1-10-16, On an airplane.

You make time for a solo visit to your sacred ground.
The Boston Public Garden is spiritually comforting to me. It always has been. But this time I realized why.
I think of the 10 or 15 long late nights with the best of college age friends spent there; tripping, exploring, and communing with nature as urban Thoreau’s. One night, as we circled the duck pond as closely as possible, we saw something in the water. It was a school of what seemed like thousands of tiny fish, traveling together slowly, unified in motion. We guessed they were babies, spawned en masse within hours of our arrival, and learning to make their way in the world as we stood above them.
True or not, that explanation held. Probably because we were doing the same.
This past August I did the kind of self-analysis I had not been ready for in previous years. Hard core exploration of why I was unhappy, how those feelings were manifesting in damaging behaviors, and what could be done about it. I learned so much, at age 45. It’s always possible to better one’s self. Always.
What I divined deeply were my values. Inner Peace, Connection, Passion, Curiosity, Fun, Aesthetic Beauty; these are the bedrocks for a healthy Matthew.
I later added a physical one I feel deeply now, but wish I had decades earlier: Maintaining a Healthy Vessel. My body deserves love, attention, and respect, so it can help facilitate a long stay on the terrestrial plane. My son deserves my most rapt attention to this value.
So here’s what I realized. The reason those nights felt magical then, and seem to grow more resonant every year, is that those nights were spent chasing those same values. I didn’t realize it, mostly. I just knew I was on to something, and that an intellectual and/or emotional moment of perfect understanding felt achievable. I hunted those moments, and still do…when a lifetime of learning coalesces into what feels like grand clarity. Only an optimist believes those moments are right around the corner, as I do every day.
Those nights, we merry men were connecting so deeply. We were passionately following our curiosity around the city. We had uproarious fun. The Garden, along with the Esplanade along the Charles river, provided so much natural beauty. The early American architecture brought so much aesthetic pleasure, especially when juxtaposed with modern life.
And I did feel some peace then. The peace of friendly love, the peace of knowing I was in the right place. I was with my people.
I feel more peace now. I have defined how I attain it.
I am at peace when I am self aware, accepting what my issues are, and trying to lessen their damage. That’s it. That’s doable. I will not lie to myself any more. I accept who I am, admire my goodness, and gently acknowledge my weakness.
So there I was, for an hour alone in the Boston Public Garden. A monk approached me, slipped a green beaded bracelet on to my wrist, asked me to sign his contribution book, and said “Peace to you.” I happily gave him ten dollars.
I was mindful. Quiet. Thoughtful. And so grateful. I am alive at 45, vibrantly active in pursuits I love, financially solid thanks to those pursuits, and the father of a beautiful boy. Yes, I aspire to more wealth, achievement, knowledge, insight, and pleasure. But right now, right here, I am a happy man.
Whatever forces brought me here were with me in the Garden. And they know of my thanks.
Sacred ground.

