it creates a lasting memory of an hour with your child.

Inside Vons, the two of us strolled to the bakery aisle and found Jacob’s donuts. I stopped for a coffee and then we left. There wasn’t much conversation after that. I sipped my coffee and a random song accompanied us. Moments later we were home again, sifting through the bag of deliciousness. My daughter took a bite of her donut.

“Mmm, that’s good,” she said, walking into the living room to finish watching Jess-SAY.

“Yeah,” I said to myself, “that’s a good donut.”

Saturday morning, 9:15 AM.

While he stood at the starting line, anticipating the starter pistol, I kept flashing him a thumbs up, a sign of encouragement. At the crack of the gun he took off running with the rest of his age group, across an open field, and onto the dirt trail that circled the city park where the race was held. For 1.8 miles he pushed himself physically harder than he ever had before, striving to do his very best. That’s what we talked about many times before the race,making sure he did his best. Both his mother and I repeated to him that all we wanted was for him to go out and run for himself and most importantly, to have fun.

If Jacob enjoys participating in cross country, if he should find a passion for it, this type of exercise will help him so much in his battle with CF. Strong lungs are essential to staying healthy. Perhaps Jacob will fall in love with running, leading to a lifetime of strong lungs. We can only hope.

As the race continued, Jacob kept a steady pace, only stopping a couple of times to catch his breath. Throughout his run, his mom, sister and I jogged to certain areas of the course in order to cheer him on. For those twenty-two minutes of the morning I was oblivious to the sound of the crowd cheering, the results of the other racers, or where Jacob placed in his run. My son’s determination and strength filled me with such pride and love that nothing else mattered. When he crossed the finish line, having found a last burst of energy for the final one hundred yards, the smile on his face filled me with such hope.

Not once during Jacob’s triumph did I think about the September 11, 2001 attacks on New York City, Washington DC or the crash of United 93 in Pennsylvania. It’s been impossible to escape the 10th Anniversary of the horrible event, with every news outlet, blog or person on the street talking about it.  Attention has been paid to how the arts responded to 9/11 and helped people emotionally. Time and again Bruce Springsteen’s 2002 anthem, “The Rising,” was discussed as one of the most significant works to come from the tragedy. I love that song and it has a significant place in my heart. However, when I recall 9/11 I’m drawn to Springsteen’s “My City of Ruins,” in particular this version that he performed  for the America: A Tribute to Heroes telethon on September 21, 2001.

With just his guitar and harmonica, a small group of singers behind him, Springsteen delivered his “prayer for our fallen brothers and sisters” with reverence and respect for the fallen. More importantly, as the background choir sang “with these hands” over and over and Bruce responded, “I pray for the strength, Lord,” “I pray for the faith, Lord,”  Springsteen seemed to be praying for the nation and the world to come together in order to heal. It was his message of hope and faith in a time of fear and uncertainty.

Hope and faith, just what I’d experienced on Saturday morning. There’s no way a youth cross country race can even relate to what happened on that day in September. I wouldn’t dare to say that I understand what the people who lost loved ones on 9/11and the years after, either through war or through slow, painful deaths caused by the deadly toxins released into the air, have experienced. I will say that we owe it to those who have died and those who fought valiantly that day to continue showing our resilience and doing our part to make this world a better place.

Just last night, as the family was out walking the dog, Jacob asked questions about 9/11 and what it meant. For now, simple answers seem to do the trick, but someday I have a feeling he’ll dig deeper. He may ask where we were on that day and how we coped. If he does, I’ll tell him that music was my means for dealing with the sorrow. It brought me solace, as it does for everyone, whether holed up in their basement, bedroom or a driving car, or gathered in a small club, a concert arena or a giant stadium. Music helps us cope. It helps us move forward, so that our children can participate in cross county races with the faith and hope that better days are around the corner.

Related articles

• Songs Inspired by 9/11 (spinner.com)
• Reflecting on 9/11 Through Song (dissenter.firedoglake.com)
• Bruce Springsteen Busks in Boston (wcbsfm.radio.com)

Here are two phrases I never thought I’d say in this year: “The Indians swept the Red Sox” and “Cleveland is in first place.” Hope springs eternal each spring when Major League Baseball begins its season. We fans are optimistic even when our team is mid-market and does not have the gargantuan payroll of ESPN favorites like the Yankees and Phillies. A scrappy group of aging vets and wet behind the ears youngsters can show the world that you don’t have to be the richest team to succeed; you can develop talent in the farm leagues and make savvy trades. Yeah, that’s what we fans of smaller market teams tell ourselves each year before the first pitch is thrown.

