He committed to writing a book. A real book. With paper and ink and hardcovers and a dust jacket.

A book full of his stories from running point in the jungles of Vietnam, or from his life as a father, a husband, a pipefitter, a CEO, a failure, and a success.

His name is Mike Monahan. His book is called From the Jungle to the Boardroom. You can get it a lot of places, but this is a good place, and so is this.

I’ve gotten to know Mike over the last two months, after hearing about his legend for several years. I told him after I met him that he had been built up to be in the ranks with William Wallace, Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, and every other larger-than-life figure you can think of.

He lived up to the reputation.

Mike has an easy, comfortable, accessible way about him. He’s comfortable in his own skin. He laughs easily and tells good stories and asks great questions. But be warned – He will cut you to the core in 6 words or less. His precise incisiveness is staggering. You’ll say you want to do things, or that you’re upset about this, or feeling held back by that…

And then he’ll ask one or two questions that change your world.

What Mike has is a gift that many of us are born with, and just as many choose to ignore or bury or forget – the gift of a specific brand of curiosity that sees through the fog to the clear, burning light inside. It asks questions of your light that allow it to cut the haze and shine brighter than you ever imagined.

So if you’ve never asked the questions: Am I prepared? Am I safe? Am I alone?

Or if you have asked those questions, and you wonder why you’re not doing pursuing the greatness within, do me a favor:

Click one of the links above. Take a look at the book. Then look again. That’s where your favor to me ends.

The favor to yourself begins when you buy it, read it once or twice, then give it to a friend or family member so you can discuss it with them. Give it to someone you care about, someone whose success means as much to you as it does to them.

Then email me and let me know what you thought of the book. Tell me what your friends and family thought of the book.

We’ll get a cup of coffee and a doughnut at Silverton Donut Shop and talk about it.

Before February of this year, the future of the Sabres was a little uncertain. There were grumblings of moving the team, of a sale to buyers unknown, of Jim Balsillie buying the team and moving it to Hamilton, Ontario. There was talk that reigning Vezina Trophy-goaltender Ryan Miller had had his confidence shaken and was a shadow of what he once was.

Meanwhile, the Flyers, who snuck into the playoffs on the last day of the regular season last year, and then followed it up with a deep run, are this year the #2 seed and were predicted by many to repeat their deep run. They have a talented young goaltender in Sergei “Bob” Bobrovsky. They made some great moves before the trade deadline in February, particularly the acquisition of Kris Versteeg from Toronto, to solidify an already talented established core, led by captain Mike Richards and the diminutive and dangerous Daniel Briere.

Let’s address some of those items, shall we?

The fate of the Sabres in Buffalo is settled. The purchase by and introduction of energy billionaire Terry Pegula has really solidified the team, their financial status, and the fans. The death of Richard Martin (Rico #7) galvanized the team, as he was a player many of them had come to know and was among the most famous to wear the blue & gold over 40 years.

From a talent standpoint, it is a toss-up. Philly has better players on paper, but if you watch game film, you’ll see that both teams are stacked with snipers and grinders. Both teams can wow you with plays. There is one differentiating aspect: Goaltending experience.

Ryan Miller is one of the top 5 goalies in the world. He has the mental fortitude to strap a team on his back – take a look at the US Men’s team during the last winter Olympics. Canada got the gold, Miller got the MVP. That is not a coincidence. Bob and backup goalie Michael Leighton have marginal playoff experience and are prone to periods of great inconsistency. They have also not shown a lot of the psychological toughness necessary to get 16 wins in the playoffs.

Given Miller’s experience, his health (the upper body injury was a bone bruise or stinger from a Dion Phaneuf slapshot, depending on who you talk to) and Jhonas Enroth’s play of late, I give the edge to the Sabres by a fair margin in terms of goaltending. Miller faded last year because of the extra games of the Olympic competition and a lack of scoring by the Sabres. They also ran into the buzzsaw that is Tim Thomas. Vanek & Miller got extra rest in the last 2 weeks (Vanek heading into the playoffs, Miller because of his injury). Both will be healthy and rested come Thursday night.

Each team can put a lot of pucks in the back of the net. While Phila. was 1st in the conference in goals-for, the Sabres were very quietly 4th in that category. Goals against was 223 – 229, virtually a wash.