He was my first son.
There was a Lhasa Apso named Chrissy, a bat mitzvah gift to sister Adrienne who ended up mostly under my care all through high school. And I loved that little furball thing.
Bu this isn’t about her.
This is about Maceo Floyd Bringle Spiegel, an Anti-Cruelty Foundation rescue who is going to sleep for good tomorrow at the age of 14.
He is now a very sweet, good hearted, deeply pained, elderly beast. He enjoys, by my watchful estimate, about 10-15% of his life. That’s not enough. I’m choosing to let him go with his dignity mostly intact. He looked pathetic in diapers, and doesn’t deserve years of continued incontinence. His back half has lost massive amounts of muscle and strength in the last 2 years. He can barely stand, and falls on himself in the act of all sorts of things. He is often seemingly confused, and experiencing some level of discomfort. He can’t hear well at all, and is losing his sight. He does not enjoy the toddler’s evolving full run of the place, and scares us with growing aggression towards him.
We’ve tried innumerable medications and vitamins.
It’s time.
***
He just ate most of the good meat off a bone-in rib eye mixed in with his dog food and pain pills. In an hour or so, I’m gonna give him the bone itself. It’s a hell of a last meal, and he isn’t complaining.
***
At Anti-Cruelty on LaSalle, there were lots of dogs. He was scrawny and thin, ribs showing, with “Buster” written on his cage. We scratched his head through the bars; he turned and offered us his side. We scratched that; he offered his butt. He knew what he wanted. I like clear communication. Home he came.
Maceo Parker’s badass name deserved some destination. Wasn’t going to foist it on a child, so on to the little brown dog it went. But there were lots of other names. Little Mellow Caramel Fellow. Franklin Delano Doggevelt.
He was a feisty, hungry, teeth-gnashing animal. “That dog needs a sammich,” said my co-producer Matt Fishman. He came to lots of radio shows. I hosted sports talk on The Score and on Sporting News Radio with him at my feet. I DJ’ed overnights on WXRT with him under the console. Maceo once took a nervous enormous crap in studio C while I worked in another room. He scared interns, producers, and others on the next shift. I always thought he was more tame than he was, and treated him as such; willful, wishful delusion. I wanted a mild companion dog.
He would grow into that.
He was emotionally complex. He would let you pet him, and growl as you did. He’d show his teeth as he wagged his tail. Eventually, he’d back down…but you had to earn it.
He had no idea how to play with other dogs, or other people, until he was 6 or 7. He needed California for that. Maybe it was the weed. Or the sun. Or the gorgeous terrain and trails to explore. That dog loved the west.
He started to wag, and not to growl. We hiked. Man, did we hike. Laurel Canyon, Griffith Park, Pasadena hills, waterfalls, Malibu Canyon, and more. He appreciated the chance to frolic so much that it made me like it more. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?
He smiled a lot. That mouth spread wide, cheeks somehow pointed up, giant tongue hanging. I know a grin when I see it.
Maceo drove east to the homestead from Chicago.
He saw the house where all Spiegels grew up in New Jersey, and played in the back yard with brother Bobby’s dog Oakley. Maceo played too aggressively and drew blood. Bobby was kind as I was embarrassed.
Maceo flew on a plane west, and started a new life.
He lounged and ran in the majestic Laurel Canyon dog park, where dozens of hounds ran freely at a time. Dog walkers would bring batches of 7 or 8 and let them mix in, roaming the multiple levels and hillside ridges.
He got infested with biting red ants in Albuquerque, and took a pathetic but effective bath in a Motel 6.
He once got skunked in Gilson Park. Took him home and gave him a tomato soup bath, as the legend said to do. Just smelled like skunk parmigiana. Took weeks to wear off.
That dog saw a lot of good video games being played. He helped players commiserate after plenty of unfortunate Tecmo football twists.
He almost learned to swim. He almost learned to play catch perfectly. He liked to try.
***
He just fully devoured the rib eye bone. It’s gone. No shards, no remnants. Gone. He’s a wild animal, that mankind has vaguely trained and allowed to roam the same rooms as us. It’s kind of a crazy plan.
There’s more bones left from our dinner steak. He’ll get them.
***
I’ll miss him throwing his weight against me as he demands/asks to be petted.
I’ll miss his horrendous breath.
I’ll miss helping him celebrate his dinner by rubbing his face and neck with a blanket as he burrows into it.
I’ll miss seeing the “mood ridge” on his back become more pronounced when he gets his dander up.
I’ll miss seeing him wag happily at the sight and smell of another pooch up close, finally having mellowed into the sweet man I always knew was in there.
I’ll miss my buddy, my compatriot.
I think he’s had a very good life.
I’m glad it was with me.
It was a long, high maintenance night. My sweet, pained old dog rewarded steak bone kindness with the worst bout of incessant diarrhea you can conceive of. Endless kneel downs with paper towels and floor cleaner, as he went back to his place to pant and feel guilty.

Rinse, and repeat.

One last reminder of his frailty.