Springtime is a season full of hope in our household, not just for sporting reasons. The spring also marks the time of year when the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation holds their annual Great Strides walk in our hometown of Santa Clarita, CA. For those of you who have read the Basement Songs over the years, you know why Great Strides is significant to the Malchus family (and the Popdose staff). My son, Jacob, has cystic fibrosis (CF).

CF is a life threatening illness that creates a thick, sticky mucus in the body. This mucus clogs the lungs, creating the potential for infections. It also blocks the pancreas, preventing it from releasing the enzymes he needs to absorb nutrients. There is no cure. Each day, Jacob undergoes three breathing treatments with a nebulizer and dons a chest vibrating device called “The Vest.” He also takes oral enzymes with each meal to ensure that he stays strong and healthy. It’s a hell of a lot for anyone to live with, let alone a spirited nine-year-old boy who just wants to be “normal.” Jacob handles most of his daily routines in stride, although his anger and frustration has risen steadily over the past year.

Each year our family organizes a team of walkers for our local Great Strides. We call ourselves “Team Jacob.” Among the efforts we’ve done in the past is edit short videos to introduce people to Jacob and this dreaded disease. It’s an effective tool, sometimes too effective. Jacob’s big sister, Sophie, can no longer listen to George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Workin’ on a Dream,” songs we used in previous videos. Hearing those classic tracks remind her of the images we pieced together and hurt her heart too much. I know how she feels. A couple of years ago a family we know used Coldplay’s “Fix You,” as a part of their campaign and from now on that song will always be associated with CF and that family. Listening to this live version of the song is even more powerful, with the audience singing along with Chris Martin, as I imagine the combined efforts of all CF families and their friends singing as one.

It’s become our tradition to hold a gathering at our home after each Great Strides walk. This is the least we can do to thank our friends and family for joining us in the morning walk and helping support our cause. Over the years our team has grown. In addition to my brother and his family, the Cruz family and our neighbors, the Wills, school friends like the Conards, the Bosses and the Stinsons have been there for us. There is also my high school buddy, Jay, and of course, my parents, who drive out from Tucson each year. 2011 was also special because Julie’s mom and dad were visiting from Ohio and were able to experience it with us. I dream of someday having all of the good people who have helped us over the years to come out and join us. As inviting as our small ranch style house is, I don’t think they’d all fit.

Our little party was festive, with music playing in the kitchen, kids running around and tackling each other between belly laughs, pizza and beverages for everyone, and a game of corn hole for all who wanted to play. Meanwhile, with free MLB games on television all weekend, a small group of men sat in the living room and watched the Indians take on the Seattle Mariners. As I’m accustomed to doing during these get togethers I wandered between the small groups and took in bits and pieces of conversations. I sometimes can’t believe how blessed we are to have so many people who care about the welfare of our family. I must admit, though, that I kept getting drawn into the living room, where my brother, my dad and my father-in-law were all enjoying the baseball game.

The Indians are in first place.

What a great feeling for a Cleveland fan. Still, I’d make a major league trade of all the joy I receive from watching my favorite baseball team win some games if I could fix my son’s illness. As much as I like hearing that the Indians are in first, I’d love to hear a different phrase, one that goes like this:

CF stands for cure found.

If you would like to help the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, you can visit this link to make a donation.

As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a writer. Since the first grade, when my teacher suggested that I recount my family’s recent cross country vacation to California, I was bitten by the writing bug. In the years that followed, if I wasn’t in our basement listening to rock music, I was down there pounding away on our old manual typewriter writing short stories, all of them in the horror or mystery genres. Among my more accomplished works at that age were the serial killer thriller I wrote in the 4^th grade and the buddy cop mystery (inspired by my love of Starsky & Hutch) that I turned in for a 7^th grade English assignment.

In the early 80’s, life in the Malchus household changed drastically when my mother won a video cassette recorder at a local home and garden show. She was unsure whether to claim her prize. Watching me run through the house screaming and cheering indicated that she should. This was a good full year before the VCR boom swept through every American household, so ours was one of the few that had a high end, top loading VCR that played VHS tapes. I didn’t care if having the machine made us cool or not; I was just excited that we’d get to watch movies.

My family didn’t take in many theatrical movies. We saw the occasional blockbuster like Raiders of the Lost Ark, or whatever critical darling won Best Picture at the Academy Awards. However, we mostly went to live theater or band concerts, and we traveled in the summer. When that VCR came into our home, a new world opened up to me. I know you read that a lot, but in this case it was the truth. If we’d never had that flip top VCR in our family room, I would have never fallen in love with moving pictures and I know I would never have pursued a life as a filmmaker.