The teams are well-matched when it comes to heart. The Sabres have a ton of heart, but the Flyers have some serious emotional-impact players. These two teams hate each other, and the fans hate each other – they have ever since 1975.

One overlooked statistic is the depth of the scoring – while the Flyers have 9 guys who tallied 10+ goals, the Sabres have 11 who were 10+. Among those 11 Buffalo goalscorers, 1 hasn’t played since December and 2 are defensemen. Scoring from any O-line AND the addition of supplemental blue-liner goals is a pretty key stat. The Sabres can also tap into a very talented albeit inexperienced reserve of players in Portland if there are serious injuries. What those young guys have shown in the last 3 weeks is that they have great chemistry among themselves and with the big club regulars.

It could well go 7 games, and it would be a treat if it did. Given the Pronger injury in the early games, it will be a challenge for Phila. to overcome the loss of his size and grit.

My money is on Sabres in 6, winning 3 at home and stealing one in Phila. during the first two games.

And you can quote me on that.

Let’s Go Buffalo.

I love old buildings, whether they be homes, warehouses, hotels, storefronts, whatever. I love them all. Cincinnati being one of the older “big” cities in America is chock full of old buildings, many of them concentrated in the old outposts on the major arteries of the city.

A pretty great guy I know that has a pretty great web magazine also has a pretty spectacular 115 year-old building in Lockland, Ohio, a once-thriving hub of industry and commerce in the center of what is now the greater-Cincinnati area. When the building was a dump and we walked through it for the first time, I fell in love with it. I saw the possibility, but also the past glory & grandeur of the place. That it has a beautiful 3rd floor ballroom with stage, in addition to a secret whorehouse and parlor is also super badass.

The buildings I toured today were in Pleasant Ridge, my neighborhood and my home. In my capacity as a member of the PR Development Corporation and as a general good-will ambassador, I was showing around a local chef & restaurateur who is interested in setting up his new concept in the community. He’s a cool guy with a cool wife and he loves funk & soul 45s, beer and charcuterie. He pretty much rules.

One of the buildings we went through is my favorite in the neighborhood. It previously housed an art glass design firm that actually created my front door, oh, some 15 or 20 years ago. I have no idea what was in it before that, but I know it was originally, some 130-some years ago, an inn or large boarding house on the turnpike that would become Montgomery Road. It saw a lot of traffic, and at 8 miles from downtown, was an ideal resting point for people on their way into Cincinnati from the outlying towns to the northeast, or travelers from as far away as Columbus or Cleveland.

The basement was straight out of the sewer scene in Indiana Jones & The Last Crusade, just without the rats and the petroleum and the ossuary and the very dead knight.

I love the building. It has a grand staircase that splits at a landing and heads in opposite directions to a balcony on the second floor that over looks the main entrance. It has the original decorative tin ceilings, as do many of the buildings in Pleasant Ridge and elsewhre throughout the city. If time & money were no factor, I’d spend 2 years and up to $1,000,000 renovating that building – I love it that much (the corner building here, or here, if you’re interested in buying it).  But if Ifs and Buts were Candy and Nuts we’d have Christmas all year ’round.

So, tonight I was cruising the interwebz, trying to take my mind off how much I want Walt Jocketty to send Nick Masset to Louisville (or Siberia) to get his head straight, when I stumbled upon Lynnewood Hall. I discovered that it was one of the truly great homes of America in the late 19th and early 20th century, built by an Philadelphia industry magnate and lawyer, and home to pretty much his whole family. They were great patrons and collectors of art, and even commissioned Henri-Leon Greber (the man who redesigned the Parisian suburbs)

And reading the saga of the property, and how it over the years fell into the hands of the culturally insensitive and generally tasteless… Well, it just broke my heart.

Listen: crazy people with lots of money build big beautiful homes (and big awful ugly homes) all the time. They’re doing it right now. But nobody did it like the Robber Barons of Reconstruction and the Gilded Age and the Roaring ’20s. Nobody. For about 50 years in America, from 1875 to 1930, the ridiculously wealthy had one of the greatest architectural stretches of Keeping-Up-With-The-Joneses the world has ever known.

Biltmore, Lynnewood Hall, Eastman House, Harbor Hill, the Breakers, Whitemarsh Hall, Hearst Castle… These places were ridiculous and awesome and beautiful, monuments to excess or greatness or overwrought taste or whatever other labels you want to attach. They are all of those things. They are transcendent.