When we went to the vet to do the deed, Dr. Ojala was incredibly kind. She respects these beasts…knows them better than most, and feeds off of the pet owners she knows share her love for them. She had been wonderful for Maceo and for us…extending his life in as much comfort as possible, for 2 years or more.

But it was time.

He panted on the way in…knowing that this was a place where things were done to him. In his feisty youth, he had to be muzzled; held aggressively by 3 or 4 people so he could be cared for properly.

Now, he somewhat begrudgingly accepts the hands of Dr. O. There are things perhaps still worth fighting against in his mind…but vets aren’t really one of them.

She explains the process. There will be two shots; one to put him into a deep sleep, and one to stop his breathing. He will not, science thinks, feel pain. No one knows for sure of course, but I’ll take it.

I lie with him on the ground…he on his place, brought from home. Tonya stands in support, lovingly. What a good dog mommy she was in his dotage.

We speak of his truly long and interesting life. His travels…his notoriously obvious conflicted emotions, the life we’ve spent together.

The first shot hits. He slowly falls asleep. And then, the snoring.

It is the deepest, heaviest, most invested sleep I have seen him enjoy, ever? Maybe some evening after a huge hike.

But not in years.

And the snoring is downright awesome. Rest, good boy, rest.

We laugh at the depth of his rest. And we let him go like this for a while. I envy the fullness of it, truth be told. Dr. O says “I don’t usually share this with people, but this was Michael Jackson’s drug of choice.”

Well, that explains the envy. This stuff removes 100% of his anxiety, and unwanted brain activity. Jacko knew what he wanted.

Then, after a few minutes, the second shot hits. His breathing slows…progressively. I am hugging him, weeping, thanking him for how much he improved my life.

I needed him. His unbridled joy, his directness of communication, his unfiltered being. He was my crony; my compatriot. He made couches, beds, and the outdoors less lonely.

Thank you, Maceo.
And he is gone.

His ashes are here with us, for the annual Passover Los Angeles trip. Yes, ashes; I cremated a Jewish dog.

But why bury him somewhere I’d seldom visit and feel guilty about not doing so enough? Why force travel?

I trust that the dead feel no pain, and tell myself that his transition into an urn’s contents was not traumatic.

His family will take him to the Laurel Canyon dog park tomorrow, where he spent many a day in the best mood you can picture a dog being in. Tail wagging, tongue hanging, huge grin as 60, or 80 other dogs and their owners roam the canyon.

He will be accompanied by his daddy, and young Rubin, who I pray will remember him. Maybe memory will be triggered by pictures on the wall.

I’m so glad we made it back here together, my pup. One of your favorite spots in the known universe.
I find a crest of a hill, just below the steep embankment he used to swiftly climb. It’s in the shade of a young, sturdy tree; a dog could lie here comfortably for years. I pour him into the grass.
I’ll smile forever at the thought of him.
Good boy.

From August, 2014.