We soon became regulars at First Run Video, one of two video stores in North Olmsted, Ohio. At the time (which was the summer between 7^th and 8^th grade) my best friend, Matt, and I were avid readers of Fangoria, that monthly magazine devoted to horror movies, and devoted followers of Stephen King. Nearly every Saturday night, Matt and I would peruse the aisles of First Run Video searching for one of the gruesome titles we’d seen mentioned in Fangoria, or better, endorsed by King. Then, we’d return to my house, gorge on popcorn and bottle Cokes, and watch wide eyed as some poor fool lost an arm, his intestines or his head!

You may think that my parents were crazy to let us watch Halloween, The Howling, An American Werewolf in London or Dawn of the Dead, but they saw some artistic merit in the special effects that went into those films thanks to a family friendship with Tony Gardner. Tony was a local kid who moved to Los Angeles and started making a name for himself in makeup effects industry. For nearly a year, Matt and I got our fill of severed heads, gaping chest wounds and hairy monsters.

But there was a catch.

An unspoken agreement between my father and I meant that I would also watch one of the classic films he began renting from First Run. This is when my film education began. After I got done watching something by Sam Raimi, John Carpenter, Tobe Hooper or George Romero, dad and I watched classics by Alfred Hitchcock, Humphrey Bogart, the Marx Brothers, Fred Astaire, as well as many of the seminal films from the 70’s directed by Sidney Lumet, Bob Fosse, Sydney Pollack and Alan J. Pakula.

When I entered high school and began dating, Saturday nights soon turned into date nights. Like every typical American teen, most dates involved sitting in a darkened theater and watching the newest released film. I still recall being scared shitless watching the original Nightmare on Elm Street, unconcerned about the girl sitting next to me. I became consumed with movies and by the end of the 9^th grade I knew what I kind of writer I wanted to be: I wanted to write movies.

High school graduation led to film school, focusing on film history and criticism. I was exposed to foreign films by Francois Truffaut and Luis Bunuel, fell in love with classic gems by Harold Lloyd and D.W. Griffith, discovered the western classics of John Ford, and became a devoted fan of gangster films. Throughout my four years of college, I never lost faith that someday I would become a screenwriter and possibly a director.

After college I met Julie and got married soon thereafter. She agreed to join me on my ambitious journey and we moved to California. The 90’s were a period of hard work and self discovery. Years were spent learning the way the film industry operated. Meanwhile, my nights and weekends consisted of writing and rewriting screenplays in hopes that one of my original scripts my perk the interest of an agent or a producer. I was blessed to have Julie in my corner, to be my loudest supporter and the one to boost me up when rejections arrived.

By the turn of the century, the future was bright. Our daughter, Sophie, joined us in ’99 and a couple years later I was asked to direct a mircobudgeted feature from one of my scripts. That movie, King’s Highway, finished shooting just before Sophie’s brother, Jacob, was born in late 2001. However, the excitement of achieving one of my lifelong dreams was dulled. Jacob was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis and whatever dreams I may have had were replaced with another: to find a cure. I have an enormous amount of pride in King’s Highway, despite many of the negative comments about it on Netflix. For $5000, we did a hell of a job.

Still, after the completion of King’s Highway, as I began writing new scripts in hopes of seeing them come to fruition on screen, I found my appreciation of movies beginning to wane. I hate to say that cynicism began to slip in, but the thrill I once had as a teenager seemed to be missing whenever I sat down to watch a movie.

Could it be because anything that comes to our local Cineplex is an Imax THX surround sound 3D “googlevision” spectacle that requires that I shovel over more money I can spare? Or maybe it’s because the only time I have to watch any of the indie darlings that arrive through Netflix, it’s nearly 11:00 PM and I’m downing coffee just to keep my eyes open?

In an effort to answer these questions I compiled a list of my top 50 favorite films. These are the movies that have stuck with me and brought me the most joy and excitement for nearly 25 years. 1999, the year I became a father for the first time, was chosen as a cutoff date, as that seemed to be the period when I began seeing less movies due to responsibilities and the economy. My editors here at Popdose have always given me free reign of the Basement Songs, so I felt this was a good opportunity to shift gears for a year and explore another aspect of my life.

Throughout 2011, I plan to watch my top 50 movies, plus two holiday favorites, and write about them. If I’m lucky, I’ll find new meaning or rediscover what it was that I loved about the movies in general. I hope that you’ll come along for the ride and possibly share your own opinions on the films I’ve chosen to write about, as I spend the next 52 Saturday nights at the movies.

In the tradition of Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert, the two legendary critics whose show, Sneak Previews, was essential to my film upbringing, each week I’ll offer a preview of next week’s column.  Here you go.