They tell stories of socio-economic disparity, of race relations, of politics, culture and art. They paint a picture of a bygone era when entertainment encompassed an entire weekend of food, drink, games, conversation, music and conviviality among your peers. Some of these homes are still standing; others, like Harbor Hill and Whitemarsh and Lynnewood, are either gone or deteriorating.

Regardless, they were the culmination of a vision that harnessed thousands of man-hours of genuine craftsmanship in their flawless execution. Whether then or now, I love seeing that in America. I wish I could see more of it.

PS – That these houses were populated by rich white people, longing to show the world just how cool they were, and who usually exploited the poor and minorities for financial gain is a discussion for another day. I can just hear my good friend Mr. D. perched on my shoulder saying, “Hey, that’s capitalism. You don’t like it? Move somewhere else. This is America. Don’t hate them because they’re rich.”

PPS – Interestingly, what I found myself looking for as I went through all these blueprints and designs was the location of the kitchen (too frequently in the basement or “downstairs” of the house). And the farming / cooking / baking / cellaring operations these places had was just unreal. What I would give to have just a peak at what those processes looked like 100 years ago…

I expected hilarity. What I didn’t expect was the outpouring of vitriol and amusement by folks in the comments section.

My Favorite: “What an entertaining romp. I came for the review and stayed for the comments. Great fun was had by all.”

I think 90 percent of people should quit their jobs right now or do something utterly drastic to shake things up. “What would I do?” People ask. “I have responsibilities, mouths to feed, mortgage to pay. You don’t get it.” Yes I do. You throw yourself into the abyss. You get scared. You stay up late at night thinking and thinking and thinking. You feel like the death of emptiness is worse than the slow death of your job. But you’ll figure it out. One by one all of your old colleagues will disappear from your life. They will die.

You’ll still be alive.

Eddie and the gang said it best.

Also, I no longer used the term “employment/unemployment.” I prefer to use “engaged”. Employment with a corporation is indentured servitude. Engagement means you are positively ‘in to’ your work, paid or unpaid. So, when someone asks me: Adam, what are you doing these days? “Well, I’m engaged with a few community organizations, an outdoor equipment start-up, and I’m doing some new media consulting for small businesses and non-profits.”

Crusing at 58 MPH, I caught it in my periphery, just at the edge of the headlight’s beam. I had a flash of the deer going through my windshield, and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. It is my wife’s car, after all.

Fortunately, my instincts kicked in. As it ran left-to-right across the highway, I swerved left and eased the brakes but did not stop. I clipped it’s hindquarters with the passenger side of the Civic, and it knocked out my headlight.

I don’t know if it lived or died, and I don’t care. I kept driving, barely losing speed. It was 5AM and I had just left the Dayton International Airport, where I had dropped off the wife and a friend for their trip to Cancun.

I get to go to the Sabres game in Columbus on Saturday with my dad, brother and good friend Steve. Lower bowl seats.

She gets to go to Cancun.

I call that a Push.

When I finally did stop, some 20 miles later at Tim Horton’s (I do have my priorities you know), I discovered that the goddamn deer had not only knocked out my headlight, but cracked the bumper and dented the quarterpanel.

This, among other reasons, is why I hate deer. And why I may take up hunting, despite my dislike of firearms.

This is not my first road encounter with a deer. 13 years ago, my great friend Katie and I were on our way to downtown Rochester and had just left her house near the Erie Canal in Pittsford, New York. Her neck of the woods was literally that – heavily wooded. We weren’t going very fast, 25 or 30 MPH, and a deer darted out in front of us. I slammed on the brakes and watched it run by.

“Be careful! There’s always more than one,” she prophetically said.

Now, I said earlier that I had never hit a deer with my car. That’s true.

Because as I eased off the brake and the car idled forward, a deer slammed into the passenger side quarterpanel of my red 1995 Chevy Lumina LS. It shook it’s head, looked at me like I was the asshole and what was my car doing there anyway, and sprinted into the woods, following it’s friend.

So, technically, before 5:02AM today on the airport access road in Vandalia, Ohio, I had never hit a deer. It had hit me.

Today, I got my revenge.

This, my friends, is why it is good to have comprehensive coverage on your vehicles.

A friend suggested that it would have all been worth it if I had stopped, put its maimed body out of its misery and taken the meat home.