“Opportunity…..came to my door…when I was do-own on my luck….in the shape…of an old friend…with a planned guarantee.”
A Joan Armatrading lyric, sung best by Bobby McFerrin on Spontaneous Inventions. Find it.
I was down on my luck. It was early spring of 2009. I’d just been let go by Sporting News radio. I didn’t take it personally. That network was in an active downsizing decay from the moment I signed on in 2004, through to this very day in its incarnation as Yahoo Sports Radio.
Dan McNeil, my friend and former boss of sorts, heard about my exodus, reached out, and was supportive.
“Boss of sorts” is about right, because a host is to a producer as a boxer is to a trainer. The fighter makes more, gets the glory, and has to show up to do the heavy lifting. But the trainer enables him. And the trainer learns.
I learned so much from Mac. I learned what it is to be loose and joyful on the radio. How to share your passions; they matter so much more than what you hate. How to hit the post and never talk over a lyric if you can help it. How to play the best section of a sound byte or interview….not all of it, but the parts that truly matter. How to bond with the listener by being real whenever possible, warts and all. How to gleefully take abuse when you can, and keep yourself from feeling things too seriously. How to not carry one bad segment into the next one. Surface, scratched.
So there I was, down on my luck. Marriage crumbling, jobless, but I was blogging, podcasting, ready to return home and live in my brother’s basement. I was gonna make a suit out of White Sox fan’s skin, remember?
Then Mac got fired. I was supportive. I texted him that it was “the best thing for him, really. His therapy was going nowhere.”
We talked, I offered, he planned, we schemed. And there I was, attached to every show he pitched, to every station.
I’m forever grateful. He knows that. He told me a long time ago that I didn’t need to say it any more.
One more time doesn’t hurt.
I told him I was going to come on strong as hell…that I knew no other way, and that he could always tell me to back off, to shut up and let him talk. He never did.
I loved our five years together. I’ll never forget how lucky I was to be on the ice in Philly when the Hawks won in 2010. I spent a lot of time watching my friend Mac; a perfectly joyful fan.
The Danny Mac Show became Mac & Spiegs. And I know that we got damn good.
At our best, when we were as he would call it “Frazier and Monroe,” we felt a tie to the great Chicago talk shows of the 80’s and 90’s; guys with different perspectives giving each other shit, me peppering him when he deserved it, and he never batting an eye…continuing to fire away. Me getting too sensitive when it got real sometimes, learning to thicken the skin. Producer voices became integral parts of the gaggle. Music, sports, women, food, movies, sports, and dick jokes and sports. A show trying to tie the locker room of the station together, for better or for worse.
Sometimes a segment would end, and the self proclaimed heavyweight champ would head for the door and a smoke, beaming at how good a segment was. I’ll miss that.
His openness about addiction, depression, smoking, eating, and humanity is beautiful and rare. It’s so valuable. It’s what has bonded him to you for decades, and what sometimes got him in trouble too.
Mac was in a near constant battle to stay engaged. It manifested in lots of ways, all of which we’d discuss on the show. Gambling to keep himself interested. Masking or letting loose the disdain for sports he didn’t feel like working on.
I think this time, this leave of absence, has been about the real deal. Does he want to be the dancing monkey every day? Does he want to do this shift anymore? 5:30 in his driveway comes early. It makes for an odd life; a break in the afternoon, games to watch at night. If you do it right, it’s work. Unique, extremely fortunate work…but work.
I’m sad we’re done. But I’m glad for him that he doesn’t have to face something he doesn’t want to every morning. I hope he writes that book on Patrick, and the blessing autism can be.
I love that complicated man, and always will. I could write a book on his psychological profile. Would you read it?
It’s been an interesting summer. Making sibling relationships work as the youngest of five came in handy, as I worked with 10 co-hosts in 9 weeks. I can truly say that I enjoyed them all. I wish there had been a week with one more person, who we could not get into the building.
Thank you for being with us this summer. I’m sorry I could not share more along the way. It was not my decision to make.
We’ll have a new show announced very soon, with a new partner. And the fall will be amazing. Bears, Bulls, and Blackhawks fans can all claim legitimate, logical aspirations to be champions.
Jay Zawaski and Nick Nick Shepkowski are kings of men. I can’t wait to move forward with them.
We love being a part of your day, and we think you’ll really like what we’re going to do.
Onward

I loved reading “Harpo Speaks” 25 years ago, the autobiography of the eternally silent on-screen Marx Brother.

I remember digging the old Hollywood stories, tales of his place at The Algonquin round table, and behind the scenes Marx Brothers movie stuff.

It’s been a quest of sorts to find a good condition hardcover copy ever since. I found one online, and treated myself to it.

The First paragraph:
“I don’t know whether my life has been a success or a failure. But not having any anxiety about becoming one instead of the other, and just taking things as they came along, I’ve had a lot of extra time to enjoy life.”

I think I liked it 25 years ago for more than just the things I thought I did.  It’s a phenomenal read, start to finish.

Fun fact: The Marx Brothers were based in Chicago for a decade, as they rode trains across the country on the vaudeville circuit.  During that time, they went to a LOT of White Sox games, including during the 1919 scandalous season.