Note to self: In 2011, learn how to field dress a deer. That way, our next encounter will result in a tally of Adam 2, Deer 1.

For me, “local” is the Tri-State region (the confluence of the Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana borders). I’d even go so far as to specify a 75 mile radius from downtown Cincinnati as my local. If I saw “local” on a sign or label, that’s what I’d expect.

I’ll extend my “local” for some things: Northern & Central Ohio for honey, certain produce and ice cream, Eastern Kentucky for sorghum or baked goods, Central Kentucky for bourbon, etc.

But for me, “local” is also where I grew up – I still consider products of Upstate New York to be local, whether it’s Bison French Onion Dip, Yancey’s Fancy Cheeses, Perry’s French Vanilla ice cream, Sahlen’s hot dogs & deli meats, Hunt Country Wine or Java’s coffee. They’re imported delicacies now that I call Cincinnati home, and I think I’d rather they stay that way.

See, we all say we want those things we loved when we were growing up to be close to us in adulthood or in retirement. Pastrami Dan’s in Naples, Florida, is a great example. But are their pastrami sandwiches as good as the genuine article you may have grown up with in New York or Montreal? Is a waffle cone of Graeter’s Ice Cream just as good in Phoenix as it is on Fountain Square?

Some say, “Well, yeah, why would it be different?”

I suppose my barrier is that I’m an experiential purist at heart, and for me the ingredients and preparation as just as important as the ambiance and the people of the place. My father-in-law loves the TGI Friday’s at Kenwood because he “always has a good time there.” I’d never disagree with that, but I think it has more to do with the people with whom he enjoys his time there than the green bean fries and generic domestic beers.

I’ve been fortunate enough to find other things to satiate my hunger for old-school favorites with things found locally: great ice cream (Jeni’s Splendid, Graeter’s, Aglamesi’s), encased meats (Kroeger & Son’s, Avril-Bleh), wine (Burnet Ridge, Moyer, Slate Run), and coffee (Lookout Joe, Coffee Emporium) are all readily available, right here.

So the next time you place a trans-continental order for a favorite item from back home, consider the possibility that there is an incredible version of it just around the corner from where you are right now.

Except for a Beef on Weck. There’s no substitute for a Schwabl’s beef on weck.

When there is so much wrong with college sports – and sports in general – this is a great perspective on what is so RIGHT about sports, even in the face of crushing defeat.

So Butler and UConn played arguably the worst National Championship game the Men’s Tournament has ever seen. So what? They’re still kids, humans, with real emotions.

The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat, writ large.

It was a cold, hazy afternoon on the last day of March in this year of our lord two-thousand eleven. Edinson Volquez, the starting pitcher, as announced a few weeks ago by Dusty Toothpick, gave up the first season-starting back-to-back homeruns in 42 years.

Everytime the Reds would get a run closer to Milwaukee, the Brewers would take a run back. It wasn’t until the bottom of the 7th that the Reds stopped the bleeding, trailing 6-2. Reigning NL MVP Joey Votto hit a solo shot to make it 6-3, fanning the coals of a smoldering fire.

That smoldering was all but extinguished after the Reds failed to take advantage of opportunities in the remainder of the 7th and in their half of the 8th.

The Reds bullpen did their part, keeping the potent Brewers offense from scoring in the top halves of the 8th & 9th. In the bottom of the 9th, the Brewers “closer of the future” John Axford, filling the enormous shoes of future Hall-of-Famer Trevor Hoffman, came on to try and do what Hoffman had done more than anyone else in history – close out the game.

Axford allowed a single to Brandon Phillips, then issued a walk to Votto. Scott Rolen sent a bouncer to third base, where the Brewers’ hot corner man Casey McGehee missed the tag on Phillips and failed to throw out the hustling Rolen at first. Jay Bruce, whose exploits last season on Clinchmas were well documented on this site, came to the plate and the stadium couldn’t help but wonder if he could do it again. And then he promptly struck out. One out.

Johnny Gomes had visions of fireworks in his head, but these were extinguished by Axford on some high heat that Gomes popped to deep center field – deep enough to score Phillips tagging from third. Two outs, 6-4 BrewCrew.

… And then this happened.

It also sounded like this.

Bless Marty Brennaman’s dulcet tones.

God’s in his heaven and all’s right on Earth.